FIFTEEN

“You look ready for anything.”

Nikko is standing in our parking lot, wearing long sleeves, gardening gloves, long pants, socks and boots, despite the June heat. I can smell the citronella from here.

“You look like you’re ready to go hiking in the Amazon,” I say. “How did you explain your outfit to your parents?”

“The same way I explained to Estelle why I was poking around in the tool shed.” He lowers his voice dramatically. “Scientific experiment.”

We climb onto our bikes. His is hitched up to his dad’s bike trailer, but instead of pulling a double bass, he’s got a trailer full of plants. “Onward!”

A few minutes later, we’re flying down Vancouver Street to Beacon Hill Park. When Nikko first suggested it as a new home for some of Uli’s plants, I thought he was nuts. As much as I’m tempted to plant kale in the middle of the putting green, or a tomato plant on the cricket pitch, or squash between the rosebushes, none of them would last more than a couple of hours before some paid caretaker ripped it out. But Nikko said he knew a good spot.

Nikko and I pedal toward the ocean, veering left to a tiny forested patch that I’ve never paid much attention to. Nikko says it’s the only area that’s still wild-ish, and you’re more likely to see a barred owl in here than a parks employee. So chances are, no one’ll spot our plantings. That’s our theory anyway.

We stop on one of the trails and lock our bikes. I grab the pots of kale, remembering how Uli said these bluish-green leaves are fantastic with sausages. Or as kale chips. (Ugh. That still sounds horrible, but I’m determined to at least try it once, in Uli’s honor. Nikko says his parents have a recipe. Apparently, the secret is massaging the leaves. Who thinks up these things?) Stepping over fallen logs and roots, we tiptoe between the trees until we’re far enough into the woods that no one will see us from the path.

“What if they reseed themselves and this spot becomes a local legend?” Nikko puts on a deep documentary-narrator voice. “Every summer, families from all over the city set off into the woods in search of feral kale.”

I laugh. Sofia would too. Kale-hunting parties. You can’t get more west coast than that.

“Let’s hope the deer don’t get it first.”

“Deer?” I ask.

“From Government House. They have a big patch of land to roam on there, but they always get out and eat people’s gardens too. I hope they like kale about as much as you like asparagus.”

I groan, but there’s nothing to do but keep planting. Once every kale plant is in the ground, we head back to the trailer. Nikko consults his list of destinations. “Next stop, Fernwood. I found an empty lot that’s begging for corn. The subdivision permit will take months to go through. Plenty of time for a harvest.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “You looked it up online?”

“No, someone from the homeschooling network told me.”

I frown. “How did that topic come up?”

“I’ve been getting the word out about our little garden project,” he says. “My homeschooling friends are all over the idea. They even offered to help.”

“What?” I drop my voice to a whisper. “You’ve told the homeschooling network about this? Are you completely nuts?”

“Don’t worry, Chloë. No one’s going to find out that—”

“Are you kidding?” My voice is too loud now, but I can’t help it. “Victoria is the size of an anthill. The school bully is the son of my grandfather’s enemy. My teacher’s wife is my dad’s barber. Someone farts and it’s on the evening news. Of course they’re going to find out who’s stealing the plants and relocating them!”

“Chill, Chloë,” Nikko says. “I didn’t say Please join Chloë Becher as she illegally enters the property of one of Victoria’s richest and most bitter landlords. I told them about an empty lot I always pass on my way home from the soup kitchen. I said I wished the city made landowners plant gardens until they started building. We’d have way more fresh food that way.”

“Oh.” My heart slows to a normal pace.

“One of my buddies lives across from an empty lot—the one in Fernwood—and he said he’d help work on a garden there. A bunch of other people said the same thing. That’s all.”

“This is crazy,” I say. “The kale is going to be deer food. The landowner’s going to rip out the corn. I’ve got a garden full of plants that I need to water every few days, and Victor—”

“We’re doing our best,” Nikko says. “Uli would be grateful.”

I keep pedaling and try to believe he’s right.

“So what’s the deal?” Sofia says. “Are you moving back here or what?”

I’ve told her everything, from Slater attacking Nikko to guerilla gardening in Fernwood. She was quiet almost the whole time, a rare thing for Sofia. Now I’m silent too, because she’s just asked a question I’ve been thinking about for days now. Every time I imagine moving back to Montreal to live with Mom in a condo in an unfamiliar neighborhood, I feel sad. Sure, it would be great to see Sofia again, but we’d still live too far apart for things to be the way they were. I don’t know how I’m going to tell Sofia this though.

“I’m going to miss you,” she says.

“But nothing’s decided yet, and I—”

“I’m going to miss you,” she says again, “but you can’t get rid of me by moving to the other side of the country, you know. I’m coming to visit. I’ve already looked up flights. I can come in the first week of August. I want to meet Nikko and see your garden and dip my foot in the ocean and watch you actually riding a bike.”

I don’t protest this time. If I moved in with Mom, I’d be saying goodbye to all that stuff to live in a tiny condo in a neighborhood where I know no one. “I think you’ll like it here,” I say instead.

I need to find another way in to Uli’s garden. Every time I walk past the hedge, I can see the hole I squeeze through. I’m sure everyone else can see it too. The branches aren’t straightening to cover it up the way they used to. But maybe I’m just being paranoid. Most people aren’t looking for secret passageways when they walk past a hedge. The same way they’re not looking for fruit on the cherry blossom trees. I look up at the tree on the boulevard. The flowers are long gone—it’s all green leaves now—but at the ends of the lower branches are small green fruits that make me smile. In a few more weeks, the cherries will be ripe. I can’t wait to taste Uli’s public art.

The moon isn’t as bright as it was two nights ago, but I have Dad’s headlamp with me this time. I’m trying to water without a sound. I know exactly where my feet must fall on the path to avoid tripping. I’m extra careful by the concrete pad under the rain barrels, worried I’ll trip or knock a lid off by mistake. I’m jumpy tonight, hearing noises that don’t make sense, like footfalls on the sidewalk outside, again and again, as if someone’s out there pacing at two in the morning.

Focus. I grab the watering bucket to dip it in the rain barrel, but this barrel’s almost empty. I have to tip the whole thing toward me to reach the water. For a moment I consider uncovering the full one, but I’ve never done that before. What if I fumble, and the cover goes crashing to the ground?

I lean farther into the almost-empty barrel. Half a bucket. It’s as much as I can get. It’ll have to do for now. I lower the tilted barrel back onto the ground, and that’s when I hear it: a small clang, not coming from outside this time, but from right under the barrel. I train my headlamp onto the ground. The light falls on a little metal plate built into the concrete. I roll the barrel carefully to one side. In the middle of the plate is a small, circular hole. I could stick my finger in and lift it right out. My heart beats faster. Only one thing mattered enough to Uli for him to build a special hiding place for it.

I lift the plate and pull a large, red metal box from its secret spot. It doesn’t weigh much, but then again, neither did the shoebox full of seeds that Uli showed me in his greenhouse all those months ago. It’s the right size. It’s also locked. I have no idea how I’m going to open it, but that hardly matters right now. I’ve got the seeds—I’m sure of it. Victor can set fire to the rest of this garden for all I care!

I hurry across the yard to the exit and freeze. Because someone’s watching me through the hole in the hedge. It’s a face I don’t recognize, a man’s face. I panic. Running will get me nowhere. Screaming will wake the neighbors—which would save me from a crazy who walks the streets at night but would also land me in a whole pile of trouble.

He pushes his way through the hedge into the garden. I can see now that he’s wearing a uniform. Not the police. A security guard. “I saw you go in, young lady. The police will be here in a few minutes. I’ve already got pictures, so I wouldn’t bother bolting, if I were you. You might as well give me the box.” He holds out his hand. “You can’t take it with you.”