My sister didn’t cry. Ever. What a messy mess.
“You don’t have to worry about paparazzi or anything like that.” Her breath hitched, and that told me she was now unable to stem the tears. “Gabby hooked me up with the best lawyer, she specializes in this kind of stuff, keeping it out of the papers. This won’t make it out to the press. And you know they only care about the over-achievers in the family.”
I resisted the urge to huff and remind her that she was the lucky one, the one the press didn’t follow at all, the one who was able to live her life out of the spotlight. But every time I told her this it just seemed to piss her off.
“They don’t care about me unless I fuck up . . .” she added quietly.
“Lisa—”
But then she said, “Please.”
The single word sounded so desperate, so broken, it struck a chord deep within me, a bond I’d assumed had dissolved, but now understood had merely been dormant. She hadn’t asked me for anything since we were kids. How could I say no?
I couldn’t.
“Of course. Yes.” Even though it was complete madness.
“Thank you, thank you. And when I see you, I’ll tell you everything, don’t worry. You won’t be sorry. You are the best sister in the world. I love you!” she said just before the line went dead.
Removing the cell from my ear, I stared at the blank screen, my mind in chaos. I was unsure what to do, or on which problem I should focus.
Am I really going to do this?
Hastily, I made a list of the most basic action items. Getting a ticket to Chicago shouldn’t be a big deal. If I left directly from the restaurant, I could probably catch something tonight, stay in a hotel by O’Hare. I’d call Gabby on the way. Assuming my parents didn’t insist on speaking to me—well, “to me” meaning Lisa—then I might be back in Pasadena by the end of the week.
Am I really going to do this?
“Hey.” Dr. Payton’s soft voice cut through my list making. His wide brown eyes moved over my face, concern etched between his eyebrows. “Hey, is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry. That was rude. I should have left the table,” I said on autopilot, my brain still working through next steps. I felt his eyes on me as I returned my phone to my backpack. His stare felt assessing, but not in the usual way. Usually, when people stared, I knew exactly what they were thinking.
Depending on the person and context, it was either, Isn’t that the girl whose research on Bose-Einstein condensates improved the reliability and power of infrared arrays? Wasn’t she twelve when that happened? Or the person was thinking, Isn’t that one of Exotica and DJ Tang’s daughters? Is that the cool crazy one or the weirdo math prodigy?
“Don’t apologize,” Dr. Payton said unexpectedly, drawing my gaze back to his as he reached a hand across the table and covered mine.
I pulled my fingers away. Immediately. On instinct.
Tangentially, I noted his skin had been warm and that this was the first time he’d touched me other than a handshake. In fact, other than my one friend, Allyn, this was the first time someone had touched me to offer comfort since . . . well, since longer than I could remember.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle and interested. “How can I help?”
“Wrong? Help?” What?
“All the color left your face.” Dr. Payton paused to study me, the intensity of his frown increasing. “Mona, what happened? Who was that?”
Mona? The informality was a bucket of ice water, cutting through the haze of confusion. I blinked at him and the use of my first name. For these last two weeks he’d been Dr. Payton and I’d been Ms. DaVinci, which was how interactions within my world worked. Always.
As the youngest person by far in any given room—and the room was typically full of men with PhDs fighting for prestige, tenure, and grant dollars—I’d learned early and often that informality meant being taken advantage of. It meant being the second or third author instead of the first on a scholarly article of my own original ideas. It meant opening a door to borrowing (i.e. stealing) my work and intellectual property.
Nothing was more sacred or worth protecting in academia than intellectual property, and everyone wanted to take credit for mine.
“Dr. Payton, I’m very sorry to cut our meeting short.” When I stood, he stood, giving me the impression his good manners were ingrained. “I hope we can continue our discussion on Illustris soon, but I have to go.” Once again, I flexed my superpower, removing all emotion from my voice.
Clearly surprised by my coolness, Dr. Payton rocked back on his heels and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Absolutely. I understand,” he said, though it was obvious he didn’t understand.
Placing my backpack on the chair, I furtively studied him as I zipped and unzipped it, searching for my wallet. I noted the cautious yet concerned way he continued to examine me, at the tense set of his jaw, like he was engaging in an internal debate. I had to swat away a pang of guilt and doubt.
Dr. Payton—Poe—had been nothing but gracious since I’d arrived, but not overbearingly so. Overbearing and overly solicitous faculty had been my experience at the other institutions I’d visited during my quest to find the right PhD program. Even his willingness to collaborate and share, discuss and troubleshoot had been unpretentious. Poe’s ideas and approach were unique and refreshing.
The man was certainly brilliant, seemed to be a genuinely good guy, and I was curious about his thoughts on Illustris, the universe-scale simulation project, which was why I’d agreed to dinner. Yet, tempted as I might be to soften my rules about informality and friendly fraternization with colleagues, I wouldn’t.
“Do you need a ride anywhere?” he asked stiffly, quickly adding, “No pressure. It’s just, my mother would be appalled if I didn’t offer.”
His slight confession, and how he referred to his mother with deference, made me pause my furious zipping. “Thank you. I have a driver.”
He cleared his throat and nodded, seemed to stand straighter. My gaze flickered to his then away and I dug for my wallet. Finding it, I placed a fifty-dollar bill on the table to cover the cost of my dinner.
“You don’t need to do that.” He frowned, reaching for the money and offering it back to me.
I shook my head and swung my backpack into place on my right shoulder. “My advisor told me I should pay for my own meals during the recruitment process so as to not unduly influence my final decision.”
He flinched subtly, like I’d surprised him again. “I see,” he said, then huffed a little laugh. It was amused, but also sounded a tad incredulous. I got the sense I’d offended him somehow . . .
A renewed wave of flustered urgency crashed over me. I didn’t have time to think about Dr. Payton. I had to call Gabby, get to Chicago, and figure out how to behave like Lisa and not like me.
“I’ll be gone for a few days,” I said, not understanding why I felt the need to explain anything. “There’s been an unexpected emergency. I’ll email Dr. Clarence and the team to let them know.”
“Fine.” He pressed his lips together, a flat line, his expression now neutral.
I hesitated for a split second, knowing I was doing something wrong yet unable to put my finger on what. But exigency—for my sister’s sake—spurred me to move. Giving him a final head nod, I left the restaurant.
With any luck, I’d be in Chicago before midnight.
*
“We’re going to have to get you a blowout.” Gabby pursed her lips at the sight of my single braid, sighed dramatically, and marched past me into my hotel room. “And Lisa’s hair is a little shorter I think, so we’ll also need a cut. But the color is fine, she went back to her natural dark brown too, like, I don’t know, a few months ago, when she pretended to split from Tyler. Do you own any makeup at all?”