Chapter 7 Electrical Resistance #2
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—
“You have diabetes.”
I look up. Oh, right. Jack’s still here. Watching me with a half-hawkish, entirely concerned expression. Taking up most of my future office in that visceral, present way of his. I need to get going with that Venus flytrap purchase.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Type 1?”
I nod.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I take another sip of my soda—which, I’m slowly realizing, is not Coke—and laugh. “Why would I tell you? So you can slip Werther’s Original in my tea?”
“Funny you mention that.” He doesn’t seem to be having fun. “Since I’ve met you exactly five times so far, and during two of those you suffered from some diabetes-related complication that required my help.”
“Eight more and I get a free sub?”
He snorts a laugh. “With this level of self-sabotaging, you don’t need outside help.”
I evil-eye him half-heartedly, too tired to bicker. “The only two times I’ve had glycemic attacks in the last year were in your presence. Maybe your superpower is making my pod malfunction.”
“You need to tell Monica.”
“Monica’s not going to like me any less because I have diabetes.” I think?
His eyes harden. “You think I want you to tell her to diminish your chances? You’re shitting on your chances all on your own, with the fainting around and the easily disprovable lies. I’m concerned about your health.”
“I take full responsibility for my health, and it doesn’t affect my work. I’m not required to share my status to—”
“You almost passed out.”
“My pump malfunctioned. It’s old and shitty and I need a new one. But they’re prohibitive without health insurance, so.”
Does he look guilty? Maybe. Maybe it’s just resting frown face. “Does Greg know about the diabetes?”
How socially acceptable would it be for me to burst into Greg’s corporate bonding retreat and drag him back to Boston by the ear? “He doesn’t need to know.”
Jack’s lips thin. “Is this part of your game?”
“My what?”
“This weird thing. Where you delete and remake yourself?”