Venus
“The first thingwe need to do is take a proper inventory.”Ivy stands in the middle of the bedroom, hands on her hips, eyes shifting between the open closet and the piles of clothes occupying parts of the floor like anthills.She spies my prom dress in a pink heap in the corner and gives me a coy look.
“You tried it on, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel pretty?”she asks, even more coyly.
“Yes,” I admit, thinking about how it sparkled under the sunshine on the tiki boat, how the queens gushed over it at the restaurant, the way Henry’s eyes traveled over my exposed skin, and his delicious yearning when he got me out of it.“Yes, I felt very pretty.”
“That’s a big step for you,” Ivy decides cheerfully.“Hold onto that feeling as we’re putting together your wardrobe today.But before you get any ideas, you can’t wear a prom dress to campus.”
“My wardrobe is fine.”I sit on the bed’s edge, still in the silky kimono I found hanging in the bathroom this morning—left for me by Christie, I assume—and feeling all-around like a Grumpy Gus.
“It’s not fine,” Ivy says, holding up my cut-off jean shorts.“You can’t teach college classes dressed like a slovenly student.”
“My clothes are comfortable, durable, and shouldn’t matter to anyone but me.”
“Of course, your appearance matters.”She plops onto the bed beside me.“You want to be taken seriously, don’t you?”
“My extensive credentials will achieve that.”
“What will people see first, Vee?Your clothes or extensive credentials?”
My shoulders slump.“Fine.What do you suggest?”
“Shopping.But first, I want to get a feel for your style… or at least, what it could be.”She holds up a crocheted sweater from my exploded suitcase.“Do you like this?”
“Yes.I bought it from a local shop in Scotland.The clerk said it was hand-knit by an elderly neighbor.”
“What about the colors?You like them?”
I eye the ambers, blues, and reds of the multicolored blocks.“Yes, they’re nice.”
“What about this?”She tugs a red, yellow, and white sarong from the bottom of my backpack.
“I bought that from a street market in Madagascar.I appreciated the versatility, and I needed something to wear over my bikini on beach days and at night for pig roasts.That one’s torn, though.I was going to cut it into scarves.”
She rolls her bright blue eyes, though I don’t know why.“The colors?”
“They’re pleasant enough.”
She looks dissatisfied, but it fades behind curiosity when she holds out her hands for mine.She inspects them closely, focusing on my rings and bracelets.
“When I travel, I collect jewelry from local artisans, mementos that travel well and provide me with something to touch or twist or otherwise manipulate.”
“Fancy fidget spinners,” she giggles.“I get it.”
Her finger traces the long, oval shape of my always-black mood ring.“You had this one long before you traveled.”
“It was Henry’s grandmother’s.It’s my favorite.”I try to sound indifferent, but when Ivy’s probing eyes find mine at the slightest tremor in my voice, I know I’ve failed.
“It’s been a few days since Dad’s trick,” she says with a sympathetic tone.“Maybe you should try reaching out to him again.”
“I did.”
“What?”she blurts urgently.“What happened?”
