Chapter 7 Electrical Resistance #3
“You are obsessed.” And disturbingly right. “Are you into conspiracy theories? Lizard people? Fictional Finland?” I take another sip. “God, this is bitter.” The label on the bottle is in a foreign language. “What is it?”
“Volkov’s favorite drink.”
“What?”
“He has his brother send a few cases over from Russia that he rations and cherishes like liquid gold. That’s the last bottle.”
I’d do a spit take if I could bear to drink another sip. “What?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll mention that you really needed it, Elsie. He won’t mind much.”
“No. No, no, no. Don’t tell him. Do not tell Volkov. I’m gonna find an import store. Buy a replacement. Where did you get this from? I can . . .”
I trail off. Jack’s dimple is back. He’s smiling.
Evilly.
“It’s not really Volkov’s, is it?”
He shakes his head.
“I hate you,” I say without heat.
“I know.” He grabs the bottle, takes a sip. Scrunches his nose in an almost cute way. Does he know my lips were right there? “Disgusting. I stole it from the student lounge. Only non-diet soda I could find.”
“You just stole from a grad student?” I laugh.
“Yeah. An unexpected low.”
I laugh harder—must be that sugar high. “How do you sleep at night?”
“I have a really firm mattress. Great for spinal health.”
Laughing again here. And so is Jack. I take the bottle back and sip again. I guess we’re both vaccinated. What’s the harm? “God, this tastes like paint thinner.”
“Or a plankton isopropyl alcohol smoothie.” Oh my God. I’m laughing even more. Do I have permanent brain damage? “Are you going to be okay?” His voice is suddenly softer. More intimate. He’s really standing closer than we need to be. At least he’ll catch me if I fall again.
“Yeah. I just need a second to recover.” Last sip. Is this compost juice growing on me? Maybe it’s just this place. The midafternoon sunlight warming the hardwood floor. The shelves waiting to be filled with my books. “And another second to marvel at the splendor of my future office.”
Jack shakes his head and smiles, almost wistful. “Sorry, Elsie. It won’t be your office.”
The thought is bloodcurdling. “You’re not sorry. 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 a chance.”
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 I will tell 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’s worried. 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 will you do 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 of what?”
“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.”