? ? ?
After the teaching demonstration I could use a nap, but my day is booked full. I have a meeting with the dean of the School of Science, a pleasant guy who sips coffee from a tentacle mug that has me pondering his porn preferences. Then there’s an informal lunch with two physics profs—clearly a couple having a lovers’ spat, which results in me staring at my salad while they bicker over someone named Raul. Afterward I get a five-minute bathroom break (spent figuring out whether my insulin pod is acting up or I’m just a dumpster fire of paranoia) followed by one-on-one interviews.
One-on-ones are, of course, what I’m best at. It’s simple math: being the Elsie one person wants is much easier than negotiating between the Elsies twelve different people demand. These interviews are ostensibly for me to ask questions about the department that will help me decide whether to accept an offer, but let’s not forget that (1) my current job situation is a bukkake of shit, and (2) carrying out interviews qualifies as academic service, and academics hate service with the intensity of a thousand quasars.
Luckily, I’m a pro at making people feel like time spent with me is not wasted. Dr. Ikagawa uses inflatable yoga balls instead of chairs—not ideal in a pencil skirt, but conducive to bonding conversation over our core and upper-body routines. Dr. Voight has been on hold with his dental insurance for hours, and when I let him spend our fifteen minutes fighting them on the phone, he looks like he could kiss me. I trap a mosquito that’s been infesting Alvarez’s office and make a lifelong friend. I workshop Dr. Albritton’s syllabus; laugh with Dr. Deol about his son’s third-grade teacher, who still thinks Pluto is a planet; nod as Dr. Sader sips on a Capri Sun while rambling about dark matter being not a clump but a smoothly distributed wavy superfluid.
It’s going well, I tell myself as a gangly grad student tasked with escorting me around takes me to my seventh interview of the day. I am projecting affability. Collegiality. Desirabili—
“Here it is,” she says in front of a black door.
I stare at the name plaque for a second. Briefly consider defacing it. Resist my base impulses and tell her, “I think there might be a mistake. My itinerary says that my next meeting is with Dr. Pereira.”
Was I looking forward to it after what I overheard last night? No. But since I cannot report him or his buddy to HR without admitting that I broke into a restroom, I was fully ready to make him uncomfortable with passive-aggressive questions about whether he’d be willing to take over my classes if I were to start a family.
It’s not like I’m ever getting his vote, anyway.
“There was a change to Dr. Pereira’s slots. Jack—I mean, Dr. Smith-Turner—is going to be your last interview.”
Maybe I was a baby-seal clubber in a past life. Or a Wall Street CEO. It would explain my luck. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “Dr. Hannaway, I wanted to say . . . you’re such an inspiration. When you won that Forbes award—well, hardly any physicist ever does, not to mention women. Also, I was in your teaching demonstration today. You were so poised and assertive. Cole’s a huge prick, and . . .” She flushes. “Anyway, it was inspiring.”
“I—” I flush, too. “I don’t know what to—” She scurries away before I can stammer the rest of the sentence.
Was she making fun of me? Does someone really find me inspiring? Even though I spend my life pretzeling my personality to avoid being hated? Even though I am the fraudiest of impostors?
It doesn’t matter. I sigh and knock on the worst door in all of Boston. “Come,” a deep voice says, and I resignedly let myself in.
I don’t look around Jack’s office. I refuse to care if it’s well lit, or wallpapered in brocade, or a pigsty—though, tragically, I do notice that it smells nice. Soap and books and wood and coffee and Jack, the scent of him but in intense, deconstructed notes. Because apparently I know his scent by now, which makes me want to tear my olfactory glands out of my nostrils. Bah.
There’s a free chair in front of the desk. I make a beeline for it as he keeps typing on his computer.
And typing.
And typing.
And—wait for it—typing.
Ten seconds go by. Thirty. Forty-five. He has yet to acknowledge me, and the same antagonistic tension from last night bubbles inside me, filling the office. I know exactly what he’s doing—power plays—and while I cannot stop him, I refuse to let him upset me.
Okay, I refuse to let him know that he upsets me.
I don’t look around. I don’t tap my foot. I don’t show impatience or annoyance at his rudeness. Instead I take the iTwat out of my purse and start doing what he does: minding my own damn business.
Dr. Hannaway,
It’s Alan, from Quantum Mechanics. I wanted to let you know: I don’t really like it. Quantum Mechanics, that is. It’s kind of boring. But I don’t blame you, it’s not your fault. Like, you didn’t come up with subatomic particles. (If you did, I apologize). But don’t shoot the messenger, right? LOL. I was wondering, could you make your classes more fun? Maybe we could watch a few Quantum Mechanics movies? Just some advice.
Best,
Alan from Quantum Mechanics
Mrs. Hannaway,
What do you mean, federal law prohibits you from discussing my son’s grades with me? I pay for his tuition. I demand to know whether he’s doing well. This is unacceptable.
Karen
Hi Ms. Elsie,
If I skip class to bring my dog to the groomer, does it count as an excused absence?
Halle
PS: I wouldn’t ask, but he really needs a haircut.
I roll my eyes, and that’s when I notice: Jack’s no longer typing. Instead he’s leaning back in his chair, those arms that probably have their own Wikipedia entry (top read in all languages, all day, every day) crossed over his chest. His tattoo remains an obscure mystery, and he stares at me silently, as cloudy and impenetrable as usual. How fitting.
I glance at the clock on the wall and inadvertently take in about half of the office, which is large and sunny and tastefully furnished. There’s a cactus by the window. Hmph. I’ve been here for three minutes.
“Are you bored?” he asks, with his stupid, beautiful voice.
“No.” I smile, murderously pleasant. “You?”
He doesn’t answer. “I believe we’re meant to use this time to interview.”
“You seemed busy. Didn’t want to interfere.”
“I was replying to an urgent email.” I doubt it. I think he was writing the next great American novel. Making a grocery list. Messing with me. “We’re supposed to get to know each other better, Elsie.” My name. Again. From his lips. That tone, timbre, inflection. “How am I to make a decision on your hiring otherwise?”
Everyone knows exactly where you stand when it comes to my hiring. I almost say it, but I don’t want a repeat of last night in the bathroom. I don’t want to lose control. I can be calm, even in the face of Jack’s portentous dickishness. “What would you like to talk about?”
“I bet we can find something. Blood type? First pet? Favorite color?”
“If you’re trying to hack my online banking security questions, you should know there isn’t much to steal.”
His mouth quirks, and I think something nonsensical: I’d hate him less if he weren’t so handsome. Even less if he were as charming as a morgue. And even even less if I could read him, just a little. “If you’d rather use the time to rest, feel free.”
“Thank you. I’m not tired.”
“Really? It seems tiresome, being you.”
I frown. “Tiresome?”
“It can’t be easy”—he taps his finger lightly against the edge of the desk—“this thing you’re always doing.”
This thing I—what does he mean? He’s not referring to . . . He doesn’t know about the APE. About the different Elsies. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
He nods affably, like I said exactly what he expected me to, and disappointed him in the process. He doesn’t break eye contact, and as usual, I feel he’s stripped a layer of skin off me. Naked, in the worst possible way. I find myself adjusting the hem of my skirt—which is already at a perfectly acceptable length. It was fine this morning in Dr. L.’s office. It was fine on a yoga ball. Why do I feel weird now? “Relax, then. My grads tell me that chair is quite comfortable.”
“Is Cole one of your grads?”
“Cole is, I believe, Volkov’s.” He must notice my surprise, because he adds, “But I wouldn’t worry. The Feynman sex quote really had him.”
The way he says it (Feynman sex quote), all perfect vowels and hard consonants, makes me hot and cold and wanting to look away. Which I stubbornly refuse to do. “This is a comfortable chair.” I lean back, mimicking his pose. I’m not intimidated. You’re not intimidated. We’re both unintimidated.
“I slept in it once, after a forty-eight-hour experiment.”
“I’m not going to fall asleep.”
“You could.”