Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Franky
Me
How does the moon cut its hair?
Devon
***
Me
Eclipse it.
Devon
That’s worse than Mom’s material.
Me
Vi’s dad jokes are how I was raised. It’s a family tradition.
She said you needed help with algebra.
Devon
I’m going to play hockey. Not seeing how math is relevant.
Me
Hate to break it to you, Dev, but math will make you a better player. Ever heard of the rule of reflection?
Devon
Nope.
Me
Because you need to get through algebra before you can take geometry. An understanding of angles is a hockey player’s secret weapon.
Devon
You can help if you want to.
Me
I *do* want to. Now what did one wall say to the other?
Devon
Not sure I want to know.
Me
I’ll meet you at the corner.
Devon
Your worst yet.
Me
Oh, is that a challenge? Also, that doubles as math humor. Most likely they met at a right angle.
I chuckled at my silly joke.
“Dr. St. James, have I said something amusing?”
Looking up, I met the department head’s gaze.
Dr. Bilson—or Dr. Bilious as Violet called him—had interrupted his pontificating on the new faculty requirement to submit weekly activity reports to ensure I was still paying attention in today’s faculty meeting.
Luckily, I could multitask with the best of them.
“I fail to see how creating a paper trail documenting my work meets department goals. Such busywork infantilizes the faculty who have more pressing uses for their time.”
Dr. Bilson looked surprised at this challenge to his authority. “Asking faculty to keep me informed of their productivity contributes to the greater enterprise.”
Sure. In Communist Russia.
The meeting continued without further disruption. At its end, I had just reached the door to the department conference room when Dr. Bilson spoke.
“Dr. St. James, do you have a moment?”
So close.
Today was the last day in my ovulation window and I needed to meet Jason at home for the next “delivery.” For the last three days, he had come to my apartment and come in a cup while I turned up the music and imagined him on my bed. Or in my bed.
“I have an errand to run, Dr. Bilson, so if you could make it quick?”
His bushy eyebrows met as one, similar to the larvae of a pasture day moth, and I wondered how I had ever found him attractive.
Two years ago, during a cocktail reception for up-and-coming faculty leaders at a conference, we got into a spat over his misunderstanding of the comparative mitogenomics of freshwater snails.
You should read St. James et al on this topic, he had said. He went on to mischaracterize my research and to ask if I understood the concept at hand. His face, when I held up my name badge, was, as they say, priceless.
I had rather enjoyed his grovel and then enjoyed the conversation that focused on how much he respected my research, even though he clearly didn’t get it.
What could I say? Fruit fly researchers were rather one-track.
Three glasses of reception-quality Chardonnay later, and I was ready to end my dry spell.
At the time, he was an associate professor in a biology department at a small liberal arts college in Maine. Now he was my boss.
“You know, it’s perfectly fine to call me Marcus,” he said. “After all, we are old friends.”
I offered a thin smile. While we had never discussed our sexual history, he didn’t mind being overfamiliar with me, a reminder that we had a connected past that he could weaponize at any moment. “How can I help?”
“I’ll need the performance reviews for your teaching assistants by the end of the week.”
“Yes, I saw that in the email you sent to all the teaching faculty.”
He cleared his throat, a rather annoying habit. Marcus was in his mid-forties, divorced with no children, and I suspected, willing to again “discuss” my research after three glasses of indifferent Chardonnay.
“I spoke with Chairman Phillips at Harvard yesterday. We had some issues to discuss in our roles as academic thought leaders …”
I wondered if Jason would wear that navy-blue Henley today.
It should have clashed with his eyes—blue and green should never be seen, they said—but somehow it all worked to define his pectorals magnificently.
The fantasy of this man in a Henley was helping me produce the uterine contractions necessary to ensure his sperm reached my egg.
In other words, an orgasm.
I snapped out of my lewd thoughts to find Marcus staring at me. “Perhaps we should discuss it over lunch?”
“What’s that?”
“Your guest lectureship at Harvard. As I was saying, your absence will be quite disruptive—”
“Are you saying you won’t sign off on it?” Panic flushed my veins.
He gave me that look, the one women everywhere have suffered since the first time a man realized he had leverage over a better-qualified female colleague.
“Not at all. But sabbaticals and absences need to be approved by the department head.”
“The guest lectureship at Harvard was approved by your predecessor. You can’t pull the rug from under me now.”
He chuckled darkly. “I have no intention of doing so, Franky. I would just like to discuss how it will impact the department.”
“Over lunch.”
“You make it sound so horrifying.”
He sat back, satisfied with his progress. Perhaps I was being too harsh on him. Perhaps this was the only way to get ahead. We would make a super couple in academia, big fish in our small pond, though how would he feel about my child-rearing plans?
He doesn’t have a dimple in his cheek or a wicked smile or delicious muscles.
Of course he doesn’t. He’s not Jason Isner and you should be glad of it!
“I think it’s important that we observe the correct protocols around approvals for absences, Franky.
Obviously, you’ve been given a lot of latitude here by my predecessor.
” Another oily smile. “But I plan to keep a closer eye on how the department’s resources, including its faculty, are used. Shall we say noon at my office?”
Damn. Perhaps Jason would be okay with rescheduling to this evening.
“Of course. See you then.”