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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 himknowthat 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 evenevenless 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.”
