She’d been called Birdie for so many years, that when the superintendent called on Roberta Mona Alexander to give the Valedictorian speech, she didn’t respond.

If a classmate hadn’t jabbed her and whispered, “That’s you,” Birdie might have missed the second call as well.

~~~

The following morning, as Birdie entered the conservatory that housed her father’s experimental plants, the rest of her life stretched before her. The lyrics of Helen Reddy’s song, I Am Woman, raced in her mind.

Elation surged through her body like a jolt of lightning. If she had her way, by the end of summer any one of these plants could win a blue ribbon.

During her high school years Birdie had taken special care in learning about each of the cultivars Alexander’s grew. Wanting to learn more about plant genetics, she’d checked out the horticulture classes at the local junior college.

She knew that some plants needed to dry out between watering while others preferred to be kept constantly moist. But no plant liked soggy soil. Birdie was determined to give each one the exact amount of water and fertilizer they required.

It was still dark outside. Birdie flipped on the lights and almost tripped over a two-foot roll of ½” tubing that wasn’t in the room yesterday. She wondered how long it would be stored here. Could she find someone to scoot it out of the path?

Moments later, as she headed down the first row of herb-scented geraniums, a tickling sensation crossed her ankles. Birdie bent and scooped Miss Chloe into her arms.

The cat smelled of the foliage where she loved to play. “If you get much bigger, I won’t be able to lift you,” Birdie said as she straightened and draped her pet around her shoulders.

Last winter when she’d found the miniature cat shivering in the snow-covered display garden, the kitten was just a fluffy fur ball and fit into the palm of one hand. Now five months later, she weighed twenty-five pounds. Chances were she wasn’t yet full grown.

Birdie hummed as she deadheaded the plants. The contented purr from Miss Chloe was like a massage on the back of her neck. The dried blooms crumbled between her fingers gave off a lemon-rose scent.

Before long, the tabby jumped down to pounce on the wilted flowers. Birdie laughed and threw a few more of the special geraniums blooms toward her. Miss Chloe tried to catch them in her paws.

How had Birdie’s father known which genetics to track to get the various scents? Would he take her more seriously if she learned more about DNA? Would he take her more seriously if she used her formal name? Would he ever take her seriously?