Once we’re among the flowers, though, it’s like she’s a different person. As she sets up her shots, she explains to me how she can use some as background options for her website templates, and others might be used on book covers with other elements photoshopped in. She takes close-ups of brightly colored blooms and impossible shots of fluttering butterflies, and I’m so mesmerized watching her work, and how she seems to know the names of every blossom and creature, that I don’t hear her the first time she says, “Jump in one.”

The second time she says it, I immediately respond, “Nah, it’s OK. I don’t wanna get in your way.” But truthfully, I do, because the background is gorgeous, and let’s be real, I am not one to pass up a good profile pic.

Thankfully, she sees right through me, and before I can protest again, she yanks me over to a bench surrounded by fragrant patches of lilies and sits me down. “You know,” she says, frowning in concentration as she fusses with my shoulder-length, nutmeg-colored mess, “I’m jealous. Your hair has so many possibilities. You could chop it to your chin and would look amazing, especially with a little curl.”

“That’s too much—I could never go that short,” I say, though I’m already picturing it and I don’t hate what I see.

“The summer’s young,” she says with a smile, stepping back and handing me a petal-pink lip gloss from her bag. “It’s always a good time to get brave and make some fun changes.”

I dab on the gloss and hand it back, patently ignoring the little chill of excitement at the thought of coming back to Stratford with a different look—one that wasn’t advised, evaluated, and picked apart by my friends first. Then I smile, pout, and otherwise pose my way through a photo shoot with Jasmine mock-barking commands at me every time I move my limbs. “More duck face!” she demands, taking shot after shot of me pushing my lips up and out until they take up half my face. “More! Duckier! I said duckier!”

Eventually, we have to stop because I’m laughing too hard, and Jasmine goes back to taking her more official photos while I scramble to take light meter readings and rearrange stems.

After a couple of hours in the sweltering heat, I’m sweating like a pig and mentally begging for Jasmine to call it a day, but she doesn’t seem to notice the temperature. There’s no moisture beading on the skin above her tube top, and her flowy skirt dances as she moves, making it look like she’s bringing her own breeze with her wherever she goes. Even the dark, honey-highlighted hair piled into a bun on top of her head isn’t sticking to her face.