Category : Stories

Sub Category : YoungAdult

I walk past flowers. Flowers in flower pots, flowers in rustic wooden crates, flowers in the cracks of stone, flowers everywhere someone could fit them.
My neighbourhood is always bright an colourful, especially in spring when flowers become as common as the leaves on trees. A white rose bush, geraniums and pansies fill one flower pot and a bunch of different coloured snap dragons fill the pot next to it. Snap dragons are my favourite flower, you can squeeze them so that two petals separate like a dragon opening it's mouth. They have almost every colour in the blue ceramic pot. I know I shouldn't, but I pick a purple one from it's stem and squeeze it and let go.
Something hits me in the head. I twist on my heal to see who threw the pile of daisies, some falling from the top of my head in front of my eyes. Daisies may be pretty, perfect and bright white, but you should never bring daisies to a rose fight.
I set my bag down and pull a red rose from it. I throw it like a dart, rose head before the stem, at whoever threw the daisies at me. The rose hit them in the neck. Bullseye. I threw another. Then another. I had roses to spare.
"Ok, you can stop now, Genevieve." The voice is of a girl my age, and is laced with laughter. Fleur.
My friend walks over to me and picks the daisies out of my braided hair. We alway joke about the battle of the flowers being Fleur's day. 
I love the battle of the flowers. It is one of the best things about living in southern France. I get to throw flowers at anyone. It is particularly awesome when I chuck them at the teachers. 
This year, I've gone with rose darts. Never, ever use light flowers like daisies or pansies unless you throw them in a big bundle, they don't travel very far. After my first year of school, I have always used heavier flowers. They aren't nearly as messy or breakable.
Fleur hands me my three roses.
"Better to reuse them. School now." Fleur declares as she turns and lets her blond hair flow behind her. I follow.
On the way to school, I get hit five times, which is a record. A fistful of pansies, a geranium, a tulip dart (which is around as heavy as a rose dart, just lacking the spikes) and two other types of flowers that I cannot name.
We walk up to my school's main entrance. Flower petals dot the path.
The moment I step into the building, someone says to me, “Do you have any flowers? Let me check your bag.” The teacher, who I recognise as Mrs. Benoir, snatches my bag.
I snatch it back.
“Why?”
“No flowers today."
"What?"
"Last year it was hard to clear up.” She smiled and flicked her dark plait over her shoulder. "Sorry girls. Have a nice day."