Page 3 of The Guy Sure Looks Like Plant Food To Me
I hear the line click, letting me know my father is no longer listening. “Is this for real?”
I don’t know why I bother asking, at the end of the day I know Williams is the one whispering these plans directly into his ear. He is my father’s manipulator now, the puppet master, having been too long in this house. Seymour Williams is the son he had always wanted for but never had a chance to get before my mother died.
“Your father doesn’t make idle threats, Meri. I told you if you didn’t have a plan when you came home from college that we’d have one for you.” Williams is sour at the mention of college, recalling the memory of his anger when my father let me go across the country for education.
Far from his insidious reach.
It’s been three weeks since I’ve been home now, scouring the city for job postings and leads, doing my best to evade Williams’ constantly looming shadow. It’s suffocating, I had forgotten just how badly it felt then, why I so desperately had yearned to escape to a school thousands of miles away.
I know he’s hoping for the latter, but I pretend like this is a phone call between two people who tolerate each other. “I’ll find something, the city is big, there’s dozens of research centers, at least thirty labs, and if all else fails, I’ll go to the schools for employment.” The assurance is for me, not him.
I’m trying to convince myself. A master’s in plant biology wasn’t part of my father’s plans, but I promised I’d make use of my silly obsession and that a daughter in STEM was sure to look great in a campaign.
Neither of them will give me the time or grace to make good on that promise. My father wants me on my knees for some man, and Williams is dead set on becoming that man.
The only thing I’m good for, according to him.
He’s been in office practically my entire life. My mother married the mayor, but by the time she died he was already the governor. Two terms and he was a shoe-in for the senate, the man practically ran undisputed. Now as his second term comes to an end he’ll run for Senator a third time before going for the guaranteed gold—presidency.
“America,” Williams cuts in before I get a chance to hang up, “I made you an appointment at the hairdresser. Your father needs your hair fixed before the fundraiser dinner. I’m sending it to your calendar now.”
I clench down on my molars to keep from responding in some way that I’ll eventually regret. My father doesn’t give a damn about my pink hair, but I know that Williams does. My father only gives a damn about a wedding.
Publicity.
Marriage is the only thing I can offer in his eyes. My degrees, my accomplishments, none of my accolades mean anything to him. Not when it comes to the future president. Daddy wants me dumb, pretty, and silent for photos, unable to stir up a scandal or outrage while sitting next to a man who will someday give him the perfect grandchild.
Except, I don’t give a damn about politics, children or men. I just want to grow plants. I just want to stick my hands in dirt and get to spend my time with the things I love most. I’ve never had a bad day—not when I got to spend it touching plants.
I pull up the first job opening: lab assistant, minimum wage for five years of experience. What a joke. I think about submitting my resume anyway, my favorite professor once told me to never apply for anything I was overqualified for, this feltlike such a case. I don’t go through with it, the request for a cover letter forces me to close the browser and instead I pull up social media.
There’s a kitschy little witch-shop with a small following on my feed. The page saysThe Portaland when I click, it looks like they’re on the west end of town. There’s a few dozen photos, black walls, lots of eclectic art, and all types of oddities from taxidermic rats to hand painted portraits of a goat-man. The most recent posts, though, have gone viral.
They’re all of the same subject, varying photos and videos with different angles.
All of a plant.
I click on a random one and zoom in. It’s a strange looking thing, a Venus flytrap of sorts, but either the image is photoshopped or it’s fake. The plant is freaking huge compared to the black haired, tattooed girl taking the selfie, the trap nearly as big as her head.One month with Chewie, the caption reads.
I scroll towards the most recent photo, a few more weeks past the last one. The plant is almost twice its original size, reaching the woman’s hip, but its leaves are weepy and wilting. This one’s caption reads:Chewie is sick, We’re looking for a plant witch/doctor/person at The Portal.
I’m not one to believe in the supernatural, but a sign from a witchcraft shop is probably the worst kind to ignore.
And maybe this is just what I need to get my father off my case.
3
RUNA
“No, I’m so sorry to have to do this last minute, I hope you understand.” I’m hoping she won’t hold it against me, but Mabel is impossible to book less than five months out, and she won’t take kindly to me canceling her spot at The Portal.
When mediums, psychics, tarot readers, and other practicing witches come to the shop for a guest spotlight, they schedule months in advance to prepare their schedule and their clientele.
Me canceling on social media’s most famous psychic the morning of her spotlight because Chewie’s just too sick for me to open today is probably the worst thing that could have happened.
People were going to be lining up just to get to see her in person, let alone the client who had booked her.
And she traveled for this.
