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As Amy stared at the double doors of the Brockton Bay Gardening Club, she took in a deep breath, trying to dispel her trepidation. She cradled a pot between her arms, containing a small rose bush that occasionally brushed at her face, thorns pricking away at her skin. Its presence reminded her of a fact that had tormented her in the months since she had started this whole project.
Plants were hard.
Amy knew how to fix any living thing with just a touch. She was practically an expert in anything organic, and a plant was no exception. From weeds to trees, if it was alive, she could grow it into peak physical condition.
But that wasn't what people looked for in a flower. They looked for aesthetic beauty, artificial perfection, so a flower that was "healthy" wasn't necessarily the best. Thus, Amy had found herself wrestling with abstract concepts such as presentation, arrangement, and — she shuddered — pruning.
Gathering up the courage to enter, she pushed through the doors, making sure to avoid harming her roses. People were already milling about, winding past the trees and basking in the sunlight. The place was essentially a big greenhouse, and it suddenly occurred to Amy how stupid she had probably looked lingering behind the transparent doors.
She pushed that out of her mind, making a beeline toward her station. Today was the annual Bloomathon, and she was hoping to impress at least one of the judges. As she set up her potted roses on her table, she tried to straighten out the petals and leaves as best as she could. There was a gnarled stem where a rose had curled to find more sunlight, and while Amy found that endearing, she knew the judges wouldn't. Her roses were resilient, capable of withstanding any disease that was thrown at them, and she wouldn't let them get sidelined just because others didn't see what she saw in them.
Amy was jolted out of her thoughts when she saw a figure approaching. Wrinkled skin, floral print dress, silvery-white hair that was tied up in a bun. She'd almost look innocent if it wasn't for that unwavering, iron stare.
Fucking Mildred.
The woman strolled up to her station, giving a smile that was probably supposed to look kindly. "Hello Amy! So nice to see you today…" She bent down to look at the roses, as if her vision wasn't still eagle-sharp. "So these are your flowers? How quaint!"
Amy scowled. "If you have something to say, say it to my face."
Mildred made a humming sound, pinching a petal in a way that made Amy stiffen. "Well, it's a little too bright for my tastes… the colors come off as saturated."
"That means they're healthy," Amy replied through gritted teeth.
"The presentation is a tad sloppy…"
"That's the way they grow," Amy said.
"And those thorns! Why haven't you removed them yet?"
"I like them that way."
"Have you tried pruning it?"
Amy threw her arms up. "Why would I cut up my own plant?"
"Just offering some advice," Mildred said serenely, as if she hadn't just been mercilessly denigrating Amy's flowers. "Ah well. I'm sure they'll have a consolation prize for you at the end."
Mildred placed a bony hand on Amy's head and began ruffling her hair back and forth, eliciting a growl from Amy. Before she could push the hand away, Mildred lifted her arm, chuckling as she walked back toward her station.
Bitch, Amy thought, but never said.
"And in first place, you all know her, it's Mildred Green!"
As the crowd around her cheered, Amy glowered, stewing in her own defeat. Her roses hadn't even gotten third. They’d placed fifth, right above a lady who obviously didn't know how to use fertilizer and some dumbass that hadn't even removed the weeds from their pot.
Meanwhile, Mildred was up on the stage, together with her perfect goddamn flowers with their neat arrangements of colors and their fucking fancy leaves that curled around each other. As the woman swept her eyes around the crowd, Amy swore she could see Mildred's gaze linger on her for just a moment, smug and condescending, as if to say: "This is what your pathetic flowers amounted to."
Idly, Amy thought of ways to wreak her revenge. She could rig Mildred's precious flowers to wilt and die the day after, or make it so that they never blossom again. In fact, she was being too lenient. She could alter the flowers to grow cactus spines, or maybe to produce paralytic powder on their petals. The possibilities were endless.
But even as she thought of more sadistic ways to destroy the woman, she knew she couldn't do that, because that would mean Mildred had won. She needed to beat the old hag at her own game, show her up so hard she never came back again.
When the next Bloomathon came along, she was going to crush Mildred into dust.