Listen, her mother had sighed, and Saffy knew she’d pushed too far. Do you remember why I named you Saffron?
It’s a flower.
The most rare and precious flower, her mother said. The kind of flower that could start a war.
She put the photograph back in the box, her green eyes focused somewhere else—Saffy desperately wanted to see that place. To touch it by herself. You’ll know it when you feel it, her mother said then. The right kind of love will eat you alive.
*
Ansel held both hands out, to help Saffy off the basement floor. His palms were damp, his thumbs stained with ink from writing all day in that yellow notepad—as he followed her up the stairs, Saffy was conscious of how he moved behind her. It was thrilling, Ansel’s closeness, almost frightening. She wanted that closeness in the same way she wanted to watch a scary movie, with a chattering sort of precariousness. She wanted the jump, the shiver. The unexpected bite.
By the time Saffy settled on Lila’s bottom bunk, she was breathless with the story, even more exciting in recollection. They pored eagerly over Kristen’s stolen copy of Teen magazine, huddled together, a flashlight rigged to the mattress above so Miss Gemma would not yell about bedtime. They’d practically memorized the issue, but they flipped the worn pages anyway, breezing straight past their favorite interview with John Stamos. The most important piece in the magazine was finally relevant: You’ve Snagged the Perfect Guy: Here’s How to Keep Him.
“You should go with option three,” Lila hissed through her retainer. She’d gotten the retainer before she came to Miss Gemma’s, and her teeth had since shifted, leaving blank gaps around the plastic. Lila’s fingers were always wet, hovering constantly near her mouth. On her middle finger, she wore a gigantic vintage ring, which Saffy didn’t have the guts to ask her about—it was too big for Lila’s hand, fortified with layers of Scotch tape so it didn’t fall off. The ring had a brassy gold band, studded with a massive purple gemstone. Saffy guessed it was maybe amethyst, though she once heard Lila claim purple sapphire. The gem was always shiny with Lila’s slobber, her lips caressing it obsessively. The ring was in Lila’s mouth now, and a string of drool bridging from her finger. Saffy grimaced.
“Number three,” Kristen said. “Show him how much you care.”
It was decided. Lila slumped over her pillow, already drowsy, while Saffy had never felt more disastrously awake.
The next morning, Saffy pulled a stack of construction paper from the craft box in the basement and set up on the bedroom floor. Her sixth-grade art teacher had said she had an affinity for the visual. Saffy swelled with a ruffling pride at the memory.
Hours later, the result was half poem, half comic. She and Ansel were miniature stick figures, the record player drawn in realistic detail between them—Put a Spell on You, she’d titled it. In the next frame, they held hands down by the river, a magnifying glass in Saffy’s other palm as a cheering crowd clapped in the distance. Mystery Solved, she’d called it. A coyote hung from a net, and a group of happy squirrels ran circles by her feet. Saffy drew a heart between her little pinpoint head and Ansel’s, though she crossed it out on second thought and replaced it with a fat black musical note.
When she was finished, Saffy folded the paper carefully and wrote Ansel’s name on the front in her best cursive. She flushed, imagining how it would wrinkle in the pocket of his corduroys.
*
A late-afternoon sun pricked the back of Saffy’s neck as she walked down the hill in the yard. She’d changed into her favorite dress—inherited from Bailey, it was yellow cotton with puffed sleeves, and it still smelled, at random moments, like Bailey’s aerosol deodorant. As she reached the tall weeds near the edge of the creek, Saffy smoothed down the ends of her swishing braid.
Ansel was crouched at the bank, scribbling in the yellow notebook he always carried. Saffy could see that he’d combed his hair that morning; the curls were still damp. She stood behind him, the construction paper turning soggy in her sweaty palm.
It happened in a single moment of confusion, horror.
Saffy tapped Ansel on the shoulder.
Ansel turned, surprised. He tried to shield her with his body, but it was too late. She was standing directly over them, the soles of her favorite glitter sandals inches away.
They were laid out long in the grass near her feet. One, two, three of them. Little arms stretched over their heads in surrender, too methodical to be any sort of accident. There were two squirrels, eyes open, tongues lolling. And between them, a fox. The fox was bigger and had been dead much longer. There were holes in its face where something had pecked out its eyes, and its intestines were spread haphazard on the grass—the fox was a jumble of bones covered in tufts of burnt orange fur, rearranged by human hands back into a sick attempt at its original shape.