My Name Is Venus Black(38)
At some point, I feel comfortable enough to ask about Piper’s parents. He tells me they died in a fiery accident on a mountain pass in Oregon on their way to ski.
“Holy crap,” I say, horrified. My heart goes out to Piper. “So was her mom your sister or was her dad your brother?”
“It was my brother, Peter, and his wife, Nan,” he explains. “Nan has a sister named Sue, though, and technically she has custody of Piper. But she lives in Spokane and she asked me to keep her here.”
“So how long has it been that Piper is living with you?”
“Just a year or so,” he says. “Sue got pregnant with twins and wanted me to keep Piper for a while, but she’s so overwhelmed—she also works as a nurse—I don’t see her taking Piper back anytime soon, if ever. She and Piper never gelled to begin with,” he adds.
I can only imagine.
* * *
—
IN EARLY NOVEMBER, we start drowning in the famous Seattle rain, which of course is a lot like Issaquah rain. But now, instead of a daily sloppy trudge to the school building from my cottage, I make a mile-long walk to the Dipper. One time, I forgot an umbrella and showed up at work drenched to the bone. “You need an umbrella!” shrieked Julie.
“No, I just need to remember my umbrella,” I told her. “It’s weird, because it was nice when I first left the house. But wow. It’s really coming down, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Julie replied. And then she explained her theories on rain and customers. “There’s this certain kind of foggy rain that’s misty and romantic—and it brings customers in droves. Plain rain tends to keep customers away. But surprisingly, this kind of rain, where it is dumping buckets, can also really draw the crowds, because it’s exciting and it feels sort of celebratory. People gather and stay for hours, almost like men watching a game in a bar.”
This morning’s rain is the bucket kind, and we are very busy. I notice that cheerful atmosphere Julie mentioned. I also notice people seem more likely to order breakfast or a Danish or a doughnut to go along with their coffee—probably so they can linger longer.
In the middle of the rush, at about 9:00 A.M., I look up to see a familiar customer with a big grin on his face. He’s already introduced himself to me as Danny. He’s wearing a Rainier beer baseball cap like the one Raymond wore. It’s a huge strike against him, but of course how could he know that?
I’ve noticed he often shows up on Tuesdays and Thursdays at around 10:00 A.M., and he tries to talk me up while he orders. I’ve already let him know in every way possible, short of being mean, that I am not interested in flirting—not that I would even know how to. But he doesn’t seem to get it—he’s as relentless as Piper.
“Hi there,” I say, smiling.
“She smiles at the sight of me!” he declares, as if surprised.
“You’re a customer is all,” I answer. “I smile at everyone. So, how can I help you?”
“Well, you might be able to help with this problem I have.”
“Yes?”
“There’s a pretty girl who works at the Big Dipper, and I can’t get her to give me the time of day.”
Oh man. Seriously? “I’m sorry, I don’t have time to joke around today,” I tell him in a stern voice. “We’re pretty busy. Do you want a Danish or something?”
“I’m really sorry,” he says, clearly taken aback. “I’d like some black coffee please. And some of that coffee cake.”
When I hand over his order, he tips his baseball cap at me and I feel a little swoop inside. He really is kind of cute and I’m flattered that he’s attracted to me, especially given my big ugly braid. After he’s gone, my eyes spark and try to water. I have to wonder, what if he knew the truth?
I’m nineteen and I’ve never been kissed.
* * *
—
AS THE WEEKS pass, I come to appreciate Mike’s dinners and his bright outlook. His greatest fault, though, is that he doesn’t parent Piper. And Piper is hard to deal with. She’s bratty, bossy, and starved for attention. Every afternoon, and for a couple of hours after dinner, she shadows me. If I don’t let her, she gets surly and sour.
Part of me wants to be mean and insist she give me my privacy. But the other part of me feels sorry for her and wants to take care of her. I find myself asking her if she has homework and making her do it. Ordering her to take baths and brush her teeth. I even try to make sure she doesn’t watch too much TV.
On some evenings, I resent having to do all this and I give up and totally ignore her. I shut the door to my room and wish it had a lock. Piper knows better than to come in—I told her absolutely not—so she knocks on my bedroom door all evening with silly questions. She’s determined to engage me—perhaps all the more because she can’t understand why I’d want to spend so much time reading books.
To her, reading is the same as doing schoolwork. “Why don’t you want to do something fun?” she asks through the door.
In a way, Piper’s right. In Echo Glen, reading was everything to me. It was how I escaped reality, how I coped with the sameness and sadness of juvenile prison. Now that I’m out, you’d think I’d be having all kinds of adventures and have better things to do with my time than read. But ironically, now that I’m free, my need to escape reality is as strong as ever.