At least someone cares.
“I’m so, so sorry about yesterday,” Monica says, arriving in a flurry of clicking heels. Her eyes knife into Jack’s monstrous shoulders, and I do love how committed she is to despising him. Truly warms my high-risk cardiovascular system. “I left you with Jack for so long. I had no idea Sasha was late—men. So unreliable.”
“Not a problem.” It’s not even a lie. Last night I managed to put in two solid hours of email answering before dinner, and I didn’t even doze off when Cece told me all about the recent breakthrough in her analysis of “The Odessa Steps” (i.e., act 4 of the 1925 silent movie Battleship Potyomkin). We’ve watched it together before—multiple times, since I made the rookie mistake of pretending to love it the first. But last night I was considerably less tired than usual, and my theory is that Jack’s the reason.
Here’s the deal: things between him and me are unsalvageably bad. I’ll never conjure an Elsie able to please him, especially since he’s figured out my APE strategies. And as much as I hate knowing that there’s someone out there whom I cannot win over, it also lets me off the hook. With Jack, I don’t need to be someone else, because I can’t be someone else. It’s unsettling, and disturbingly baring, and also . . . relaxing.
Basically, I had fun with Jack Smith-Turner. A phrase never before uttered by a human tongue.
Have I been doing it all wrong? Maybe instead of getting people to think that I’m worth their time, I should stop giving a shit about them? Hmm. Food for thought.
“On the positive, everyone who’s had one-on-ones with you adored you, Elsie.” Monica grins. “And the students—glowing feedback. I think we got this in the bag. You just need to nail this research talk.”
No pressure. “On it.” I smile.
Her hand settles warmly on my shoulder. “You’ll be such a wonderful asset to the department.”
Ten minutes later, after Monica has introduced me to a packed auditorium (I suspect mandatory attendance), I can still feel the weight of her fingers. She mentioned the Forbes 30 Under 30, the SN 10: Scientists to Watch, and the Young Investigator Prize, and everyone clapped. People look between me and my slides. No one seems to be nodding off yet. I’m talking about the models I created, some unpublished material I haven’t had a chance to write up yet, and . . .
God. I fucking love it.
The thing is, I’m good at it. Really, genuinely good. Anything else I’ve ever been praised for—You’re so pretty, Elsie, so interesting to talk to, so funny, so extroverted, so introverted, so kind, so understanding, so pleasant, so thoughtful, so levelheaded, so insightful, so crazy, so carefree, so disciplined, so intense, so laid-back—is made up. A product of fog machines and carefully angled mirrors that reflect what others want me to be. But physics . . . I didn’t fake my way into physics. And I love talking about it to other people—not something I’ve been able to do over the past year, since I teach approximately seventy bajillion classes and my students are still at the “apple falls on head” stage of physics. I sometimes try to involve Cece in my work, but every time I mention liquid crystals, she giggles and whispers, “My Preciousss.” Which is okay. It’s not exactly a party topic, but physicists? They’re into it. Experimentalists love the applications, and theorists love to wonder what they were up to during the big bang, whether they’re the real origin of life on Earth, if they can be added to a smoothie.
It’s a win-win.
“. . . this was phase two of the model—let me know if it’s not crystal clear.” I deliver the first of my three scheduled puns to a roomful of chuckles. If the world is a just place, this prostitution of my sense of humor will buy me Volkov’s vote. “Now, moving on to the third.”
Jack’s in the fourth row, paying me an uncomfortable amount of attention, writing something in a notebook. At best, he’s doodling cool S’s—at worst, drafting an online petition to dissuade MIT from hiring a diabetic slug who pilfers imported sodas and catfishes impressionable young men. He has something planned. I know it. He knows it. We both know it, and that’s why our gazes meet and hold so often. But I’ve practiced this talk so much, I could give it while getting my crotch waxed. Whatever you’re plotting, I’m ready for it, I think at him the next time our eyes catch. He smirks back his familiar, uneven smile.
I carry on and wait for the shoe to drop. And wait. And wait. And . . .
It doesn’t. Jack doesn’t raise his hand to ask an unintelligible four-part question. His students don’t jump out of their chairs to stage an anti-theory flash mob. Once we get to the Q&A, I peek at the ceiling, fully expecting a bucket of pig’s blood. Nothing.
Just Dr. Massey, raising his hand from the left side, saying, “What a deeply fascinating model, Dr. Hannaway. Some of the experimentalists here would really benefit from your collaboration.” He points at a middle-aged man sitting in front of him. “Toby, you’re working on nematics.”
“No, not me. It was Dr. Deol.”
“No, Deol’s particles. Maybe Sasha?”
The room devolves into a chicken coop, everyone talking over everyone until Volkov interrupts: “Wasn’t it Dr. Smith-Turner?”
He turns around with effort, looking for someone, and I pray he misspoke. I pray there’s another Smith-Turner in the crowd. I pray for a quick and merciful ending. But: “Jack, you’ve been stuck on your nematics experiments, right? You could use this model, correct?”
I dare to glance at Jack, expecting to see him frown. To scoff. To lash back. But he says, “Indeed, I have. And indeed, I could.” He smiles a little, pleased in a way that’s not bitter enough for my taste.
I just knocked this talk out of the park. Jack should be sobbing. Why does he look almost . . . admiring?
His eyes hold mine again. I glance away first and take the next question.
* * *
? ? ?
“You are a most impressive young scientist,” Volkov tells me, pausing to pop a bacon-wrapped mushroom in his mouth. “A rising star, with a bright career ahead of you.”
“I’ll make sure to buy sunglasses.” I watch him cackle his way to the canapés table, hoping he won’t be back.
The interview went well, but I’m ready for it to be over. This shindig at Monica’s place is the homestretch: ostensibly, an informal reception meant to convey the amiable culture of the department and the convivial rapport among its faculty members. But I’ve been to tons of these back at Northeastern, and all they manage to show is that we academics are awkward, resentful nerds unable to interact with our colleagues without liters of ethanolic lubricant.
Which have by now been distributed. The room ranges from buzzy to outright drunk. The conversation from PS5 games to gossip about the grad students. (Cole is universally loathed, had a soul patch phase, once tried to organize an orgy in the spectroscopy lab. I should introduce him to Uncle Paul.)
Monica’s house is fancy and sprawling, and I shouldn’t be shocked: she is a big shot—of course she has KFC buckets of money. Many of those who manage to stick around academia till the full professor stage do, right? It’s just . . . the income difference between tenured faculty and people like me is gaping. Maybe scholars move up from the poverty line and forget all about how they used to jerk awake to coconut-crab roaches crawling on their skin. Maybe there’s a switch in the brain that teaches people the difference between hors d’oeuvres and amuse-bouches and makes them want to drop serious cash on cow skull wall decor?
I sip the club soda I pretended to splash with gin and mutter, “God.”
“Pretty sure God left this department years ago,” someone whispers above my ear.
I turn and—it’s Jack. Of course it’s Jack. The electron to my nucleus, constantly spinning around me in the most annoying of orbits. He’s so close I have to tilt my chin, and from this perspective it strikes me again how handsome he is. Like a picture in an airport store that sells fancy perfume.
“Stop frowning,” he orders, and at first I automatically smooth my forehead.
Then I frown harder. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Come on, Elsie.” The corner of his lips twitches. “I didn’t even ask you to smile.”
He’s standing in the door, one hand on each side of the doorframe. His biceps brushes against my hair, but I won’t step out of reach. I was here first. Also, I’m clearly twelve. “Did you need something?”
“Just checking in. Making sure you’ve eaten enough.”
I roll my eyes. “I did. Thanks, Daddy.” My blood sugar is at 120 milligrams. I’m killing it.
“Thought so, since you’re not lying facedown on Monica’s”—he glances at the rug beneath my feet, and his nose scrunches—“dead Dalmatian?”
“I think it’s cowhide?”
“Ah. That explains the skulls on the wall.”
“They really . . .” I clear my throat. “Tie the whole room together?”
“You think she killed them herself?”