Chapter 29
Venus
My chest aches from the anxiety compressing it as I yank the heavy door open and enter the stadium-style lecture room. Light conversation ceases. Heads turn to see who’s entered, but I don’t make eye contact. I traverse the large stairs toward the opening in the middle, where a lone podium awaits.
I’m late. Sweat trickles down my neck, matting my hair to it. My stomach rumbles angrily because my nerves prevented me from eating breakfast. I practice my Ins and Outs, but my breath quivers on the release.
I slip in my new shoes on the last step, bumbling awkwardly and catching myself on the podium. The microphone catches my blunt curse.
“Fuck!” echoes throughout the room—a fitting start to this preposterous endeavor.
Finding no relief in the students’ snickering, I breathe in deeply and straighten my shoulders.
I take my position behind the podium and empty the contents of my bag, setting up my laptop and today’s notes.
The screen comes to life behind me, projecting today’s itinerary over the extra-large whiteboard.
Finally, I glance up. Twenty-five faces scattered around the room stare back at me, waiting.
A woman in the front row smiles encouragingly.
The man behind her cocks his brow and smacks his chewing gum as he looks me over.
Everyone is behind a screen, fingers at the ready.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the faint smell of industrial cleaner mingles uncomfortably with my empty stomach.
Apart from the people in it, the room is boring and uninspiring. White walls meet gray floors and black seats with hideaway desks strung together, and I find myself inexplicably seeking out the color green, as if I need it to get through this.
My eyes land on the same woman in the front row. She wears a plain, forest green t-shirt.
I clear my throat, remembering Ivy’s advice. “Um, nice shirt,” I say to her.
She glances down to see what she’s wearing. “Thanks,” she says, like it’s a question.
“Dude, are you the prof?” the man behind her asks bluntly, eyeing me in a way I don’t appreciate. He reminds me of Brock from high school—tall, handsome, athletic, and arrogant. I look away from him and toward the other students.
“I’m Dr. Blake. My pronouns are she/her. This is Rare Plants of North Carolina, a special topics course, section PB 464. Is everyone in the correct classroom?” My voice betrays me, trembling with my words. I sound as nervous as I feel.
“Are you in the correct classroom?” the man laughs. “I thought Dr. Blake was a boring, old guy.”
“Dr. Richard Blake is middle-aged, not old, and certainly not boring. But he isn’t here. I’m teaching his class this summer. I’m his daughter, but I’m also a botanist and environmental scientist. So, don’t call me dude.”
The young man puts his hands up submissively. “No offense, and no complaints. You’re easier on the eyes.”
His wide grin makes me squirm, as do the dozens of eyes on me. I fiddle with my rings, sliding my finger over my mood ring.
“This isn’t high school.” Words I meant only for my inner monologue slip out and find the mic.
I clear my throat again, in and out, and consider my work with Dr. Broderick, how she stresses empowerment and finding my voice when I’m mistreated. “This isn’t high school… and immature remarks like that won’t be tolerated. Your name?”
He looks confused. “Brent Thomas.”
“Mr. Thomas, I’m removing you from the class, and I will speak to your advisor. You may go.”
The woman in the first row smiles. Someone else claps. He rises, mumbling and huffing and mouthing the word bitch. But he leaves.
Then, there were twenty-four.
“Anyone else care to offer commentary about my father or my appearance?”
Silence.
“Good. I trust that you have accessed the syllabus online and downloaded the materials,” I say. “Let’s begin with Dr. Blake’s notes in part one.”
My fingers shake as I move my cursor and prompt the material, which I read aloud, verbatim. By the time my phone chimes to indicate the class is over, nearly three hours later, I’ve read through three sections of materials, and four students are asleep.
Someone in the back row raises their hand.
“Yes?”
“So, is this how the class is going to be? You reading notes?”
“Um, well…” My voice trails off as the other students peer forward as if they have the same question.
I should have elaborated with anecdotes or spoken on some of my research projects, but following the words on the screen kept me from racing out of here.
Each sentence marked another moment closer to the end of class, and that was my goal—to make it to the end.
“I don’t know.”
“Is attendance mandatory?” someone calls out.
No one moves, awaiting my answer. I don’t know what to say.
I didn’t take attendance at the start of class, as perhaps I should have.
Making anything mandatory sounds brutal, reminding me of my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Harlow, who forced me to sit up front and take dictation of her lectures, word for word, even though I already knew the material.
“To keep you quiet,” she said. My fingers would cramp after every class.
“No, nothing is mandatory,” I say.
Everyone rises, and the room empties. In the quiet, I rest my head against the podium, knowing that I’ve failed to make a good impression.
But I stayed.
At noon, I exit the building, grateful for the sun on my face. I’m exhausted and irritated with myself. I’ve ridiculed so many teachers for being boring and failing to engage me. The last few hours have turned me into a hypocrite.
I slump and sigh. Tomorrow I’ll have to do it all over again. It’s going to be an intolerably long summer.
Looking up, I see Henry spilling out of the library across the green. He shoves a book in his messenger bag, adjusts his glasses, and heads toward the food court, exactly where I was going.
I imagine sharing a table with him and discussing our classes—he suggested resuming our friendship.
Perhaps he’d share some teaching techniques to help me do a better job tomorrow.
I step in his direction, relieved at the idea, but then stop abruptly when I recall his awkwardness and anxiety over my interaction with Olly.
Henry doesn’t want me in his life. His suggestion of friendship was just Henry being Henry, a good guy who doesn’t do one-night stands and eases his conscience by throwing words like friends around.
Hungry and alone, I retreat to my father’s office. As expected, no one visits during office hours.
At home, I scarf down whatever I find quickly in the fridge—pickles, cheese slices, and a bunch of grapes.
I lean against the sink, nibbling as I hold Christie’s paperback close to my nose.
The princess is imprisoned in a high tower “for her own protection” against the angry coven of witches determined to destroy her and ruin her plans to marry the warlock.
She doesn’t want to marry him either, but considers it her duty.
The pirate who accidentally saved her once has set out to save her again, this time on purpose.
He climbs up a rope fifty yards to reach the tower window—an impressive feat.
She plays coy. “You’re a rogue!” she whisper-yells when she could easily raise the alarm.
She secretly hoped he’d show and save her from the life she knows she doesn’t want, but feels she must accept.
I wonder if that’s all that romance truly is—a bond that counters reason.
But I reserve judgment until I achieve a larger sampling of novels.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. With a pickle in one hand, I set the paperback down on my current page and slide my phone from my pocket with the other. A text alights my screen.
How did your classes go? It must’ve been challenging to be back in a classroom.
A second text arrives as I read the first.
It’s Henry, btw. I got your number from Marnie, who got it from Ivy. I hope that’s okay.
Is it? I don’t know what to think or feel except surprise. I take a breath, mouth half-full with pickle.
It’s surprising, but not unwelcome. Hi, Henry.
Hi, Venus.
I debate how to answer his original question. There’s the truth—that my day could inspire a book entitled “How Not To Teach”—and there’s a hundred vague dismissives that could satiate him without lying. Fine. It’s over and done. Could’ve been better.
I huff. I don’t want to lie and say it went well, but I also don’t want to admit I failed, either. So, I compromise.
It was a challenge, but not an insurmountable one. Tomorrow will be better.
It’s a vague truth that must prove true, or I’ll be on the next flight to anywhere else.
The teasing ellipsis appears and disappears, then reappears. And vanishes again. I consider Ivy’s instructions and text him during the intermission.
How were your classes?
The triple dots appear again before his text arrives.
Good, thanks. A formality, really. I came across an intriguing book on local history in the library. Coastal Lore & Legends.
I access my library app and download the book. I read the synopsis and chuckle.
This seems interesting. I’ve also been reading about pirates.
Anything I might be interested in?
I glance at the scantily clad pirate and princess on the cover of Christie’s paperback and smirk.
Probably not.
It’s good research. The Graveyard of the Atlantic will be well-represented in the museum. I just acquired a shackle from Blackbeard’s ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge.
Impressive.
The mystical dots appear again, and I wait.
I’m sorry about yesterday.
Could you be more specific?
I apologize for ambushing you with Olly. When he found out you were there, he had to meet you. It must’ve been a shock that he knew about you.
I consider his statement.
Yes, but Olly is delightful. I’m honored that he knows about me.
Meeting you meant a lot to him. He talked about nothing else at dinner.
My eyebrow quirks.
Maggie must’ve been thrilled.
She behaved. It’s hard to argue with Olly’s enthusiasm.