Winner of the Winter Short Story & Fiction Challenge: Kayla Magnussen - The Bud

Callie swallows a chuckle watching Mr. Olsen’s marker die midway through his arrow. He traced the broken connection between ‘sunlight’ and ‘chlorophyll,’ “This is how plant feed themselves.”  

He shook the marker and pressed harder against the whiteboard, the force making the marker squeak. A small wave of giggles rans through the third-grade class. Callie straightened, trying to show Mr. Olsen she would not laugh at his blunder.  

“Sunlight,” he taps at the sun, “goes to our plant,” he slides his finger, abandoning the marker entirely, down the incomplete arrow. “That sunlight, with the help of water and carbon dioxide, produces two things, who can tell me what those two things are?” Several hands shoot up and Callie listens to a variety of incorrect answers. It takes four students to finally land on ‘sugar’ and ‘oxygen.’ A scream from the playground catches everyone’s attention. Callie felt unrest take root, the antsy legs and tapping fingers of her peers. How would Mr. Olsen reclaim control?

“Whoever can answer my bonus question gets to leave for recess first, who’s ready?” The thrill of competition ignites the anxious energy in the room. “Why are plants green?” Bubbles burst and sighs overwhelm the small space, Callie’s hand breaks through the surface. “Callie?”

“Chloro?” Callie feels the answer slip from her mind as she speaks. She can see the word, the curves of its letters but the back half is blurred, muddled into nothing more than a suggestion.

Heat rushes to her cheeks at the tips of her ears, her confidence culling. 

“Phyll. Chlorophyll. But good work. Callie, you’re dismissed. Everyone else, you’ll be waiting out the bell.” Mr. Olsen waves Callie off and she leaves while her classmates let out cries of injustice, demands of recounts, and questions surrounding the identity of the mysterious ‘Phil.’

Callie is greeted with a massive wall of dry heat as she walks onto the blacktop, wading through the sea of students. Amara and her twin sister Amaya snag the two jump ropes from the gym, and the act summons a line of friends, all willing to test their luck in the spinning double Dutch trap. The tetherball tournaments begin their seeding and in a horrifying turn of events, Malika, the Anchor Beach Elementary School reigning champ is paired off with some twigarmed second grader. Callie’s seen Malika bring 5^th-graders to tears, and the pink cheeks on her opponent are already trembling.  

By the time Callie made it to the field, the bell had rung, and the full swarm of Anchor Beach students had arrived. Callie carved out a small corner against the back wall at the far end of the property, surrounded by dandelions and overgrown grass. A giant tree, which Mr. Olsen had told her was “an elm,” was Callie’s only company, but she appreciated the relief from the constant heat. She insisted on leaving her jacket at home, but her mother refused. 

“What if you get cold?” She would say and drape a jacket over her backpack. Callie would protest, the heat already beating into their kitchen.

“Then take it off before you go outside,” her mother shrugged like it was an easy task. Callie couldn’t, and wouldn’t, take the jacket off until she was back home. The potential for embarrassment in taking off her jacket made Callie’s stomach turn and the risk of losing it once she set it down made pins stick in the back of her mind.

Now Callie sat, with her jacket under the spotty shade of the “elm” tree, sweat pooling at the back of her neck. She played with the zipper for a minute, the reverberation against her fingers mildly amusing as she zipped up and down and up and down and up and down and up—

Her ritual was cut short when a little white sprout caught her eye. Callie abandoned the zipper and crawled over to the tiny stalk. It was no taller than her pinky and no wider than a pencil. The top split into two leaves, one twice the size of the other. The vibrant greens and deep browns surrounding it made the white sprout look alien.  

“Why aren’t you green?” Callie asked, running her finger along the leaf and trying to remember what plants are supposed to feel like. Smooth? Waxy? Rough? It almost felt like she was rubbing a balloon, the surface pulling back at the pad of her finger. She made a mental note to touch all the leaves in her backyard, for scientific purposes.

Her mind was crowded with a single word that was taking revenge for her partial misremembering. “Where’s your chlorophyll? Did you lose it? Is that why you aren’t green?” Callie had half the heart to apologize for bombarding the unsuspecting plant with so many questions. Her mother had told her that too many questions is disrespectful. People don’t like to answer things all at once. The sprout, apparently, hated it, too. All her questions were left unanswered. The bell finally broke their one-sided conversation. Callie waved the sprout goodbye, “I promise I’ll come visit tomorrow.”

Callie got to school early the next day, spending the first hour of her morning in the library with books on plants. The pages were filled with bright, green leaves and stems, but not a single picture looked like her little white sprout. ‘Chlorophyll’ creeped back into her head, but it was tamed by Big Book on Botany. “Chloro” means green. “Phyll” means leaf. She took the information straight to her little white sprout. It’d grown in the day they’d spent apart: the third leaf hung from the top and it’d grown from the size of a pinky to nearly her ring finger.

“Can I call you Phyll?” Callie examined the new leaf, tracing her finger along its edges. She had touched as many leaves as her mother would allow in her backyard, taking precise notes about the feel of each. Her research ended with the word ‘nice’ written under ‘what’s it feel like’ for most of the entries.  

“I couldn’t find your real name. I may need some help.” Phyll’s third leaf sprung back into place as Callie’s finger slid off. “Don’t be like that,” Callie huffed, “It’s just Mr. Olsen.”  

“There are tons of white plants, Callie,” Mr. Olsen erased his series of pie charts and the sunglasses he’d drawn on them. “We’ve got white roses, tulips, daisies, lilies, hydrangeas, jasmine—” 

“Those are flowers, Mr. Olsen.” Mr. Olsen smiled at her. She couldn’t understand why he found this investigation amusing. They were on the verge of discovery.  

“Flowers are plants.”

“This plant isn’t a flower. It doesn’t have petals.” Another smile. Callie may have to go to the principal if Mr. Olsen couldn’t understand the gravity of their operation. 

“Flowers have to bloom first. They start as buds, then they grow petals.”  

“If this is a flower, and it hasn’t bloomed, how would I know it’s white?”  

Mr. Olsen ignored her question, “Is the whole plant white?”  “Yes.” They were finally getting somewhere.  

Mr. Olsen cleared his throat, “Well, if it really is an entirely white plant, it’s not going to survive very long.” 

Callie’s stomach twisted inside itself. Phyll was terminal. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Phyll had just grown a new leaf, why would he do that if he was dying? “Thank you.” Callie choked out and stumbled to the bathroom, the heat of tears forming in her eyes.

She splashed cold water all over her face. They’d done this stuff in movies when they got overwhelmed. Her mother had done it before, after work, or a date, or a scolding. She tended to walk out of the bathroom calmer. Surprisingly, the trick worked. The chill shocked the grief out of her system. Phyll wasn’t dead, yet. There was time. Time to find a cure.  

“Callie?” The door creaked open; Malika poked around the corner. “I saw you run in here. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Callie shut the water off. 

“But you’re crying.” 

“I think my friend is dying.” Callie felt caught. Cornered

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Malika gave Callie a sideways hug, “That really sucks.” 

“Yea, it does.”  

A stretch of silence grew between them before Malika added, “What’s their name?” “Phyll.”  

“I’ll make my parents include him in our prayer before dinner. They did that for my goldfish, Reynold, when she was sick,” Malika smiled and padded Callie’s shoulder.  

“Is she okay?”  

No, she died.” Malika pauses, “but it did feel nice to think someone was trying to help her.”  “Thank you,” Callie had never prayed for someone before. She preferred fixing things herself, but Malika’s offer made the task of saving Phyll a bit easier.  

“We should probably go back to class before Mr. Olsen sends someone,” Malika walked

Callie back to class, slowing her steps every few strides to keep Callie’s pace.  

“What are you putting in there,” Callie’s mother threw a bagel in the toaster and some leftover oatmeal in the microwave. 

“Sugar,” Callie carefully poured the spoonful into the container.  

“For what?” Her mother started spreading peanut butter onto her bagel and slid the bowl of oatmeal in front of Callie, “That’s hot, by the way.” 

“My friend, Phyll. He needs it.” Callie sealed the container, tossing it into her backpack. She grabbed the bowl, but the hot ceramic made her drop it back onto the counter. She thought of

Mr. Olsen’s chart. Plants ate sugar. 

Or made sugar.

The chart got fuzzy in her head.

“I just told you that it was hot,” she shook her head. “Why does Phyll need our sugar?” 

“Because he’s going to die.”  

“Excuse me?”  

“Phyll’s starving. He’ll die if he doesn’t eat this,” Callie carefully started to eat the oatmeal, letting her mouth hang open between bites to cool the food.  

“Where are Phyll’s parents in all this?” Her voice was laced with concern, she’d stopped eating her bagel. Callie felt her heart swell; she’d found another supporter. Maybe Phyll really could pull through.  

“I don’t think Phyll has parents.” Mr. Olsen hadn’t used the word ‘parents.’ He said seeds

“germinate” and grow into plants. 

“Does Mr. Olsen know about this?” She was hanging on to Callie’s every word. Her mother truly cared. 

“He’s the one who told me Phyll would die,” Callie checked the clock. The conversation had set her behind a few minutes; she would have to jog to the bus, now.  

“I’m calling the school. This is unacceptable,” she was already dialing the number for the head office into the phone. Callie waved goodbye and began her jog to the bus. Her mother was going to fight for Phyll and Malika was going to pray for Phyll. They could save Phyll. 

Callie popped the lid of the container of sugar, placing it next to Phyll. He’d grown again, outside of the limit for her finger measurement system. She’d hoped Phyll would just bend over and dip himself into the jar and feast. But he didn’t, so Callie grabbed a pinch and sprinkled it on each of his leaves. They gently bowed in response and the grains tumbled off.  

“You have to eat, Phyll.” He remained motionless, resistant. Did Phyll not know he was dying?  

Maybe Phyll couldn’t handle solids. Sick people sometimes go on liquid diets. Her grandfather only drank smoothies in pink cups from nurses when he was sick. She mixed sugar and water into a bottle cap, dipped her finger into the potion, and dotted each of Phyll’s leaves (he had four now) with a droplet. They dribbled off. 

She couldn’t stay. The bell was calling her back to Mr. Olsen’s classroom. She left with a plea, “Please eat, Phyll.”

The last bell of the day rang, and Callie’s classmates wasted no time making their way out of the classroom. Malika waited for a few moments, whispering to Callie, “I hope Phyll is still okay,” before rushing out the door. Callie couldn’t join her, just yet.  

“Callie, can I speak with you for a moment,” Mr. Olsen stood with his arms crossed and waited for the room to clear. “Why did you tell your mother I said your friend was going to die?” “Because you did,” she couldn’t believe Mr. Olsen was denying his own words.  

“Callie,” a vein in his throat pulsed, “we need to specify when our ‘starving friends’ are real. You can’t tell people that I’m letting your friends die. I can get into serious trouble.”  

Real. The word lodged itself in Callie’s brain, killing off the last bits of ‘chlorophyll.’ He was real. She’d spent the whole week with Phyll. Malika prayed for him. She was about to tell Mr. Olsen as much when a whirring drone pulled her attention. A man was outside running a lawn mower across the field.  

Phyll. 

Callie ignored Mr. Olsen’s confused commands as she ran out of the classroom. She could still hear the lawnmower as she sprinted down the halls. Maybe they hadn’t reached Phyll yet. Maybe she could still save him.  

By the time she reached the field, the lawnmower and its pusher were running over the soccer field. She couldn’t breathe, her calves burned, and her head was pounding, as she looked for Phyll. The shaded area was bare, aside from the patches of dirt and short green grass. 

He was gone.  

Callie spent the next day in the library. Phyll was dead. She wasn’t ready to revisit the grave outside. Callie couldn’t save him. 

Her mother had turned her on, demanding specifics, next time she talks about her socalled friends. She spent her time with the plant books, searching for Phyll. It was all the same:

bright green plants, with no problems eating and more chlorophyll than they could ever ask for.

She felt somebody slide into the chair next to her.  

It was Malika.  

She slid a note across the desktop and quietly said, “I’m really sorry your friend died.” 

“Thanks, Malika,” Callie felt tears again.

“It’s weird and sad.” She trailed off for a moment, “I still miss Reynold.”

Callie nodded. She understood in ways she wishes she didn’t. She unfolded the note revealing a heart drawn on the center of the page with fancily written words in the middle of it: 

In Loving Memory of Phil, 

A true friend 

---

Kayla Magnussen is a MFA student in Long Beach, professional electrical map maker, and an avid horror writer. I am yet unpublished.