CHAPTER EIGHT
The cursor in the instant messenger blinked in the open chat screen. I typed my question into the void on the off-chance she was awake at that hour: Are you there?
Colette’s response arrived a moment later: No. This is Colette’s ghost. I’ve come to haunt you. Wooooooo!
I ignored her attempt to be cheeky. This was too important for her bad jokes. I need to talk to you, I wrote. I’d been thinking about it all day. But not over instant messenger. Can we video chat?
I thought you’d never ask.
She didn’t ask for more details, for which I was thankful. If she had pressed me why I wanted to video chat after all these years of only the written word, I might have lost my nerve.
We exchanged information and decided that she would call me. While I waited, I busied myself with making sure there was nothing embarrassing in the background like dirty laundry or underwear.
My heart leapt in my throat when my laptop chirped with the incoming video request. As much as I needed to get this off of my chest, I was admittedly nervous to see Colette and actually hear her voice. I clicked on the accept button, and my screen filled with the slight frame of a young woman with dark brown hair and short, bluntly cut bangs.
I’d seen Colette in pictures before. Back in the fourth grade our assigned pen pals had come with a postal address and a small wallet-sized photograph like we were adopting a child from a developing country. In the years before e-mail, I would stare at the color photograph with its slightly bent corners every time I wrote her a letter. I’d received and had sent updated photographs since then, but because I avoided social network sites and hadn’t yet succumb to a smart phone, the photographs had been few and probably needed upgrading.
Colette sat in a room that I assumed was her dorm at art school or her apartment. It struck me that I didn’t know if she lived on campus or not. The lighting was poor, but I saw an unmade bed in the background. It could have been anywhere in the world though; nothing within the frame suggested she was contacting me from the south of France.
I waved my hand at the laptop camera. The girl inside of my laptop waved back.
“Hi,” I said when my other words failed me.
“You answered.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Did you think I wouldn’t? After just asking you if we could do this?”
She shrugged, and I actually saw it. It wasn’t an emoji or a hashtag. After all these years we were finally meeting face-to-face. Kind of.
I exhaled. “This is weird, right?”
“Only that it’s taken us so long to do this.”
I had never heard her voice before. It was nice. She spoke in a higher register, and her English was lightly accented, nearly imperceptible. I marveled how anyone could be fluent in more than one language. I had my Spanish for Nursing class, but that was little more than conversational Spanish and a few technical hospital terms.
“I couldn’t exactly justify a long-distance phone call to France before,” I reasoned. “My parents signed me up for a pen pal, not a phone pal.”
“So what is this urgent thing you had to tell me that couldn’t be said over instant messenger?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. This was it.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while, but I suppose I was never really sure of it myself until now.”
“You’re actually a man.”
“Colette! This is serious,” I chastised.
“And I’m very serious,” she said, not cracking a smile. “I didn’t want to say anything before, but I’ve always thought your handwriting was very masculine.”
She tossed her head back and laughed while I stewed, seven hours in the past.
“I’m hanging up now.”
She threw up her hands. “No! Je m’excuse! Don’t go. This is obviously very important to you and my defense mechanism is bad attempts at humor.”
I sat a moment longer with my indecision. Colette was in a quirky mood, but I had to tell someone or I was going to explode.
“I think … I think I might be gay.”
I immediately closed my eyes and scrunched up my face as if expecting impact. I waited for the outburst. I waited for the yelling. Or swearing. Or the Franglish she sometimes converted to whenever she was excited or impatient. But nothing happened.
I popped open one eye and then the other when Colette didn’t respond.
“Hello?” I waved my hand in front of the built-in web camera. “Did this thing freeze up?”
“No. I can hear and see you fine; I’m just waiting for the big revelation.”
“That wasn’t big enough?” I squeaked.
“Maybe for an American, but I’m French. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
“If you were here, I’d throw something at you,” I scowled. “Do you know how long I’ve been torturing myself over this?”
“Probably for as long as we’ve been talking,” she chuckled. “When did you know you liked girls?”
I released a long breath. “Not messing around, huh?”
“It’s taken us this long to actually talk,” she observed. “If left to your own devises, I’d be old and grey by the time you’d actually talk to me about this.”
“I’m not that bad,” I defended.
“You are, but that’s besides the point.”
I worried my lower lip. “There’s this girl. This woman. And-and maybe I’ve always known about myself, but being around her has pulled up feelings and emotions like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I’m like Old Faithful about to explode.”
“Old Faithful?” Her tongue struggled with the syllables. “I don’t know this reference.”
“It’s a geyser in the States—like an underground volcano.” I waved my hands to try to explain myself. “And there’s built-up pressure, and then all of this hot steam and water bursts out of it when it’s had enough.” I was clearly no geologist.
“Sexy,” she chuckled. “Why am I just now hearing about this geyser girl?”
“No, I’m the geyser,” I corrected. “Whatever. That part’s not important. But it doesn’t really matter. Nothing’s going to come of it.”
“You’ve said that before,” Colette observed. “Why not?”
“Because …” Was I really going to admit to this? “Because she’s my teacher.”
That might have been harder to say aloud than the gay thing.
“Oh, you’ve really been holding out on me!” Colette exclaimed. “If I didn’t want to hear everything, I’d be really pissed at you.”
I hid behind my hands. “I know. It’s horrible.”
“It’s not so horrible,” Colette corrected. “Le cœur veut ce que veut le coeur.”
“What does that mean?”
“The heart wants what the heart wants.”
“It’s so terribly cliché,” I groaned.
“What’s her name?”
I opened my mouth, but snapped my jaw shut.
“I’m not going to google her. I’m sure you do enough googling her on your own,” she laughed.
“Her name is Elle.”
“Elle. That’s a pretty name.”
“For a pretty woman,” I reflexively quipped.
“Well now you have to tell me all about her.”
I could feel the heat creep onto the apples of my cheeks.
“She’s … amazing. She’s like no one I’ve ever met before. She’s smart. Beautiful. Legs that go on for days. She smells so good. And she’s so kind, Colette. We’ve only had a few one-on-one conversations, but I can tell she’s got a big heart. She goes out of her way to be the best teacher she can be when it feels like my other instructors are only going through the motions. She tells Dad-jokes in class and somehow manages to be sexy and adorable at the same time.”
I really did feel like a geyser. Having had no one to share this with before, once I got started I was having a hard time shutting it off.
“That sounds like more than a crush to me,” Colette observed. “That sounds like you want to have this woman’s babies.”
“Stop it. I just think she’s really pretty. It’s not a big deal,” I resisted.
“Uh huh,” she clucked. “Would you go on a date with her?”
“A date?” I echoed. “I don’t even know what we’d do or what we’d talk about. She’s so out of my league, Colette. She’s sophisticated and accomplished and mature and knows what she wants out of life when I can’t even figure out my sexuality or what kind of medicine I want to specialize in.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t remember the question,” I dodged.
“Would you go on a date with her? Would you have dinner and see a movie and obsess all night long because you wanted to hold her hand in a darkened theater, thinking how if you could just touch her everything would be okay?”
“Have you been reading my diary?”
“Now who’s making jokes?” she censured.
Now that Colette had provided the scenario, my brain couldn’t help producing the imagery. Sitting side-by-side, watching a movie, trying to get the courage to rest my hand on her bare knee. The movie screen would illuminate her face in profile. She’d be wearing a dress, naturally, and the smooth skin above her knee would make me want to touch her everywhere.
“So now that you’ve admitted you like this woman, what are you going to do about it?” Colette asked.
“Besides pine away until I’m old and grey?” I sighed.
“Seriously, just talk to her.”
“I don’t know how things work in France, but that kind of stuff doesn’t happen over here. Professors don’t date their students.”
“You won’t be her student forever,” Colette noted. “Besides, she’s just a person. Labels, titles, they don’t mean a thing.”
I dropped my head in my hands. “God, I wish I could have your mindset.”
“I don’t see what’s so difficult.”
“It’s just not done,” I insisted. “Plus, she’s like, so, so smart. And beautiful.” I sighed at the impossibility. “Why would she ever be interested in a silly girl like me?”
“Hey now,” Colette said sharply. “If you want her, go after her. You’ll never know if you don’t try.”
+ + +
You’ll never know if you don’t try.
Colette might not have intended it, but those words haunted me for the remainder of the semester. I tried. I really did. I looked for ways to see Professor Graft out of class, to build up some kind of rapport, but every time I’d built up the courage to talk to her, she was preoccupied or rushing off to another class or meeting. I even started to believe she might be actively avoiding me, as preposterous as that sounded. I was probably only being paranoid, but her eyes didn’t seem to make it to my corner of the classroom anymore.
The humanities building felt empty on Reading Day, the buffer period between the final day of classes and the start of final exams. Most colleges had something similar, hoping that students would use the opportunity to study, but most everyone I knew spent the day drinking cheap beer or watching reality television.
I should have been studying, too, but Professor Graft had announced that she would be in her campus office until noon if we wanted to collect our final graded essay. There was no final exam in her class, and our grades were already posted online, so there was really no reason to get the assignment, but it would probably be my final opportunity to see her before summer break.
You’ll never know if you don’t try.
All morning I’d practiced what I might say to her. It would be an easy transition to ask about her plans for the rest of the day. That would lead into an innocent observation that we both needed to eat and that the school cafeteria was only a short walk away. I didn’t know if faculty had meal plans, but I had extra money on my card that wouldn’t roll over to the next year. My treat, I’d tell her. We could commiserate over the limited food selections as we walked around the food lines before finally choosing a table to sit at. After that I had nothing else prepared, but I couldn’t let myself get too ahead of myself. I had to form complete, intelligible sentences around her first.
I took the stairs instead of hurrying my way up the elevator. 8x11 fliers covered the walls in the stairwell, promoting upcoming study-break activities. I absentmindedly regarded them as I mentally rehearsed what I wanted to say to her. A bright green piece of paper pulled at my attention. Help Wanted: seasonal gardeners for small landscaping business.
The bottom of the poster was fringed with individual tear-off tabs with a local phone number printed on each of them. Only a few of the pre-cut tabs had been claimed.
I stopped mid-stair to read the rest of the want ad: Are you responsible, love to work outdoors, and aren’t afraid of getting dirty? Looking for summer gardening help.
There was no indication of when the poster had first gone up. I pulled my phone out of my backpack and called the number listed on the flyer.
A female voice answered the call. “Pendergast Landscaping. This is Nikole.”
“Hi. Uh, I’m calling about the gardening job?” My voice echoed in the stairwell. “I just saw your flyer on my campus. I hope I’m not too late.”
“You’re in luck, I’ve got one more spot available on my summer crew.”
“Great. How does this work? Do you want me to send you my résumé?”
“I’d prefer meeting in person, if that works for you.”
I thought about my upcoming schedule—all of those final exams crammed into the next few days.
“Actually, my schedule is kind of tight this week because of final exams.”
“How about right now?”
I did the mental math. I had until noon to get back to campus. It would be close. As much as I wanted to see Professor Graft, I really needed a summer job. Between study sessions for Anatomy & Physiology and being distracted by Professor Graft’s legs, the semester had slipped away from me.
“Yeah, I can make it.”
I split my attention between a piece of paper upon which I’d written the directions the woman on the phone had given me and the road directly ahead of me. Her instructions had me driving a few miles out of town; as I put more and more distance between campus and myself, I began to regret my impulsive decision to agree to an immediate interview. Was I really so eager for the summer job, or had I simply been looking for an excuse not to follow through with asking Professor Graft to have lunch with me? The idea itself now appeared totally ludicrous, and I was half incredulous to have thought it might have actually worked. Responding to the job ad had probably saved me a mountain of unnecessary embarrassment.
I drove along a county highway before turning off on a long, unpaved driveway. My little car bumped and jostled down the uneven drive, surrounded by dense forest. At the end of the driveway stood a little barn or shack. It looked out of place, like it had just been dropped from the sky.
As I got out of my car and walked towards the free-standing structure, gravel and sand crept into my sandals. I heard no sounds besides the chatter of birds and the distant sound of cars on the county highway. There was a haunted look to the silent, worn, wooden shed. Hanging plants and tiny potted seedlings ready to be planted in the ground crowded the swinging entrance.
I knocked on the wooden door. “Hello?” I called out.
Even though it was a greenhouse and not the front door of a house, I felt uncomfortable just walking inside. Through the frosted windows, I spied no movement.
A bodiless voice, the same voice I’d recently spoken to on the phone, had me turning on my heels: “Can I help you?”
A tall woman stood before me with her hands on her hips. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was unseasonably tan, but it looked natural, not the product of a tanning bed. The voice on the phone hadn’t suggested a grandmotherly-type, yet she was younger than I had imagined—maybe in her late 20s—and far more attractive. She didn’t strike me as the kind of women who made a living planting things in dirt.
“Hi,” I managed in a breathless voice.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Damn ninja footsteps,” she laughed, showing off a mouthful of perfectly aligned teeth.
She wiped her hands on the back of her jeans. “You’re the girl who called about the job, I presume?”
I nodded. “That’s me.”
“Nikole Pendergast,” she introduced herself. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” I said, flipping into interview mode. “If I had seen your flier earlier I would have contacted you sooner. It was just total happenstance that I noticed it at all.”
“I’ll have to tell the woman who posts my fliers on your campus that,” she remarked. “She’s apparently not doing a very good job publicizing for me.”
She laughed, rather than looking displeased at the information; I didn’t understand the joke.
“What year are you in school?” she asked.
“I’ll be a senior in the fall.”
It felt strange to say the words aloud. The goal had always been to graduate from college. I’d been working the majority of my life to achieve that. And now I only had one more year of school and I’d be done. Thinking too much beyond that threatened to give me heartburn.
“This is a great space,” I observed. The flat land around the greenhouse sprawled for several acres, more than enough for a small nursery.
“Thanks. I’ve been working out of this greenhouse for a few years now. Do you have previous gardening or landscaping experience?” she asked.
“A little. My grandma had a pretty big garden when I was growing up. She grew all kinds of things—vegetables and flowers. And when she got too sick to tend to the garden, I kind of took over to make sure she still had her plants.”
“You’re hired.”
“Wow,” I blinked, not truly trusting her words. “Really?” It had been the shortest interview I’d ever experienced. I hadn’t even told her my name.
Nikole smiled. “Call it intuition, but I have a good feeling about you.”
I didn’t want to be rude when she’d put blind faith in me, but it seemed too good to be true. “What, uh, what exactly is the job?”
“Depends on the season. I grow the seedlings in my greenhouse so they’re ready for a late spring planting. After the first planting, you’d be doing mostly maintenance,” she explained. “Weeding. Planting a few annuals in flower beds. Sometimes we help people who want a garden, but don’t know how to get started. And if you’re looking for a job when school’s in session, we cut back perennials and plant bulbs in fall. Still interested?”
I nodded emphatically. “Absolutely.”
“Great.” Nikole’s smile was blinding. She briefly consulted the watch at her wrist. “I hate to be short, but I’ve got to get to a lunch date.”
I looked at the time as well. It was nearly noon.
My chest constricted. Oh no.
“That’s okay. I’ve got someplace to be, too.”
Nikole gave me her business card with instructions to e-mail her so she could send me more information about the job and the start date. I tried to pay attention to her directions and continue to be polite, but I’d started to nervously sweat.
We parted after the brief interview, and I tried to not look too rushed or eager to leave as I got into my car. But as soon as I’d cleared the long driveway that led up to her greenhouse, my foot pressed harder on the accelerator.
I split my attention between the road and the digital clock in my car’s dashboard. Was I going to make it in time? Or would I miss her? My stomach churned the entire drive back to school.
Because it was Reading Day, I easily found a parking spot in the student commuter lot. I started to run as soon as I had my seatbelt off. I was no sprinter though. I preferred long-distance running where I could set an easy pace and let my mind wander. I knew I looked suspicious racing across campus to the humanities building, but I had a paper to pick up and a woman to see, maybe for the very last time.
The humanities building had an elevator, but I had no patience. I stormed up the stairwell, my sandals pounding on the steps and echoing in the cavernous chamber. My breathing had become labored by the time I reached the fourth floor.
It was a few minutes after noon, but Professor Graft’s office door was open, which gave me hope that she was still there. I usually hesitated before our meetings. I practiced things I might say, or at least checked out my reflection in a bathroom mirror, but there was no time for that.
I popped my head into her office. “Am I too late?”
Professor Graft was standing to one side of her desk, packing up essays and paperback books into her workbag. “You made it just in time.”
She was dressed professionally even though she hadn’t had to teach that day. The building didn’t have air conditioning; she’d abandoned her cardigan for a sleeveless shell that showed off lean biceps. Her A-line skirt flowed to her knees.
I remained in the doorway, struggling to catch my breath, while she rummaged through a stack of identical manila folders. She handed me the folder that contained my final assignment and the reflection letter I’d had to compose about how I’d thought the semester went. I couldn’t have cared less about my grade in that moment though.
“I’m so sorry if I made you wait,” I apologized. “I wanted to get here earlier, but time got away from me this morning.”
I must have looked like a frazzled mess. I’d been even more deliberate with fixing my hair that morning, but it had all been ruined on my sprint across campus. I mentally squirmed at the amount of sweat uncomfortably accumulating on my skin.
My rehearsed dialogue flashed into my brain.
“Are you finished for the day?” I blurted out inelegantly.
“Hmmm?” Professor Graft’s sapphire blue eyes inspected me. She looked uncharacteristically distracted. I worked hard not to wither or back down under her curious gaze.
I straightened my spine. “I asked if you’re all done for the day now?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I am,” she confirmed. “I’m getting lunch after this. If I don’t eat something soon, my stomach will sound like a disgruntled dinosaur.”
The ramble was endearing, but also unlike her as well. Her eyes inexplicably dropped to the floor.
I nervously twisted my graded assignment into a tight spiral. I sucked in a breath. “I’m on my way to the cafeteria, too. I could walk with you?”
And then I’ll convince you to let me buy you lunch and we can sit together and it’ll be the closest thing to a date I’ll ever have with you, I silently went over my plan.
Professor Graft turned her body away from the doorway in a dismissive body posture and began shoving student papers into her work bag. “Oh, actually I’m meeting up with a friend for lunch off-campus. It’s kind of our end-of-the-semester tradition.”
My heart sank into my stomach. The rational part of my brain had known it had been too much to hope for, but a small flicker of hope had stubbornly remained. As she continued to avoid looking in my direction, now trying to squeeze textbooks into her satchel, that spark of hope extinguished.
I forced a smile into my tone even though I wanted to cry. “Oh, well, have a nice summer, Professor Graft. And thank you. I really liked your class.”
I didn’t wait for her to respond. I spun on my heels and fled the scene of my vulnerability. I deposited the folder with my final essay into the trashcan on my way out of the building.