Chapter 4
Four
Bud
The L squeals overhead while I walk as self-assuredly as my knee allows, checking my phone to make sure I went the right direction from the platform.
I didn’t.
With an audible groan, I pretend I forgot something and head in the opposite direction, even though I’m sure no one is looking at me.
Two years in this city, and I still get lost everywhere I go.
Chicago feels surreal for someone who grew up in a town of two thousand people.
Well four, counting the college students.
A mere hour ago, I completed the last of my exams. For all intents and purposes, I now have a law degree. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet, and I’m not sure I’ll notice when it does.
There’s something odd about a phase of life that’s over, but hasn’t yet ended.
There’s not a Before and After. It’s like on a hike, when one biome changes to another.
Sometimes, it’s sudden and noticeable, like when a body of water disrupts the gradation.
That was the end of my time in Solberg. I graduated, questioning my decision to move away for law school.
A few days later, Matt broke up with me, and I fled, moving here three months ahead of schedule.
It was a clean cut. No liminal blend between phases.
I blinked and found myself staring out across Lake Michigan instead of farm fields.
Other times, the transition is slow. The patches of sunlight that filter through the forest canopy grow bigger and more frequent, until only a few oak trees dot the prairie. That’s how I feel right now.
For the last two years of my life, I’ve been focused solely on passing tests and writing papers, much like all of my schooling before.
But now, there’s no next degree to work towards.
I’m in that in-between space, where clusters of trees ease into prairie, because I still have to study full-time until I take the bar in six weeks.
Part of me wants to go back to the forest; the dense canopy makes me feel safe.
But the whole point of going on the hike was to see the prairie.
So of course I’ll keep on the path, even if I feel more exposed and vulnerable with every sun-dappled step towards that vast openness of the Rest of My Life.
A loud honk makes me flinch, body bracing for impact, though the van is across the street.
The second I’ve exhaled my panic, someone shouts, seemingly directed at me, and I tense again.
But I keep walking the way Adrienne taught me, though every fiber of my upbringing fights against ignoring someone yelling.
In Solberg, there’s no ignoring people ever, especially when they’re trying to get your attention.
But a chaotic melody of arguing and distant honking breaks through my anxiety.
I scold myself for being egotistical; that shout was never meant for me. I’m no one here, and I love that.
I really underestimated what life in a city would be like.
I visited the campus with my mom, who’s originally from Boston and travels a lot for academic conferences.
She knew how to get around, and I just followed her.
Luckily, Adrienne grew up here; she helped me get used to it.
“If you don’t want to get shouted at, don’t stop and let them shout at you.
Just keep moving, and pay them no mind. Keep an eye out for anyone following you, but whatever everyone else does is none of your business.
” I appreciate that. Minding my own business would have been incredibly rude in Solberg.
I reach the dispensary where Eris works without incident. The cacophony of the city disappears in this quiet room, the sunlight dimmed by dozens of plants. Spacey new age ambient music plays on hidden speakers, and the air is thick and dank, despite the no-smoking sign on the wall.
“Sup,” the person behind the counter greets me when I walk in, sounding so eerily like Eris that I’m surprised it’s not zim. But this person is tall and thin, bald with a massive beard, wearing a polo with a cartoon cannabis flower embroidered on the chest and a he/him button on his lanyard.
“Hi, I’m looking for Eris?” My voice sounds so timid I want to cringe. I grip my backpack tighter.
“Blake Ryan?” The guy asks, tapping the counter in an idle rhythm.
I nod, wondering what the fuck Eris told him that warranted sharing my last name, because this man’s glower is slightly terrifying. But he eventually grins, and I relax a little. “You’re taller and prettier than I expected. Eris normally doesn’t have good taste.”
My stomach clenches; I hate being called pretty. Still, I stammer out, “Thank you?”
“Hey!” Eris’s muscled, tattooed arm pokes through some plastic sheeting covering a doorway.
Clad in a latex glove—though the scriptwork “And I Say Fuck It” tattooed on zis forearm is still visible—zis hand flicks off the guy behind the counter.
“Shut the fuck up.” The disembodied hand then points at me.
“Come here! Don’t listen to any of his bullshit. ”
The guy laughs as I duck through the plastic sheeting, behind which Eris’s arm has already disappeared.
My jaw clenches. I’m voluntarily spending a weekend in my hometown with this person?
As the plastic falls behind me, Eris is fussing around a small grow room.
Cannabis plants in different stages of growth line the metal tables under the bright lights.
“Put this on.” Eris hands me a hairnet and latex gloves. Ze is much shorter than I expect in tennis shoes, instead of the platform boots ze wears to brunch. I’ve never seen Eris in a polo before, or with zis hair pulled back into a bun either. This doesn’t look like the Eris I know. It’s weird.
I put the hairnet on, tucking in the longer curls at my neck. “I didn’t think dispensaries could grow it on-site.”
“You can’t. These are for breeding, not selling.
” Ze hands me a face mask and slips a pair of safety glasses onto my face.
I glare at zim but stay still while ze works the arms over my ears.
Eris gives me a smug grin. “You’re early, so you’re gonna make yourself useful, while I make these plants fuck. ”
“You’re such a delight.”
“I know.” Ze hands me a large bin with a half-wilted cut plant and a tiny pair of scissors inside. “Cut the fan and sugar leaves off, but be careful with the buds.” Ze points to the smaller leaves curling around the sticky flowers.
I’m slightly offended that ze thinks I don’t know my way around a cannabis plant; my parent’s basement is far more impressive than this room.
“I was promised ice cream, not manual labor.” But me being me, I pick up the scissors and start with the larger fan leaves, stacking them in a neat pile in the corner of the bin.
The grassy smell is pleasant, like fresh citrus.
“I told you two. It’s only one.”
I shrug. “I finished my last exam early.”
“Wait, you just finished exams?” Eris asks, looking over zis shoulder as ze prods a plant with a cotton swab.
“Yeah. That’s what I said in my text.” I don’t know what’s confusing.
“Why aren’t you out celebrating, bro?” ze asks, turning back to the plant.
“I’m celebrating by not studying for the bar today.” I pause, squinting so I don’t nip a bud when I snip a sugar leaf. “And I thought ice cream. But apparently, I’m getting roped into your shady weed operation instead.”
Eris laughs. “It’s not shady. I’m contracted by the state to breed hybrid strains for research purposes.”
I frown. “Aren’t you the retail manager?”
Ze nods. “Yeah, and the owner sublets the grow room to me as a lab. Until he can grow here legally, he figures we might as well get paid by the government, instead of letting the space go to waste.”
I rack my exhausted brain; something isn’t adding up. “You were a tattoo artist a year ago.”
Eris snorts. “I’m honestly impressed you remember that. You don’t pay attention to shit.”
“I pay attention!”
“Tell me literally anything about Kelsey.” Eris looks over zis shoulder at me with a shit-eating grin.
I grumble under my breath, too tired to pretend to be a decent person. Eris already knows I’m not. “She’s…got a good memory.”
Ze lets out a full-on cackle this time, with the high pitch and everything. “Exactly. You don’t listen for shit. But I don’t talk much, so you didn’t know anything about my shady weed operation.”
“You talk too much,” I retort. It’s still not clicking for me, from a legal perspective. Why would the government hire a random dispensary employee to grow their experimental strains? “For the purpose of telling my parents, how did you get into this?”
Ze smirks. “In case your parents are curious, I have a masters in agricultural science and lab management experience. Unclench, Bambi, it’s all legal.”
The nickname sounds different in zis gravelly voice. The hint of a Texas accent softens the consonants, night and day from the strong Minnesota vowels in my mind when I’d read it. I swallow. “Then why were you a tattoo artist?”
“I wanted to be.” Eris shrugs and moves zis collection of cotton swabs to another plant, unzipping the humidity tent around it. “And then I wanted to do this.”
“That’s an unsatisfying answer.”
As a response, Eris merely hums in amusement.
We finish our work in silence. Peeling the PPE off, I wait impatiently while Eris cleans up. With zis hands on my shoulders, Eris hurries me out past the guy in the lobby, telling him to shut the fuck up. Before he can say anything, I’m rushed out the door.