“And you said you aren’t a writer!”she beams, slapping my arm.
“The more I think about Vee—I mean, Buttercup—the more I believe her story should be told.What kind of historian would I be if I didn’t document it?”
She nods, steering me through the crowd until we’re outside the front entrance.“It’s worth documenting.From what I gather, you believe Buttercup would’ve benefited from more autonomy, even in elementary school.”
“She was used to reading, exploring, and studying on her own.I remember days when teachers sent her to the library as a punishment, and she loved it—spent the whole day with her nose in books.She never had trouble in her art classes, either—at least the ones she deemedrealart classes.”
Dr.Kwon chuckles.“So, no macaroni necklaces for her then?”
“No way.She called thoseugly wastes of food.”
Students rush around us as we talk on the stoop outside.It’s hot and humid, but a coastal breeze sweeps some of the heat away.
“I like Buttercup,” Dr.Kwon says, “and so does my agent.I sent her your new notes, and I expect she’ll request a meeting.What should I tell her?”
I push my glasses up on my nose, considering it.“Um, I’m open to a conversation, but I need to discuss it with Buttercup first.”
Dr.Kwon’s eyes widen.“I didn’t realize you were still in communication with Buttercup.You sound so sad in your stories, like she’s gone.”
“She was,” I explain, hands sliding into the pockets of my jeans, “but um…”
The heavy double doors of the Environmental Sciences Building screech open across the wide sidewalk.Venus pushes through as if desperate for air.Students follow, crowding her on both sides.She stops on the stoop, turns to face them, and engages in their discussion.She appears controlled, blankly responding, but she fiddles with her rings and bracelets, one hand over the other.I notice dark smudges on her fingers and on the side of her skirt where she must’ve wiped her hand during her art-fueled lesson.Mid-sentence, she glances my way, and the softest, sweetest smile perks up her lips upon seeing me.She must stumble over her sentence or stop talking altogether because her brow scrunches just enough to reveal that she’s been knocked off her train of thought.
I fucking love it.
Everyone notices, especially when I grin and wave toward her.
She waves back, but it’s the type of wave that says,“Give me a minute, Henry.”
“Oh, my word!”Dr.Kwon pipes up slowly.“Venus Blake is Buttercup?I should’ve known.Dr.Blake used to come to me all the time about her struggles at school.Ah, the artwork, the IQ, the proximity… I can’t believe it took me this long to put it together.”
I answer with a light shrug, unable to take my eyes off of Venus as she talks with her students, at least until Dr.Kwon shoves her phone in my face.
“Buttercup’s going viral.Did you know?”
Venus comes to life on the screen—it’s a recording of her artful lessons.My eyes drift to the views, shocked to find301kand climbing.
“Look at this one from yesterday.It was meant to be a lesson on distributive patterns in the coastal plains, but she took her class outside and got sidetracked by explaining the importance and role of amphibians in healthy ecology.”
Venus appears on her screen, teaching her class while straddling a ditch.Her skirt is hiked up her thigh to keep it out of the mud, and she’s holding a skink.The striped lizard looks perfectly at home, perched on the back of her palm, as she explains the ecosystem of a ditch and compares it to that of a swamp.
“Admission inquiries have upticked since her students started posting.The school wants her to stay for another summer session.The marketing department has assigned a camera crew to record her classes.Isn’t it fascinating, Henry?Has the so-calledworststudent become the best teacher overnight?”
“She’s brilliant and can do anything.I’m not surprised.Does Venus know about this?”
“I’m sure she does,” Dr.Kwon says.“What a perfect ending to your book, huh?It’s practically writing itself.”
My throat tightens, forcing me to use my inhaler.“I’ll talk to her this weekend.”
CHAPTER37
Venus
I arriveoutside the museum five minutes before my date with Henry.Exiting the Land Rover, I straighten my dress.It’s white linen, with a low-cut V neck, backless, and embroidered with an intricate blend of wildflowers in reds, yellows, and blues.Ivy called it a perfect date night dress—a happy coincidence since I didn’t know I’d need it at the time.My tattoos are on full display, well,almost, and seem to match the dress.Strappy wedges complete the outfit—another purchase Ivy insisted on, though I don’t need the extra height.With my hair done up in a pink scarf and braided into a bun, I feel well-put-together and, perhaps, close to normal.
Normal is what you decide it to be.My father’s voice whispers through my thoughts.
Tonight’s normal is dressy, according to Henry’s instructions.He didn’t elaborate but said he had a surprise.
