“The problem with sunflowers,Henry, is that they need space to thrive.Vertically and horizontally.We never should’ve planted them here, with other plants, or in an enclosed space,”Venus once said, pointing to our small garden bed in the greenhouse where the sunflowers wilted and sagged over the thriving tomato plants.“They have thick, stubborn stalks that need support, and their big-headed blossoms require six to eight hours of direct sunlight a day.They need more than this place can give them, Henry.That’s why they’re dying.We killed them.”
Crossing the campus to my first class, I rehash the words from my paper and sigh, considering Dr.Kwon’s notes.This is the heart of Buttercup’s story.She needed more space to thrive.
But does she still?I wonder.
That paper, Dr.Kwon’s notes, and my nearly full composition notebook are safely secured in my messenger bag.Every spare moment I’ve had has been spent writing in it, as if Venus unleashed the dam holding my stories in.I can’t stop them.
Inside the education building, I navigate the bright, crowded halls to my class, thankful that I’m familiar enough with the place to know where it is, as my head is elsewhere.
I want to apologize for yesterday.She was great with Olly.He couldn’t stop talking about her, much to Mom’s dismay at dinner.Still, I was awkward about their interaction, and Venus noticed.My reluctance had nothing to do with her taking care of Olly, despite her little joke about rappelling and starting fires.Iknowshe’s capable.
It’s not her.It’s me.I hesitate for the hurt that’s to come.In only a few minutes, watching her with Olly, I started picturing the three of us together.Reallytogether.I imagined a better life for us with Venus in it.One weekend with her makes me want a million more.I shouldn’t entertain those ideas—it’ll only hurt worse when she leaves again.
I take a seat near the window in class and glance across the pathway to the sciences building.I notice a woman with long, blonde hair bouncing up and down the stoop, repeatedly like a march.After a double-take, I realize that it’s Venus.
She looks different.Professional.A long floral skirt billows around her tight calves, and the slit catches on her leg as she marches downward, revealing her sunflower tattoos on her thigh—oursunflowers, I realize sadly.
Her top seems molded to her every curve, and the cropped sleeves reveal her toned arms.Uncharacteristically mud-free, white sneakers replace her worn hiking boots.A canvas tote dangles from her arm.She fidgets with her rings and bracelets as she goes up and then down the stairs again.A blue and white scarf waves in her hair.
The woman who has no problem rappelling off mountainsides or picking up snakes is afraid to enter her father’s classroom.I understand her anxiety, probably better than anyone.
I should help her.A kind, encouraging word might be all she needs to wrangle her confidence—I’ve seen it with students a thousand times.I grab my things, shoving them into my messenger bag, and I’m almost energized by the opportunity to do something for her.
But the professor enters the class with a loud greeting, and when I look back at the window, Venus has already gone inside.
CHAPTER29
Venus
My chest achesfrom 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.
“Areyouin the correct classroom?”the man laughs.“I thought Dr.Blake was a boring, old guy.”
“Dr.RichardBlake is middle-aged, not old, and certainly notboring.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.”
