“If over sixty percent of faculty are theorists, there must have been instances of . . . slashed tires? Defaced mailbox? Giant dumps on your desk? Unless you sent every theorist an apology Fudgie the Whale on your first day.”
Is that an eye crinkle again? “I’m not the most popular guy on faculty. And I have yet to be invited to the department’s weekly happy hour. But most people are civil. And again, I have nothing against theorists.”
“Sure. Some of your best friends are theorists.”
He holds my eyes as he unlocks a door, and the single dimple makes a reappearance. “This will be your office, Elsie. If your pun game stays on point.”
My fantasies of filling Jack with candy and taking a bat to him—do I need sugar?—are derailed by the high window overlooking campus. And the beautiful desk. And the matching shelves. And the giant whiteboard.
God, this office is spectacular. I could sit here every day. Take in the hardwood smell. Sink into a comfortable chair MIT procurement purchased for me. Let my brain crunch away connections and expand my theories for hours.
Finish my manuscript—the one that’s been on pause for over a year.
I shiver in pleasure at the idea. Unlike at my apartment, no coconut-crab bugs would try to crawl in my mouth. My life would see a 900 percent reduction of May I pay this class’s tuition in Dogecoins emails. And the salary . . . I’d have personal finances. Real ones, not just dimes I forgot in my winter coat the previous year.
I want this office. I want this job. I want it more than I have ever wanted anything, including that Polly Pocket set at age five.
“Do you need some privacy? A mattress? Emergency contraception?”
I whirl around. Jack is leaning against the doorjamb, the set of his shoulders relaxed, his frame filling the entrance. He stares at me with that lopsided smile that almost has me forgetting that we hate each other.
“It’s . . .” I clear my throat. “A nice office.”
“Just nice? You looked on the verge of something there.”
I collect myself. “No, I . . . What’s the teaching load for the position, again?”
He studies me, assessing, and I face away. I’ve had enough of him for today. “Do you enjoy teaching?”
“Of course,” I lie, running a finger over a wooden shelf. It’s not even dusty.
“You don’t,” he says, pilfering truths out of my skull. “Maybe you did before having to teach ninety classes a week, but not anymore.” It’s not a question. “The teaching load is two classes per semester.”
I palm the filing cabinet. “Not too bad.”
“You do know that there are physics jobs that require no teaching?”
“I can get grants. Buy out my classes so I don’t have to teach.”
“Grants are rare for theory. It’ll take you months to apply, years to hear back. Wouldn’t you rather be a full-time researcher?”
I turn around, hands on my hips. “I’m okay with you not wanting me to get this job, but I draw the line at you not wanting me to want it.”
His mouth twitches. “Seems to me like you want to want it a little too much.”
“Jack, here you are.” A young woman stomps at the door of my—okay, the—office. She’s only a few inches shorter than Jack, with long dark hair and an accent that I cannot place. She is gesticulating. A lot. “They did it again.”
“Did what?”
“Overrode my booking of the tokamak. Can you believe it? Third time this month, what the fuck? I had it for next week, then bam, kicked from the calendar. All that bullshit about how the reactor is available to all MIT personnel? They clearly don’t mean grad students. How am I supposed to fuse the plasma—in my fucking pressure cooker?”
“Michi.” Jack sounds unfazed.
“If they want me to superheat gases in my bathtub and blow up my roommate’s Pomeranian, I will fucking do it, but the entire point of being employed by MIT was not having to coalesce my own antimatter! This is the worst goddamn place in the universe, and I’m going to quit this program. I should have stayed at Caltech. I should have gotten into Grandma’s squirrel feeders business—”
“Michi,” Jack interrupts, his voice just a touch firmer. “This is Dr. Elsie Hannaway, one of the candidates for the open faculty position. Dr. Hannaway, Michi is one of my grads.”
Michi had not realized someone else was in the room. The way she turns beet purple is a dead giveaway, and so is her appalled, wide-eyed expression.
I run a quick APE: Michi’s smart, motivated, overworked. She likes and trusts Jack (so maybe not that smart?). She’s mortified her rant was overheard. Judging from her quivering lower lip, she’s about to burst into tears.
Uh-oh.
“That sucks,” I say quickly. The Elsie she needs commiserates. “I hate it when labs double-book.” I’ve never booked a lab in my entire life. But. “How hard is it to set up a functioning Google calendar?” Very, I assume. But Michi’s lip un-quivers. She un-purples.
“Right?”
“It’s not just MIT. Every place is like that. I was a grad until a year ago, and we were always the last to get access to equipment.” If by equipment you mean colored chalk. “It gets better after you graduate.”
The lip re-quivers. “It does?”
“I promise.” I smile reassuringly. My weakness is women in STEM. I want to protect them from the structurally unequal hellfire of academia. “In the meantime, I’m sure Jack will be happy to intercede.”
Jack’s scowl broadcasts his unfamiliarity with the concept of happiness. “I’ll make sure you have access, Michi.” He says Michi, but he’s looking at me. Glaring, to be precise. And when Michi scurries away with a nod, he pushes from the door and walks right up to me, a vertical line between his brows.
It’s almost a physical shock, redirecting from Michi—open-book, see-through Michi—to Jack. He’s the usual blank brick wall of question marks, and I want to tear out my hair. His hair. All hair. Why does he have to be so frustrating? Why does he have to be the most unreadable—
“The real girl who wished to be a puppet,” he murmurs, low and rumbly.
“What?”
“I can actually watch you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Analyze people. Turn yourself on and off.”
I take a terrified step back. A combative step forward. I can’t read him for shit, and he’s in my head? “You know, Jack, we all interact differently with different people. It’s called code-switching, a totally normal social skill—”
“Code-switching has nothing to do with erasing who you are and twisting what’s left of you. Have you ever even booked a lab? What equipment were you denied?”
“Listen, it worked. Michi was about to cry. I anticipated her needs, and there were no tears.”
“You lie, Elsie. Every single one of your interactions is a lie.” He crosses his arms and looms. We’re supposed to be on a tour of the department. I feel like he’s taking a tour of me. “Is this what you do with Greg, too? You code-switch a conjured, nonexistent persona he fell in love with?”
“No.” Jesus. Greg needs to get his ass back from yoga camp as stat as possible.
“Are you doing it with me, too?” His scowl deepens.
“What? No!” I can’t even read you!
“Are you turning yourself into what I want? Is that why whenever I’m with you, I . . .” His voice trails off, or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’ve just reached critical mass.
I’m dizzy. My heart’s a drum in my ears. There’s a single droplet of cold sweat running down my spine, and I’m sure, absolutely positive that fighting with Jack has burned the last of my glucose molecules.
My blood is 0 percent sugar. Fun.
“Elsie?”
Vision’s blurry. Where’s the wall? I gotta lean against the—
“Elsie?” Hands. Muscles. Bones. Warmth. I’m pressed against something and—“Elsie, what the hell is going on?”
“Sugar.” So nice, not having to stand anymore. I feel so light. “Fast-acting carbs. Juice or soda or . . . candy. Can you . . . ?” There’s warm, smooth skin under my palm. Then I’m deposited on top of the desk—my desk—my future desk—God, I really hope I get this job—I’ll put that Bill Nye figurine I like to pretend J.J. didn’t give me by the computer—my Alice and Bella Funko Pops on the cabinet—a plant on the windowsill—something vicious and carnivorous—a Venus flytrap, maybe—I’ll feed Jack’s cactus to her—I’ll feed Jack to her—
“Here.”
My eyes flutter open. I suspect Jack was gone for a peaceful moment, but now he’s back. To witness my misery. Like those arsonists who return to the crime scene to masturbate—
“Elsie. Take it.”
There’s a bottle in front of my nose, full of a dark liquid. I pry it from his hand and take several long gulps. Instant bliss.
Well, not instant. Not bliss, either. It takes a few minutes for my blood sugar to stabilize. Even then, I still feel like a cadaver. A bad one that you get when you’re in med school and show up late for anatomy lab.
Should I drink more? I check my glucose level on the iTwat—shit, my pod malfunctioned again. Delivered too much. Blood sugar’s under seventy milligrams. I’ll take two more sips, then wait two minutes, then—