Then Replacement Alex stands, rendering me completely mute.
He’s tall and broad, unlike many of the professors. Standing next to him, Gary looks like a child.
With a mustache.
He holds the pencils out like a bouquet of flowers, and I stare at them. He smiles. “It’s so refreshing to see someone else who prefers real pencils. I can’t stand those mechanical ones.”
“Me neither!” I practically shout this because—oh my goodness—we have something in common. Then I way too excitedly go to grab the pencils and proceed to knock them out of his hand, spilling them across my desk and back onto the floor.
This event hangs for a moment.
Shockingly, he laughs. “They’re the worst, right?” He bends down to pick them up a second time.
“They’re the worst,” I offer, hoping my assault hasn’t derailed this conversation. “They shouldn’t even be classified as pencils. Passable as a writing utensil, but not a real pencil. A real pencil needs to be sharpened.”
He stands, offering the pencils again. I reach out, and he pulls them back, half smiling, with a look that says he’s not sure he can trust me to take them.
His smile holds, and my Wolf brain growls, What lovely teeth he has! while my normal brain simultaneously wonders whether he had braces as a kid. I didn’t, which is why I’m stuck with two crooked eyeteeth that often keep me from fully smiling.
Who am I kidding? As my “practice” indicated, there are numerous reasons I seldom smile. My teeth hardly top the list.
Gary clears his throat, and I gingerly take the pencils from Dr. Cal Baxter. Our hands touch briefly and the familiar goose bumps fleck my arms. I don’t meet his eyes for fear of an impending full-body outbreak.
As a rule, I try not to notice members of the opposite sex. Gary doesn’t count because (a) I have to talk to him, and (b) I don’t really see him as a man but as more of a creature.
But even before the Alex calamity, other men around the university had become part of the background. I avoid eye contact. I fasten on my invisibility cloak to move about the campus, and up until this exact moment, it has always worked. At this exact moment, however, a pair of blue eyes is laser-focused on me.
Step one: “Smile more.”
Yes! The experiment! And even though I’ve technically already collected data with Marty, part of the scientific method is iteration—repeating your experiments to produce similar, if not identical, results.
I give “demure” my best shot.
Judging by the horrified expression slowly contorting Gary’s face, I’ve failed. I glance at Dr. Cal Baxter and his expression is like that of one who can’t decide whether he actually saw Bigfoot or not.
Ah, Humiliation, there you are, old friend. You’ve been away a solid ninety seconds. I did not miss you.
“Dr. Baxter is a professor in the psychology department upstairs,” Gary says through a confused frown. “He was hired after Alex—”
My eyes and my response both snap at Gary. “I remember.” And that brief mention is enough to remind me that Dr. Baxter is cut from the same cloth as ex-Alex.
Al-ex?
“Have you brought him in here to do an evaluation of me?” I can hear the defensiveness in my own voice.
The professor half laughs.
“No,” Gary says, “though I do wish I’d thought of that.”
My frown deepens.
“I didn’t bring him here at all—he’s sought us out.” Gary looks pleased with himself, like he’s fallen in with one of the popular, cool kids in class. “And I’m assigning him to you.”
If I’d been eating or drinking anything at that moment, I would’ve choked and died. “To me?”
I don’t want to work with Replacement Alex.
I can’t have a repeat of that experience. I can’t.
It’s been two years. I’ve barely recovered.
Not to mention the goose bumps.
“Yes, Isadora,” Gary says with the patience of a big-box store manager dealing with a woman trying to return a tube top without a receipt. “Dr. Baxter is researching a book, and he’s asked for our help.”
I scoff. “I bet he did.”
Dr. Baxter holds up his hands in surrender. “I have no problem admitting I could use your input.”
But would he have a problem giving me any of the credit?
With all of the real-pencil-common-ground now sharpened to a nub, I say, “Sorry, Dr. Baxter. I work alone.” I’m certain I don’t have the right to say this. After all, Gary is my boss, and whether I like it or not, he can assign me to whoever he wants. But I say it anyway because the point must be made. I don’t want to do this!
“Yes!” Gary says as if I’ve just gotten the correct answer on Wheel of Fortune.
I’m perplexed. My eyes dart over to Dr. Baxter, who I realize now is still smiling. “Gary says you’re the best.” On him, the smile is perfectly natural. I bet he doesn’t even have to practice in the mirror.
“She is that,” Gary says, and then to me, “But you’re . . . particular, Isadora, and as you know, we’d love to get you to be more of a team player.”
And once again, I’m confronted with my own dismal existence. The truth is, I should be doing more with the people in our department. I should be taking student researchers under my wing. I should be doing something other than what I’m doing—alienating myself from everyone who might not understand me.
That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to do this.
“I like working alone, Gary,” I sputter. “I’m better that way.” I look at Dr. Baxter. “No offense.”
He holds up a reassuring hand, shaking his head slightly as if to say, “None taken.”
“The asthma sleep study is all wrapped up, and you’ve got some time. Now that you’ve sent Logan back to square one, and to his therapist probably, you’re freed up to help the esteemed Dr. Baxter prove that technology is our enemy.” Gary smacks Dr. Baxter on the back.
“Uh, that’s not exactly . . . ,” Cal says, but Gary isn’t listening. He’s issued his decree and now he’s off.
“I’ll check in with you periodically throughout the next few weeks, but for now, I’ll leave you both to get acquainted and work out the details.”
No! Don’t leave! My insides are screaming out in panic, but on the outside I am calm. That’s a lie. On the outside, I’m certain, I’m also panicked. Beads of sweat gather above my upper lip. Great. Now I’ll have a sweat mustache and people will mistake me for Gary’s twin.
The hum of the fluorescent light overhead seems loud all of a sudden, and I swallow to try to restore moisture to my mouth. It doesn’t work. I might as well be chomping on cotton balls.
I drop into the chair behind my desk and motion for Dr. Baxter to sit in the chair on the opposite side. It’s piled high with file folders and case studies and works in progress because my office is a literal closet, and there isn’t enough room for everything. He picks up the stack and sets it on the floor. And then he sits.
I stare.
There’s a very handsome, very nice-smelling man in my office. I tell myself to get it together—he’s just a man—and despite my epiphany with Marty on the bench, I do not attempt another smile.