I tuck my hair behind my ears with my free hand and explain, “I only took the dying ones. Not the good ones.” Like that makes it any better. But I honestly don’t know what else to say. Mr. Edwards throws them a distracted glance like he couldn’t care less about the flowers. “Yeah? Why not the good ones?” At his question, I lower my eyes to them. I finger the yellowed edges lightly. Some of the petals are so loosened and dry that a puff of air could make them fall apart. Poor babies. “Because no one else wants the bad ones,” I say. “And you do.” I look up. “Yes. I always want the bad ones.” Bad
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