Page 8 of Leaving the Station
“Seriously, it’s nothing,” I said instead. Then, to move the conversation along, I asked, “How was dinner? Was the bisque everything you dreamt of?”
“And more!” Rex said, and we all laughed.
“Speaking of bisque—” Autumn began, but Rex interrupted her.
“I always am.”
Autumn threw a balled-up napkin at them. “Speaking of,” they continued. “I got a job through Cornell dining.”
“And they haven’t even said the best part,” Shelly tells me.
So Shelly already knew what Autumn was about to say. I felt yet again like I’d missed out, or maybe more likeIwas missing something, a crucial piece of machinery.
But that was silly to think, because they were making an effort to include me, and we’d barely hung out as a group three times.
Autumn smiled and put a palm to her cheek. “You’re looking at the newest dining hall brand ambassador.”
I told her that it sounded like the perfect job for her, and after that, we all searched the campus employment website foropportunities as good as the one Autumn had found.
“This one could be good for Zoe,” Rex said as they scrolled through their phone. “It’s for bio majors: Greenhouse attendant.”
“Wait, I love that,” Autumn said as she leaned her head on Rex’s shoulder to get a better view.
Seeing as the other potential jobs all involved calling alumni and begging for money, I agreed that itwasperfect.
I applied, and I had my interview later that day.
“Why do you want to work in the greenhouse?” the manager, Randall, a man who could’ve been anywhere from fifty to one hundred years old, asked when I arrived in his humid, damp office.
The greenhouse was across campus from my dorm, and even though it was open to the public, I’d never been before, except if you counted the virtual tour my parents had forced me to take after I’d been accepted. The person who’d been running the tour had shaky hands, so everything had been a green blur.
I thought about how to respond to Randall’s question, then decided to answer honestly. “I won’t have to interact with people.”
He laughed and combed his fingers through his coarse beard.
“Do you know anything about plants?”
“I mean, I like them.”
He smiled. “Do you know how tocarefor them, that is?”
Not a single helpful or intelligent plant fact came to me, so what I said was, “They need water and light.”
He laughed again. “How do you feel about sweeping?”
“Great,” I said quickly. “I feel great about sweeping.”
He told me I could start the next day.
“Would you like a tour?”
I nodded, and he led me around the greenhouse, explaining which plants needed special care and which had been the toughest to acquire. It was nice to pretend I was in a jungle, to be smothered by greenery. It was raining lightly outside, and the glass ceilings fogged as the dropspingedpleasantly.
I loved it—I felt safe there, like I was outside of my body looking in. Through the greenhouse window, I could’ve been anyone, my figure obscured by the humid air.
“And this,” Randall said finally, “is my pride and joy.”
He pointed to a large empty pot.
