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The thought is bloodcurdling. “You’renotsorry. And you don’t know the future. I’m outpunning you, Jack. The teaching demonstration—it went really well. And I didn’t even steal Volkov’s mother’s milk. I have achance.”
He studies me for a long moment, silent. Then asks again, “Will you be all right?”
“Yeah, I just need a second to—”
“No, I mean... will you be okay? If you lose Greg—because Iwilltell him about you. And if you don’t get this job. Will you still be... fine?”
I can’t immediately decipher his tone. Then I do and burst out laughing.
He’sworried. He seems genuinely worried about my well-being and state of mind. Which is surprisingly nice and maybe a tad amusing, until I realize why: he’s convinced that I’ll fail. And that makes me feel... something. A mix of anger and fear and something else, reminiscent of the carefree joy that comes from dancing on the graves of enemies who dared to underestimate me.
“What willyoudo if I get this job, Jack?” I lean forward. My face is a couple of inches from his. “Pull out your hair? Ask for the manager? Leave the department and become a Zumba instructor?”
He doesn’t pull back. Instead he watches me even more intently, like I’m a critter in the palm of his hand, and I contemplate the possible scenarios, the same ones that must be filling his head, too.
Jack Smith-Turner and Elsie Hannaway. Esteemed colleagues. Office neighbors. Academic foes.
Oh, I could make his life so hard. Spread the rumor that he wraps his entire mouth around the water fountain. Put a nest of killer cicadas in the lowest drawer of his desk. Push him outside bare-eyed during an eclipse. The sky’s the limit, and I want to see him suffer. I want to see him lose. I want to see him sweat it. I want to see him cry, because he lost and I won.
But perhaps I won’t.
Because: “If you get the job...” He leans close. That slice of eye burns bright blue, and his mouth curves. “I’ll make do.”
“While crying yourself to sleep because I’m not George?”
“Not everyone wants you to be someone else, Elsie.” He’s wrong about that, but I can smell his skin. It’s good in a way that’s primeval. Almost evolutionary. I hate it. “And I definitely wouldn’t want you to be George.”
“And why is that?”
He presses his lips together. He’s even closer now. Surprisingly earnest. “It would be a waste.”
“A waste ofwhat?”
“Of you.”
My heart skips. Stumbles. Restarts with a gallop. What does he even—
“Jack! Dr. Hannaway—here you are. My meeting just ended.” Volkov appears in the doorframe. “I’m so sorry for running late.”
Jack has taken a step back. “No problem,” he says, looking at me. “I just hope you wore something reflective.”
A moment of silence. Then Volkov registers the pun and starts wheezing. “Oh, Jack, you—you—” He chortles. Jack’s already walking out of the room, but he stops in the door for a long glance and a low “Goodbye, Elsie.” After a beat, he adds, “It was a pleasure.”
8
FRICTION
What do you mean, you think we should leave them be?”
Mom’s voice is so shrill, I glance around to make sure no one overheard her through the phone. Dr. Voight waves at me before slipping inside the auditorium—the one where I’ll give my research talk in fifteen minutes—and my stomach flips, omelet-style.
“It’s just... Lucas is very stubborn. Short of locking him in my dishwasher, I’m not sure how to stop him from acting up.” I hasten to add before Mom asks me to do just that, “And I think he’ll be okay if we give him space to sulk.”
“What about Thanksgiving?”
Uh? “WhataboutThanksgiving?”
“What if he’s not donesulkingby Thanksgiving? Where do I seat him? What if he doesn’t show? Your aunt will say that I don’t havemy family under control. Thatsheshould host next year! She’s been trying to steal this from me fordecades!”
