When I was in the fifth grade, my best friend Darren suddenly had a plant growing from his head.  

Nobody knew for sure where it came from, or why it was there. It simply appeared one day, delicate green buds on the ends of slightly curling shoots, a strange contrast to his amazingly ordinary hair. Darren's parents, concerned as they were, simply didn't have the time or resources to deal with the sudden emergence of flora on their son, so he was dropped off at school as usual, with a couple extra words of reassurance and a baseball cap. 

"Wesley, do you like my hat?" Were his first soft words to me that day. 

I gave it a careful once-over. It was an ordinary baseball cap, a little worn, but he looked rather good in it.  

"I think it's alright," I answered.  

"Good," he said quietly, "Because I'm going to wear it forever." 

 The bell rang before I could ask as to why he would do such a thing, and we were ushered into class, plant, baseball cap and all. 

"Hat," said our teacher the moment Darren stepped into class. She was formidable, a falcon of a woman. "Off. Now." 

"But -" I saw Darren's eyes widen, a bit frantic.  

"No buts," she said, her eyes glinting dangerously bright, and his shoulders slumped like he was deflating. Classmates were beginning to stare, their gazes bright and curious and unintentionally heavy.  

Darren reached up, hand barely quivering, and he took the cap off in one fluid motion, like the way you tear off a particularly large bandaid quickly to make it hurt less. There was a collective gasp, and he just sat there, shoulders hunched, eyes to the ground, but sitting beside him, I could feel a sense of quiet defiance, an I dare you to laugh behind the defeat.  

That aside, like many other children, I couldn't help but stare. The vibrant green of the leaves, poking out gently from beneath brown locks, the fragile stem tucked haphazardly behind one ear, all of it so out of place on his ruffled bedhead.  

And as the teacher blinked, dumbfounded at the scene before her, as the students began to chatter in excitement about this new development, I looked at Darren, at the softness of the plant that was so new to the world, and I felt I had never seen anything more beautiful. 

There was a bit of an upset after that. People wanted to see, to touch, to know if it was real. There were honeyed words and smiles, just as there were whispers and laughter. Darren shrank away, like a wary sparrow, ready to fly away at a moment's notice.  

"It's always the plant," he told me mutinously. "Everything's because of this stupid plant. I hate it." 

I didn't know what to say - he wasn’t exactly wrong, and I wondered if it was a betrayal of sorts, to like the soft green of the leaves. So I swallowed my protests, nodding silently.  

Darren sighed.  

He did a lot of sighing during the next two years. Not only did he have to deal with the people, the staring and whispers, but it was no easy task to take care of a plant when it was sprouting from his head. It had grown, a crown of foliage, wild and unpruned. There was no way to prune it - any damage to the stems or leaves had Darren crying out in pain. Washing his hair was a hassle, playing sports was a hazard, meeting new people was downright awkward. 

For the first few months, whenever Darren opened his mouth, it was to voice a complaint about the plant. It was sensitive, it was uncomfortable, people stared at it for too long, and there were rumours being made up about him. 

And like all best friends should do, I listened. I never told him how fascinating it was in my eyes, how much I longed to touch it, to watch the miniscule leaves unfold, wing-like, into mature ones.  

But as time went on, his complaints ceased, his quiet anger melting away into an uneasy resignation, and we settled into our old rhythm again. Wesley and Darren, our classmates called us. Wesley-and-Darren. 

"I'm glad you're here," he told me quietly one day, out of the blue. "So glad." 

"Me too," I said. I was smiling; I was so happy. 

High school, however, was a totally different beast, all hard edges and loud laughter, and there were just so many people - strange, interesting, wonderful. It smelled of autumn, of perfume and new textbooks, of change. Surprisingly, I flourished there, basking in attention and smiles and spitting out sharp, jabbing jokes that most people loved.  

Darren drew attention too, but it was a bit like fifth grade all over again, the giggles and whispers and shards of words. Despite my prompting, he stayed quiet and taciturn. I wanted him to be like me, to make new friends and to talk more, but he never did. He tried, though. For me, he definitely did. And that just made me all the more cruel.  

"Are you walking home, Wesley?"  

"Yeah." 

"Wanna go home together?" 

I shifted from foot to foot. "Sure, but I told Dennis and Naomi I'd walk with them too, so if you want to wait…" 

Darren shook his head, turning away before I could see his face. "It's okay. I have to go home early today." 

"Oh," I said. "Bye, then." 

But he was already walking away, leaves swaying in the wind, and for a second I felt a bit hollow, like I should've chased after him.  

It's normal, I told myself. People drift apart. It's normal.  

But then why did it hurt so much? 

After that, it was like there was a wall between us. We talked less and less, slipped further and further away with each day. Sometimes, I would find myself glancing at Darren, the solitary image of him intently focused on a book, the budding green shoots that mixed in with the curls at the nape of his neck, and it was like a punch to the gut. 

I heard about him  through my circle of friends. Darren, I called him, Darren Thomas, like he was a stranger, like we had never known each other before.  

I missed him. I missed him so much. 

One night, I dreamed that Darren and I were twelve again, sitting on the fields at our old school while the sun hung in the bright blue sky above us, and I reached out to touch the plant in his hair. He jumped, pushed me away.  

"What are you doing?" dream-Darren asked. 

"Please," I said. "Let me touch it. Just once." 

"You have a plant too," he told me, backing away.  

And I did. I could feel it growing, tendrils moving along my scalp, gentle like a kiss. But it was growing too fast, too much, and the leaves began to drape down over my eyes, and all I could see was the green - 

I woke up gasping and afraid, the sudden realization of something too frightening to confront weighing on my chest. 

Why had I pushed him away? Why wasn't he coming back?  

Selfish, I screamed at myself, selfish, selfish, selfish.  

I wanted to reach out to him.  

I wasn't able to face him.  

"Are you sure?" 

"I knew he was a weird guy right off the bat." 

"For real? Darren? Darren Thomas? The guy with the leaves on his head?" 

I whipped around, stunned, unbelieving. "What did you just say?" 

"Oh, Wesley," Dennis said. "Weren't you best friends with him in elementary?" 

"Yeah, but -" 

"You're sure lucky you stopped hanging out with him." Dennis laughed, and it was a harsh sound. "What if he did something to you?" 

"Oh my god," Naomi said, giggling.  

I wanted to scream at them, to punch Dennis across the face. But they were both leering, waiting for me, for my thorn-sharp tongue. So I laughed. 

"Yeah," I said, and the words cut my throat on the way out. "You're right." 

There was a thud as someone's bag hit the ground, and I knew who was at the classroom doorway before I even turned. Darren's eyes were soft and hurt, so full of betrayal that I felt my breath hitch in my throat. His plant looked different - the leaves were a bit more wilted than I remembered them being, curled unhealthily at the edges. Before any of us could say anything, he turned and ran.  

And I ran after him. I chased him through the hallways, into the greenish lighting of the bathrooms. I couldn't let him get away again. Finally, backed into a corner, his eyes red-rimmed from the tears, Darren slid down onto the floor.  

"Why?" he choked out, burying his face in his hands. "I thought you were different. I thought you were my friend. Even after everything, I thought you were at least that." 

"I'm sorry," I said hoarsely. "I didn't mean it - any of it." 

"I don't believe you." 

"Darren," I begged. "Please." 

He didn't respond.  

The floor was hard and cold under me when I sank to the ground, but Darren's body was feverishly warm in my arms, and I felt the truth rising up from  my chest, a truth uncovered after weeks of longing, of dreams. 

"I love you," I said, quietly. "I love you." I could feel him start. "And you don't have to believe me, but it's the truth. I know I've been stupid, and the worst friend ever, but I wanted you to know."  

Finally, he raised his head, and there was a look of shock on his face, as well as something else I couldn't quite identify. "You… love me?" he asked hesitantly, like he couldn't quite figure out the meaning of the words.  

"Yeah," I said, swallowing. "I do." 

"Oh," he said, "oh." With a soft little noise, he leaned his head into my chest, hands fisting the fabric of my shirt. "You're so stupid, Wesley," he said after a moment, but there was no heat behind the words. "I hate you." 

I didn't remember when I'd started crying, but I felt a warm tear trickle down on my face and into Darren's hair. For the first time in weeks, I felt myself relax, a slow, small smile on my lips, because it was like the weight on my chest had finally lifted. 

"I know," I said. "Believe me, I know." And then, "Do you actually?" 

"Do I actually what?"  

"Hate me?" 
He looked up at me, with his tearstained, beautiful face. "Of course I don't," he murmurs. "I really don't." 

"Good," I said, and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss on his forehead, then on his mouth. He kissed me back. And for the first time in my life, I did what I'd wanted to do since that fateful day in fifth grade, gently running my fingers through the delicate, veined leaves. 

"Are we okay?" I asked later.  

"You're an asshole," Darren said, with a faint smile. "But yeah, we're okay." 

Okay, I've learned, is a lovely thing to be.  

When I was in the ninth grade, my best friend Darren suddenly had flowers blooming on his head.  

They were scarlet with velvet-soft petals and a faintly sweet fragrance that lingered in the air wherever he went. Nobody knew for sure where they came from, or why they were there.  

Nobody but us, that is.