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“No. I just—”
“At my owntable?”
I shake my head. “No, I—”
“On my ownchairthat I retrieved from the curbside and that used to have bedbugs and maybe still does?”
“No! I didn’t mean to—” I notice Cece’s sly smile. “You’re evil.”
She laughs. “Is Greg still on that hippie retreat where you pay to weed their flower beds? When’s he coming back? And when is the search committee voting on the candidates?”
Is she trying to change the topic? “I have no idea. I don’t even know if George has already been interviewed. Greg should be back by the weekend, but he’ll have tons of messages, and...”
“And he’ll see a million texts from you. He’ll call the second he turns on his phone. You’ll calmly explain what happened, and you’ll come up with a plan together. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
I nod.
As it turns out, Cece is right—I do get a call from Greg the moment he comes back to civilized society. But she’s also wrong, because things don’t go the way she predicted. Not at all.
Not even a little bit.
•••
My first thought when I readUnknown Boston Numberis that I’m going to be offered the job. It must be the sheer depth of my desperation making an optimist and a fool out of me. For a moment, I see myself holding back tears as I accept an appointment letter.I would like to thank the Academy, my roommate, and the girl who runs the WhatWouldMarieDo account—my rocks during the harrowing years of grad school. I owe this to you.
It makes the fall back to reality that much harder.
“Do you know someone named Gregory Smith?” Whoever’s on the other end of the line sounds so angry, I briefly forget how to talk.
“Um—”
“I sure hope so, because there are forty unread texts from you on his phone. And if you’re his stalker... you’ll still do. He was brought here an hour ago for emergency dental surgery, and we need someone to come pick him up.”
“Pick him... up?”
“Yes. It means that you come here. Get him. Then take himwhere he lives.” She’s speaking very slowly. If I told her about my doctoral degree, she wouldnotbelieve me. “With a vehicle such as a car. Or a wheelbarrow, for all I care.”
“I—I don’t own a car. And I don’t know where he lives. Can’t you call him an Uber and—”
“Honey, he’s drugged out of his mind. I cannot let him walk out of here alone—he just mumbled something about walking into the Charles River to hang out with Aquaman.”
I close my eyes. Then I open them. I glance at the lecture I’ve been preparing, then at the time (6:42 p.m.), then at Hedgie glaring at me from the kitchen counter.
I sigh and hear myself ask, “Where are you located?”
11
CENTRIPETAL FORCE
If Greg were a dog, he’d be peeing all over the waiting room.
In my twenty-seven years, no one has been happier to see me. He leaps (albeit sluggishly) out of his chair, tries (and fails) to spin me around, effusively compliments my stained “May the Mass Times Acceleration Be with You” shirt, and finally sandwiches my face in his palms and says, “I’m about to blow your mind, Elsie. Did you know that quinoa is not a grain? It’s like, a sprout. Oh my God, let’s do the Harlem Shake!”
Behind the reception counter, the nurse shakes her head and mutters, “High like a hot-air balloon.”
“I—thank you for calling me.” She looks less pissed than she sounded on the phone, but more exhausted. The place smells like mint, potpourri, and that air hygienists blow into the mouth during cleanings.
“Sure. Get this idiot out of my waiting room, please. I gotta go home and feed my own brood of idiots.”
