Chapter 30
Venus
My class improves by the week’s end because, by Friday, only two students attend, which is much less stressful than talking to twenty-five.
Well, twenty-four now. Not that I am talking to them.
It’s more like talking at them. But as long as the information is delivered, I meet the criteria for this position.
I’m a terrible teacher. I’m not naturally charming or charismatic. Getting people to like me under everyday circumstances proves challenging—in a classroom setting, it becomes my personal hell.
Only, I don’t want to be a terrible teacher, especially when the woman in the green t-shirt shows up every day regardless of how boring I am, as if she’s waiting for the real Dr. Blake to appear.
I’m passionate about the environment, and botany might as well be my religion.
It’s a hateful shame that I’m failing to get that across, especially to someone who seems equally excited about the subject.
The world needs more scientists. The world needs more female scientists.
She doesn’t wear the same shirt every day, to be clear. And her name is Myla Rose, which, in my opinion, is very appropriate for a future botanist.
I’ve tried to insert amusing anecdotes into Dad’s lectures and practice my storytelling, but it doesn’t go well.
It’s like my mouth fills with rocks, and my stories sound choppy and incomplete.
I keep office hours, but no one shows up, except for the occasional faculty member.
Those interactions fare somewhat better, as I’m perfectly capable of pleasant conversation, but none return for a secondary engagement.
Ivy says it’s my face, specifically my lack of suitable expressions. Smiles work wonders, she claims, and advises me to practice in front of a mirror. I tried, but it’s weird. Since smiles don’t come naturally for me, it’s hard to remember and awkward to fit them in.
Plus, I’m not sleeping well, and tiredness often makes me grumpy.
I’ve resorted to using the hammock. All the pillows and weighted blankets in the world wouldn’t be a suitable substitute for Henry.
At least in the hammock, I feel cradled, and I’m outside, which tricks me into believing I’m on a project, not mere miles from him.
Now that he has my number, Henry texts me frequently, usually sharing random tidbits about Olly and Mango or asking about my day. Sometimes, in the evenings, he’ll start a text with…
Remember when…
And share one of our stories, usually ending with a commentary on how much fun he had or how he misses those times. I enjoy his texts, but they also make me sad.
I answer, as is customary, but don’t engage beyond polite responses.
I don’t know the protocol for reconnecting with Henry after we agreed to limits—no attachments, no big feelings, no more than one night, which we later amended to a weekend.
So, when I see him on campus, my confusion about us prevents me from interacting with him.
Dr. Broderick says avoidance is acceptable, sometimes.
“No! Not when it comes to Henry,” Ivy retorts when I share this with her. Buster yaps, as if in agreement. “Venus, apply that logic that you love so much. He jumped through hurdles to get your number, and he’s communicating with you every day. What does that indicate?”
I shrug. “Sympathy? Obligation? Boredom?”
“No, silly. Henry wants more,” she says, poking my shoulder with her index finger at each word.
“More what?”
“More of you,” she says, rolling her eyes like it’s obvious. “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel like the subject of a cruel experiment,” I say. “I want his attention, crave it, even, but I don’t understand it. Henry almost refused sex over fears of complications, and yet, here he is, complicating us. I consider it… mixed signals.”
“Then, make him clarify it. Ask him directly what his intentions are. But don’t avoid him,” she says, squeezing my biceps, like she wants her words to take hold. “You know you don’t want to, and he doesn’t want you to, either—facts.”
I nod at my wise sister and fight an emotional surge with, “Fact—Buster has entirely too much luggage.”
She laughs, glancing at the supplies she’s lugged into the living room.
It’s Friday afternoon, and she’s about to start her weekend shift at the hospital, leaving me in charge of Buster.
His supplies consist of one oversized tote with his food, bowls, and snacks.
He has two beds that he uses equally, depending on his mood, and a blanket.
Another oversized tote holds toys, his leash, chew bones, a brush, and doggie shampoo, in case he makes a mess, Ivy explains.
She provides two typed pages of instructions, which I read carefully.
But beyond meal times and his potty schedule, it’s mostly superfluous information like, “Be sure to tell him he’s a good boy after he eats,” and “When you brush him, call him a handsome devil and tickle his belly—he likes that.”
Ivy looks nervous when it’s finally time for her to leave. “If you have any questions or need anything, text me right away. I put Gil’s number on the instructions, too. His brother’s a vet, so if anything happens… I’m sure you’ve got this, though.”
She says it as though she’s trying to convince herself.
“Yes, Ivy. I’m perfectly capable of caring for another living thing and following instructions,” I say with a slight edge to my voice.
She bobs on her clogs and steels her shoulders. “Of course, you are.”
“I, um, I… if you need anything during your long shifts… food, extra clothes, um, reading material,” I say awkwardly, “I can assist.”
Her eyes widen with joyful surprise.
I shrug. “Don’t look so shocked. I used to help you with things when you let me.”
She nods. “I remember. Hair-braiding, reading, long division, fractions, and laundry. You mommed me all the time.”
My brow scrunches. “I didn’t mom you. I big-sistered you. Stop turning nouns into verbs. It’s not right.”
With a giggle, she says, “Forgive me, sis, and thanks. I’m prepared for long shifts like these. Usually, the only thing I might need besides sleep is a pep talk.”
My brow scrunches, considering how I might help in that case. “I-I could try to assist.”
“I might take you up on that.” Shorter than me, she yanks me to her level, insisting on a hug. I allow it, though Buster barks.
When she pulls away, I’m surprised to find tears welling in her eyes.
“You know, Venus, you are perfectly capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for, and not just big-sistering or pet-sitting. I mean, normal things. You might be different, but you’re no less deserving of love and happiness than anyone else.
Whatever you want from life, you should have it. Understand? Even if it’s Henry…”
Her voice trails off, like she might be worried that she went too far, but she hasn’t—evident in the fact that I latch on to her for a second embrace.
Wanting Henry and having him have a near-zero probability of intersection, the latter of which feels impossible, but hearing her say that fills me with…
good sister vibes. “Thank you,” I whisper in her ear, which seems appropriate.
She smiles cheerily as we part. She eyes the black and white puppy staring up at us. “Now, get over here, Buster. Mommy has to go.”
After giving Buster an excessive amount of affection, Ivy leaves.
Buster sits on the hardwood floor, staring up at me curiously. He tilts his head and perks his ears, as if awaiting my instructions. “Would you like to help me with the garden, Buster?”
He barks an affirmative.
I find his leash, attach it to his collar, and hook the other end onto my belt loop. Then, we get to work.
By Saturday morning, I decide that Buster is a nice distraction, despite the inevitable trouble he causes.
With him around, I was forced to sleep in the bed, and he opted to join me rather than sleep in either of his.
I managed a few solid hours with him curled against me.
I awoke to him chewing on the laces of my hiking boots, which I’ll have to replace.
The laces, not the boots; I detest breaking in new hiking boots.
He also barks at every little thing—the air conditioning clicking on, birds tweeting outside, a car horn in the distance—and it sounds like a question, “What?”
So, I answer him. I can’t determine how much he understands, if anything.
But he likes hearing me speak. He wags his tail and watches me intently.
By Saturday afternoon, he seems conditioned to bark to get my attention, which tells me that he’s a smart pup.
I don’t mind, even if I have to invent something to tell him.
Dr. Rob McCullum emails with an interview request for an assistant lead position on a reforestation and wetlands project at The Nature Conservancy in Aotearoa, New Zealand.
It’s a five-year project with housing—a private, furnished cottage.
For once, I’d have my own residence, and I’d be out from under Dr. Miner’s shadow. The idea energizes me.
I’ve always wanted to travel to New Zealand.
I can’t imagine a more promising position, and I grow excited as I research it.
What could be better than getting lost in a foreign land of tall kauri and kohekohe forests and rainforests dominated by rumu, beech, tawa, matai, and rata, and surrounded by the ocean?
I quickly agree to the interview, and Dr. McCullum arranges a video conference for Wednesday that fits my office hours.
I tell Buster everything, and he seems excited for me.
Sunday morning, Henry texts to confirm our meeting to check on the garden, and I quickly agree to be there at two. Nerves percolate all morning, but Buster is quick to distract me, and his presence puts me at ease. So, I bring him with me.