Between You, Me, and the Honeybees

Chapter One

LITTLE-KNOWN FACT: HONEYBEES are nature’s first feminists.

I hold the hive frame up to my face, and scan the layer of fuzzy bees that cover the wax comb. After I track down the laying queen—the key indicator of a healthy colony—I set the frames back into the hive body. I give them a puff from the smoker to clear any bees off the tops of the frames, then lower the copper lid into place. A few girls fly onto the landing strip, their back legs swollen with pollen. They look like colorful balloon pants—white, red, yellow, purple, and gray blues.

Over the years I’ve learned everything about the ecosystem of the beehive. For instance, any honeybee out in the wild, climbing over flower petals collecting pollen or nectar, is female. I could go on about them for hours, but if you have to know one thing about honeybees (other than we’d die without them), know this: Male bees are drones, and drones either (a) die while mating with another hive’s queen or (b) get kicked out of the hive when winter comes. Sometimes the females chew off their wings so they can’t fly or return to the hive.

They’re an advanced society.

I step beneath the vine-covered archway and dump the smoker onto the bench, popping off the lid with my thumb. Dark tendrils curl into the air, the charred remains of twigs and fire-starter fibers turning to ash in the wind. My phone buzzes, but since it’s tucked into the back pocket of my shorts, I don’t bother to check it. My nitrile gloves don’t work on touch screens. Not like I need to look at the text to know it’s Nan prodding me with reminders.

Like I’d forget my own high school graduation.

Bail on it, play hooky? Sure. But my head’s not too far into the clouds to forget the actual ceremony. I snap off the gloves, sticky with strings of honey, and toss them in a sealed garbage bin beneath the table. Exhaling, I drag my fingers through my damp hair. Even without a protective bee suit, sweat rolls down my back, collecting in the waistband of my shorts. I lean against the workbench and take a moment.

Breathe. Listen to the slow, steady pound of my heart.

Out in the apiary, the worries of daily life fall away. I’m able to forget everything and focus on being present. Since my anxiety disorder isn’t going away anytime soon, I spend most of my free time out with the bees. More so when I’m stressing out about life, my future.

My phone buzzes again.

I push away from the workbench and force myself back toward our two-story renovated farmhouse. I slide my phone from my pocket and unlock the screen, scanning the text message.

NAN: Be there in fifteen!

ME: Okay, okay! Meet you out front

I tuck my phone back into my pocket and try to shake off the creeping unease clinging to my shoulders. My beekeeping- induced calm is slipping away, lessening with each step I take closer to the house.

Josie! Mom leans out the back patio door, waving me inside. Isn’t Nan picking you up any minute?

Sorry, lost track of time, I lie as I hop up the patio stairs. Before entering the house, I pat down my body, making sure a bee isn’t hitching a ride with me inside. All clear. I scoot past Mom and step over Ford, our ancient French bulldog who’s curled up at the base of the stairs, and run up to my bathroom.

No time to shower, so I roll on deodorant—real deodorant, not the hippie crystal stuff Mom stocks in my bathroom—swap my damp tank top for my Destroy the Patriarchy, Not the Planet tee, and attack my curls with a brush. Then frown and twist them back into a bun, securing the whole mess with an alligator clip. My graduation gown hangs from the second- story banister outside my bedroom, and I grab it on my way down.

Text me if you forget anything. Mom pulls me in for a hug, and I inhale her natural scent. We rarely wear perfume, since it attracts bees, so she smells like I do. Of clean smoke, of honey, of nature. And I’ll see you there! Exciting!

I force a smile and hoist my bag over one shoulder, the graduation gown dangling from my other hand. Super exciting, I say, infusing some enthusiasm into my words.

Mom smushes my face between her cheeks and rests her forehead on mine. Proud of you, Bug.

For a moment I squeeze my eyes shut and savor this. Pretend like I’m someone Mom would actually be proud of. Then a car horn blares outside and that brief moment of yearning shatters.

Go, go, Mom says with glassy eyes, shooing me out the door. Don’t be late!

Bye! I kiss her on the cheek and jog down the front porch steps to Nan’s waiting Mini Cooper, idling in our dirt-dusted parking circle. Music blasts from the rolled-down windows and I duck inside, instantly assaulted by Nan’s French perfume and twangy country-pop lyrics.

Hey! Nan squeals, and leans across the center console to hug me. Then she pulls back with a disapproving frown. "That’s what you’re wearing?"

We’re all wearing these ugly-ass gowns. Does it matter what’s underneath? I ask, dumping my stuff in her back seat. The car lurches as she shifts it into drive, and we’re off.

Well. Nan turns down the music a notch. "You could’ve at least done something with your hair. This is our high school graduation, Josie."

Exactly. I’m not there to impress anyone. And, I’ll have you know, I brushed my hair, I say defensively, flattening my bangs with my palm. I was out in the apiary. Lost track of time. I don’t like lying to my mom or Nan, but they wouldn’t understand. Graduation—the ceremony, the implication of it all—makes me dizzy with anxiety, and beekeeping helps calm me down.

Nan’s sigh speaks volumes. Getting out of this shit town will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you, Jos, she says, her blinker clicking as we wait to turn left into Volana High School’s parking lot. Trust me.

I bristle. Then I wilt.

I’ve never been all that talented at standing up to Nan Johansen.

We park and Nan turns to me, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. Silken hair parted down the center, not a strand out of place. Sometimes my best friend is blinding, like the sun. So golden, so essential to my daily life and survival. But that doesn’t mean she can’t burn.

Despite it all, I love Nan. Every friendship has a balance, and Nan’s always had the bigger personality. She’s the more outspoken, divisive one. But I’ve never minded living in Nan’s shadow; it’s safe here.

This is it, Nan says, grasping my hands with hers. Graduation. Then Los Angeles.

This is it, I repeat, a lump forming in my throat. Tiny flecks of guilt collect like buildup on my heart. Clearing my throat, I smile. Let’s go get ourselves graduated.

School officially let out during the last week of May, and in the week since, the administration outfitted the quad with rows and rows of folding chairs and one of those portable stages. Families and students crowd the seats. There are balloons anchored to chair legs and dozens of floral arrangements turning the air sweet. It doesn’t resemble the school I dragged myself to five days a week for the past four years.

Good riddance.

The graduating class sits together in the front rows. To my left is Olivia, one of my closest school friends. Olivia’s the type of friend you don’t invite for a sleepover because you’re not that close, but who you’re always relieved to see at school. Nan’s to my right, holding her pink note cards so close to her face I’m surprised she can even read them. Like the rest of us, she’s wearing an ugly navy graduation gown, but a golden sash cuts across her chest: VALEDICTORIAN.

Did your mom do this? Olivia asks, tapping the top of my head. She smacks gum nervously between her molars and keeps readjusting her dyed-blue curls. I don’t know what she’s so worried about. In the fall, she’s off to New York City to earn her bachelor of music and major in the violin. Following her dreams.

Since we keep our mortarboards, most graduates decorate them in some quippy or personal way. Mom decorated mine with a gigantic bedazzled honeybee. Olivia’s has a miniature violin glued to the base, and Nan’s simply states, in pink gemstones, BOSS BITCH.

I fiddle with the bobby pins precariously holding the mortarboard in place. Yeah, she stole my cap last night, I say, grinning. Not many things make sense in my life, but honeybees always do. My one constant.

I love it, Olivia says, and I kind of regret not making more of an effort with our friendship. But Nan was always quick to point out three’s a crowd whenever I suggested we invite Olivia to hang out with us.

Don’t encourage her. Nan shuffles her note cards together and tucks them into the pocket of her gown. When we’re in Los Angeles, Josie isn’t going to have time for beekeeping.

Olivia frowns, but our principal walks up the stage, tapping her forefinger to the mic. A screech of feedback resonates, and she adjusts the mic, beaming out at our class.

Hello, graduates, Principal Pedersen says, and welcome, family and friends! This afternoon…

I tune her out. Tune the entire graduation out. Because something barbed and panicked fills my chest. Not just the fact I’ll have to walk across the stage in front of everyone, although that does make me nauseous. No, it’s all the unknowns. The end of the first chapter of my life. The beginning of one still shrouded in mystery.

Nan squeezes my arm as she passes, headed to the stage to deliver her speech as Volana High School’s valedictorian. My best friend climbs the stairs and stands behind the podium. Despite everything, I’m proud of Nan. During our high school career, I’ve seen all the pain Nan’s endured to earn her title. Not like I’d ever dare ask her, but I can’t imagine it was worth it.

Resting her hands on the podium, Nan searches the crowd until our eyes lock. I give her a thumbs-up. She takes another deep breath and begins her speech. A speech she’s recited in front of me so many times I have it memorized. Fiery, full of Nan’s passion, with a few choice and clichéd Robert Frost quotes.

Except Nan never takes the road less traveled.

Standing up there, Nan is so happy, so confident, and excited about her one-size-fits-all future.

Our future.

Two best friends on their own in Los Angeles.

Nan wants me to be more excited about all the unknowns ahead of us—me at Golden State University, her at UCLA. She has our entire next four years mapped out in her mind and on a shared Pinterest board. It’s a beautiful future. One of endless summers, palm trees, and delicate tan lines, of sun-bleached hair and boys with strong jawlines and salt water on their lips.

Except there’s one problem.

I’m not going.

Chapter Two

EVEN THOUGH NAN’S headed to Europe at the end of the month for her graduation present, she still tried to convince me that we needed to celebrate tonight. But after graduation, I’m officially peopled-out for the day. Mom had to run after the ceremony to work the closing shift at Waxing Poetic, our shop in downtown Volana, and I promised I’d meet up with her. Plus, we’re supposed to FaceTime with my gran in Florida after dinner. An annoyed Nan drops me off on her way to a house party up in the foothills, and I approach the storefront alone.

I pause outside the door, which is decorated with etched flowers and the store name on frosted glass, and my anxious bones relax. Graduation is over. High school is done. I’ll tell Mom about Golden State University soon. Not tonight, but soon. Then I’ll finally start living the life I want to live.

Believe it or not, I never wanted to lie to everyone. Long-term deception wasn’t my goal.

But I’m stubborn. Probably to a fault, but at least I know what I want from life.

Hazeldine Honey has been in my family for three generations, and I’m next in line. I always figured it’d be the natural progression of things, my mom taking me under her wing when I turned eighteen, as her mother had done for her. Except my mom wants my sights set on college, not the honey business.

If you don’t apply to college, Mom said last November, then you can’t work at Hazeldine Honey.

So I did the thing. I applied to a handful of colleges and crossed my fingers none would accept me. But one small college did, and when Nan heard Golden State University wanted me next fall, that was it. A done deal, her plan in motion. GSU isn’t far from the prestigious UCLA campus.

Mom was so excited—so proud—when I received the acceptance. And I get it, I really do. She wants me to have the life she missed out on. Mom always wanted to go to college, but a mixture of finances and responsibilities at Hazeldine Honey kept her Volana-bound.

In May, when I had to accept or decline my acceptance, I turned it down. It wasn’t a rash decision—I’d humored the idea ever since that acceptance e-mail pinged my inbox. After all, Mom said I had to apply to college.

She didn’t say a thing about me actually going.

I haven’t told anyone what I did. Avoidance, anxiety, and guilt have been the main themes of my life for the last month. Nan will be mad. Mom will be disappointed. I’m just waiting for the right moment to break it to them. To explain that it’s not like I want to ditch college and bum around. I want to work.

I finally push open the door, the bell above it jangling.

Waxing Poetic was my mom’s own extension of Hazeldine Honey, the impact she made on our ongoing legacy, when she took over for Gran. It’s an unusual, quirky store with pricy jars of raw honey, royal jelly, and real beeswax candles. We get enough cross traffic from the touristy wine country to sell our products. A bee spends her entire lifetime producing one teaspoon of honey—roughly seven drops—and the high price tag is warranted.

Mom expanded the store to include a small book section when I was in elementary school. The shelves are stuffed with poetry, new releases, nonfiction, obscure used tomes, and special orders from our customers. The entire store smells warm of beeswax and used books: musty and real.

It’s a long, narrow store laid out in an L shape, and I work my way between the wine barrels laden with various bee products to the register at the other end. Music plays from the record player, and I can hear my mom’s voice distinctly rise in pitch as I round the corner.

We are not selling funny honey, Mom snaps, bracing both hands on the counter.

On the other side, with his back to me, is Mr. Blumstein. I’m not making any accusations. Just telling you what I’ve heard around town. Don’t shoot the messenger.

Mom’s pale cheeks are flushed. Right, she snorts. "Like you’re not the one telling everyone in town."

The Blumsteins have lived in town longer than my family, and they’re—I’m not being facetious—my mom’s nemeses. Rather than insert myself in their argument, I hang back behind a display tower of locally made greeting cards and shamelessly eavesdrop.

Mr. Blumstein is as old as time, an unapologetic asshole who hasn’t gotten any nicer as the years have gone on. His wife is no peach either. Mrs. Blumstein is always giving me these looks, like I’m a slut for wearing jean shorts or a tank top when it’s ninety degrees, or that one time she caught me making out with James Funderburk, my ex-boyfriend, in the town square. The rivalry has gone on since the mid-1900s. It’s long-standing.

You have no proof of that. Mr. Blumstein sniffs loudly, then snatches up a nearby jar of blackberry coastal honey from Mom’s display and holds it up to the light.

Tensions are particularly high this year because the Blumsteins stand to lose their record-breaking winning streak at the Northern California Honey Show this July. Before Gran and my mom began entering, Blumstein Farms won Best of Show twenty-five consecutive years. To honor their winning streak, they were given an award—the Royal Jelly—and are still honored every year with a commemorative slide show. It drives my mom up the wall.

If we win this summer, we’ll finally catch up with the Blumstein family. Ribbon number twenty-five. And the Royal Jelly—with its modest cash prize—will be ours.

Put that down, Mom snaps, eyeing Mr. Blumstein as he inspects the jar of honey, unless you plan on buying it.

I wouldn’t buy this crap if it were the last honey on earth.

I can’t help it—I laugh—and my mom and Mr. Blumstein turn in my direction.

Hey, I say casually, like I wasn’t just eavesdropping, and step out from behind the card tower. I point to the jar of honey in Mr. Blumstein’s hand. The blackberry coastal is really delicious this year.

Mr. Blumstein’s beady eyes sweep over me. Returning the jar of honey to its display, he harrumphs, then strolls past me without another word. The bell jingles as he exits the store.

Sorry about that, Mom says, the color in her cheeks slowly fading.

Mr. B. is back on his bullshit, I see. I stand next to the air-conditioning unit while Mom wraps up closing the store. It was a high of ninety-five today and graduation turned me into a sweaty, sticky mess. I lift the back of my shirt to cool off.

Yep. She locks the register and grabs her purse from the office. He also said this year’s the year.

That he’s going to keel over?

Josie! Mom admonishes, nudging me with her elbow as we walk out. Be nice.

What? He’s old. And mean.

Mom gives me a behave look and locks the storefront door, but her lips twitch as she fails to hide her smile. I was thinking Magic Noodle for dinner. Are you sure you don’t want to go out tonight with Nan?

No way. I lean against the brick building, smiling at my mother. I want to celebrate with you. And Magic Noodle sounds delicious. She loops her arm through mine, and we start off across the grassy town square to our favorite Chinese restaurant. So. What else did Mr. Blumstein say?

Apparently Penelope’s moved back to town. Mom’s voice is edged.

Penelope?

Their daughter. She was down south and worked at an apiary. Won some awards. Mom pulls her braid over one shoulder and starts worrying the split ends. She’s always been so youthful compared to other people’s parents, and the gesture makes her look younger than her forty years. Even if she talks the big talk, she’s nervous and awful at hiding it when it comes to the honey show. Mr. Blumstein was bragging about her. He thinks she might help them nab the win in July.

They think they can beat us because their daughter came to town? I ask, and we duck inside Magic Noodle. The restaurant is old and doesn’t have air-conditioning, but the food is cheap and delicious. We’ve been coming here for years and snag our favorite table in the back.

Mom purses her lips to one side as she adjusts her chair. They’re confident about their harvest, and Penelope brought some fancy new extraction equipment up with her. Makes him think they might have the advantage. But I’m not buying it. He’s trying to psych me out.

Not gonna happen, I say, my determination palpable.

Mom grins as if she’s proud of the cutthroat little monster she birthed. That’s the spirit. This is our year, Bug. I can feel it. To say my mom is competitive is putting it lightly. But he must be nervous to spread such a ridiculous rumor, right?

Definitely, I agree, but the conversation is cut short by our waiter.

I love this. Chinese food and talking shit about the Blumsteins. All I want is this, forever.

I have something for you, Mom says, and digs into the tote bag she brought with her from Waxing Poetic. She brandishes a medium-size gift bag across the table. Herman’s was having a blowout sale.

Money’s pretty tight around here, and she already gave me a graduation gift this morning—the honeybee pendant necklace currently resting against my collarbone was from her and Gran—but I take the bag curiously. Peek inside. And do my best to pick my heart up from the floor.

Oh wow, I say, all forcefulness, as I pull out a shower caddy kit. Beneath it are a pair of shower sandals. Thanks, Mom.

I keep saying it, but I’m so proud of you. She rests her chin in her upturned palm, those green eyes watery. College… this is huge. I love you.

My smile is wobbly on my lips. Love you too.

By the time we stuff ourselves full of Chinese food and walk home beneath the fading June sun, the guilt that plagued me during dinner has lessened—slightly. Mom will be disappointed, maybe even pissed off, when I tell her the truth about college, but she’ll have to accept my decision without nudging me forcefully in the opposite direction. More than anything, though, I need her to realize that Hazeldine Honey is my place too. The silly feud, the honey show, the passion—all of it.

Our two-story house is backlit by the dropping sun as we walk up the porch steps to the electric-blue front door. Inside, I slide onto the wooden floor to greet Ford while Mom grabs her iPad from her bedroom. The old dog clambers into my lap, reaching up to lick my chin. I nuzzle my face to his and press my eyes shut.

I’m not a bad person, right, Ford? I whisper to the dog, who just slurps his tongue along my jaw.

Mom’s footsteps pound the staircase as she jogs back downstairs.

When’s Gran calling? I ask, resting my chin on Ford’s balding head.

She glances at the Betty Boop wall clock above the fireplace mantel. Ten minutes. Where’s your mortarboard?

I groan, struggling to my feet. Mom.

Mom quirks her brow. It’s for Gran, she reminds me.

Really, that’s the only thing she could’ve said to make me willingly put on the ugly gown—which I need to return to the school by Friday—and plop the mortarboard onto my head.

Up until four years ago, Gran was here, and an active member of the local beek community. But she has advanced Parkinson’s disease, and you can’t handle fragile frames of honey and brood cells with shaking hands. Instead of staying local, she moved to where all old folks go: Florida.

Gran leaving California right as I started high school was devastating in its own way. For so long, it’d been the three of us. Well, four if you count Ford. And then she was gone. As if that wasn’t bad enough, two years later her Parkinson’s got worse and the dementia set in. Mom tried getting her to come home, but it was too hard for Gran to be around what she loved and could no longer do. She’s also incredibly stubborn. It must be genetic.

What is wrong with this thing, Mom mutters with a frown, struggling to power on the iPad. She’s not technologically savvy. I reach my hand out and she relents, and I navigate to FaceTime. The Instagram app, with its dozen unread badge notifications, catches my eye, but they can wait until later.

Since Mom shuns computers and technology, handling Hazeldine Honey’s social media accounts is my biggest—and sole—responsibility. She avoids giving me too much work so I can enjoy my teenage years. But if you ask me, the best way for me to enjoy my teenage years would be working full-time at Hazeldine Honey. I don’t mind the social media part, though. Beekeeping is a male-dominated field and the average age of a beekeeper is fifty-seven. But with the right content and online reach, maybe we can engage younger audiences.

That’s my goal, at least.

Once FaceTime is set up, I lean the iPad against the vase on our coffee table and sit on the couch. And not a second too soon because GRAN CALLING flashes on the screen. I hit accept. After a second, the resolution loads, and Gran’s happy—yet confused—face becomes clear.

Watching Gran fade, the cornerstones of her personality