Ghostgirl [antikvár]

was in for when she walked through the doors of Hawthorne High and was quickly overpowered by a sickly sweet floral aroma—the kind you smeU only in a hospital room or funeral home. "Valentine's Day," she sighed, partly from relief, partly from dread. As she made her way to her locker, she couldn't escape the eye-watering aroma wafting from the cafeteria-tables-turned-makeshift-flower-markets, stationed like military checkpoints in every single hallway, alcove, and orifice. Students were selling "love" by the bunch. The fact that the flower sale was a fiind-raiser only barely made it okay. The girls were lined up buying the white roses, to give to their friends, and the guys were buying up the pink, mostly