19. Aarti #2
“Pure gold!” I parrot, and the sarcasm in my tone is enough for Madge to shoot me a warning look.
“So… this is where you grew up,” Noa says, gesturing vaguely at everything and nothing, her waving hand barely missing my face.
“Yep,” I reply with award-winning conversational skill. “Houses. Sidewalks. Anti-dog-shit signage. The whole suburban package. Lived here until middle school.”
We approach my family’s old house, a cramped two-bedroom where Diti and I slept on a bunkbed from Goodwill.
Trevor demonstrates the XR-4000 on the picket fence post, narrating like he’s hosting a QVC special. “See how it captures every grain of the wood? Every layer of paint?”
Noa is watching him with performatively rapt attention, so pronounced that Trevor notices and holds the scanner out to her. “Wanna give it a spin? Or should I say glide ?”
She nervously darts her eyes to me. “I mean, it’s Aarti’s old house, maybe she should…”
I wave my hand. “Go for it.”
When Trevor hands Noa the device, she holds it like it might explode.
“Just click and slide,” Trevor encourages. “Get nice and close to the surface.”
Noa leans toward the fence to scope out the texture. I lean in to confirm she’s angling the scanner correctly and our heads collide. We jerk back so fast that Noa accidentally scans Trevor’s face instead of the fence.
“Let me just–” I reach for the device at the same time she tries to hand it to me. Our fingers brush and we both jump. The scanner goes flying. Trevor catches it with the reflexes of someone who’s definitely dropped expensive equipment before.
He hands the scanner back to Noa, and I don’t miss the quick glance of annoyance he shoots at me before tasking Claire with grabbing his backup scanner from the pass van.
Once I have my own, I busy myself with scanning the blooming jacaranda tree I used to climb to get some privacy.
“Maybe we should move on to the next location!” Madge suggests cheerily as soon as I pull the scanner away.
Walking the perimeter of my elementary school, Noa and I maintain an invisible force field between us. When the DP asks us to stand closer for a two-shot, we shuffle together with the ease of repelling magnets.
“This is where my career as a performer began,” I tell the camera, speaking into the lens even though Noa is standing right beside me. I explain how I practiced Donald O’Connor’s moves for months in front of the television until I trail off, no further fodder to fill the silence.
“Speaking of performance,” Noa jumps in, “Did you know that the presentation of ice cream actually affects its perceived taste? Like, the same exact formula can taste totally different depending on the vessel, the temperature of the spoon–sorry, I dunno if that’s relevant to–”
“Very relevant!” I say too loudly. “Ice cream facts are always welcome! Please, tell us more about spoons!”
Noa blinks at me. “Well, the thermal conductivity of different metals can impact…”
I zone out as she embarks on another lecture, her wild curls bouncing as she speaks, eyes lighting up with passion. When I zone back in, Noa is quiet, staring at me expectantly along with the rest of the crew.
“Let’s scan the playground!” I shout.
From opposite sides, we approach the parallel bars where I used to practice gymnastics, like we're flanking some dangerous animal. I scan the tall rung. She scans the short rung. When we need to switch sides, we orbit around each other in a wide arc that probably looks insane on camera.
“You guys okay?” Madge asks during a battery change. “You seem a little… spacey today.”
“We’re great!” we say in unison.
“I love scanning!” Noa adds. “So many textures! Like that rough bark over there, which reminds me of the praline crumble we use in our butter pecan.”
“Should we get that on camera?” the DP asks.
“Yes!” I exclaim. “Let’s definitely scan that tree. From different angles. Far apart angles.”
We spend the next twenty minutes scanning everything in sight while maintaining physical distance.
“These basketball hoops have aged since I was a slam-dunking six year old,” I remark to no one.
“The oxidation process is similar to how we age our bourbon extract!” Noa calls from the other end of the court. “The way the metal breaks down over time creates these unique flavors–I mean, visual compounds!”
Trevor, bless him, seems to think this is all very normal banter for our segment. “And the XR-4000 captures every detail of that oxidation! Every flake, every gradient!”
“That’s fascinating!” I interrupt. “Hey, Trevor, could this thing scan a toaster in a bathtub?”
Trevor’s eyes light up. “Actually–”
“Let’s not find out!” Madge interjects. “Let’s scan that bench instead. You probably sat there as a kid, right, Aart? Go scan it together. Standing next to each other. Like normal humans.”
We approach the bench like it’s a bomb that requires two people to defuse.
“I think I sat here?” I offer unhelpfully. “I’d venture to guess that I’ve probably sat in a lot of places.”
“Cool!” Noa responds, for once not running with another barely-relevant ice cream science fact.
We’re standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo–something citrusy that momentarily transports me to the night before, which I am desperately trying not to think about.
“Tilt yours a little left,” I say, not looking at her. “We can each scan half the bench, but the angles should match up.”
“Like this?” She tilts right.
“Other left.”
“That’s right.”
“No, I mean–”
I reach for her scanner to adjust it and she immediately drops it on the ground. Trevor snatches it up.
Madge looks at us–Noa babbling about how the criss-crossed back of the bench has the same pattern as a waffle cone, Trevor practically making love to his product as he checks it for scratches. She sighs.
“That’s a wrap on location,” Madge announces, and I can hear the relief in her voice. “Great stuff, you two. Really… unique.”
“The scanners performed beautifully!” Trevor adds, clutching them like a proud parent.
“The production van can take everyone back to the studio,” Madge continues, but I’m already pulling out my phone.
“Actually, I’m going to grab a ride,” I say. “Faster for me.”
“But the van’s right here,” Madge starts.
“Already ordered,” I lie, frantically tapping at the rideshare app. “Thanks, though! Great scanning today! Really captured those… textures!”
Noa opens her mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. “The wood aggregates were particularly interesting,” she offers weakly.
“So interesting,” I agree, backing away. “The most interesting aggregates.”
“The XR-4000 really brought out their mineral complexity,” Trevor says.
“My ride’s here!” I announce, though the app says two minutes. I walk briskly toward the corner, then realize I’m going the wrong way and have to circle back, giving the entire crew a wide berth.
“I should probably help Trevor pack up the equipment,” Noa says to no one in particular. “Make sure all the… scanning data is… secured.”
“It auto-uploads to the cloud,” Trevor says helpfully.
Noa falls in step with him anyway.
I finally spot my actual ride pulling up and practically dive into the backseat. As we pull away, I spot Noa in the side mirror beside the production van, pointedly staring anywhere but at me, despite facing in my direction.
Monday, I tell myself. I have one gloriously unbooked Sunday to get my shit together. Monday I’ll have figured out how to work with her without feeling like I’m constantly trying not to step on a live wire.
Monday I’ll remember how to be professional without improvising elaborate physical comedy routines to avoid accidental contact.
Monday I won’t think about how her hair felt between my fingers or the way her breath hitched when I leaned in or the fact that for one perfect, terrifying moment, I wanted to kiss her more than I wanted my next breath.
Monday.