The Line by Teri Hall Page B

Rachel snuffled with increasing force. Ms. Moore abandoned her skirt after the third repressed snuffle from Rachel, produced a linen handkerchief and held it out. Then she held up one hand in the universal signal for stop. This brought Rachel’s tears to an abrupt halt, as though even they were intimidated.
    “Rachel.” Ms. Moore waved away the handkerchief, which Rachel, after using it to blow her nose, was trying to return. “Losing seedlings is a part of the work. You did your best and that is all that can be expected. Sometimes there is no reason, at least that you can see, for losing them. You can do everything right and they will still die.” She smiled. “Why, if I counted the trays of seedlings I’ve lost in my day, trays I had high hopes for, in fact, that might have become very special crosses. You just have to keep trying.”
    Rachel thought about the feeling she got when that tray of seedlings took hold, when their waxy green leaves began to form into tiny replicas of what the adult plants would look like. It felt like she was creating something important, something that went out into the world and made a little difference. The shipments of orchids that Jonathan took to town were all once just seedlings; tiny green sprigs of possibility. She wanted to see her own seedlings grow into beautiful blooms too.
    She liked to imagine the journey the orchids took, from the greenhouse to the vendors’ stalls, where they were put into buckets of water, waiting for someone to notice them. She liked to think about who might pass by and see the ideal red or the impossible blue of a bloom, and feel themselves drawn into it. She could picture a woman buying a single, perfect orchid and carrying it home, to an apartment somewhere. She could see the woman getting a vase down from a cupboard, filling it with water and placing the orchid in it just so, tilting it a bit this way or that, setting it in the middle of a table, standing back to admire it. Smiling.
    Ms. Moore’s voice interrupted Rachel’s daydream. “Unless, of course, you don’t want to keep trying. It may seem like too much work to you.” Ms. Moore took a dainty sip of her kalitea, her eyes lowered to the rim of her cup.
    Rachel hadn’t really known how much it mattered to her until today, when it seemed as though she wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. “I do want to keep trying, Ms. Moore,” she said. “I love the greenhouse. I just assumed you wouldn’t want me to work there anymore . . .” Rachel struggled to keep tears from falling onto her cheeks.
    Ms. Moore spoke quickly, as if she hoped her words could forestall another disturbing display of emotion.
    “I asked you here today because I wanted to see if you would be interested in learning more about growing orchids, Rachel. I may need more help in the greenhouse from now on. You seem to have the aptitude, and you also seem to enjoy the work. Those are both important things. But there is so much more to it than what you know now. It would take serious study if you were to advance enough to be of real assistance.
    “I have, of course, discussed it with your mother already, and she feels that as long as your schoolwork doesn’t suffer, the decision is up to you.” Ms. Moore paused for a moment. “Would you like more kalitea, Rachel? I would love a bit more, if you don’t mind.”
    While Rachel poured, Ms. Moore continued. “As I said, in order to help me, you would need to learn more. That would require more studying on your part. Which would mean that you would earn more, as well. I can’t pay you much more than I do now, but it would help, perhaps, with college. Your mother tells me you plan to attend somewhere once your primary studies are completed.” Ms. Moore picked up the teacup Rachel had filled and sipped.
    Rachel was surprised that Ms. Moore knew about her college plans. Her mother kept most of their personal business to herself.
    “I am planning to go to college,” Rachel