by Kat Ransom
I’m sure it wasn’t kind, Klara has a dark sense of humor and little patience. I watch the little boy have a tantrum and find myself a little envious again. Wouldn’t it be grand to scream and wail every time you were tired or slighted? Just get it all out and move on with your life?
I do better at computer models and chemical formulas than analyzing the inner workings of humans. At least science makes sense, it’s black and white. You create or fix something and then move on. Case closed.
Not so much with humans.
“Skitstövel,” Klara sneers at the boy and mutters.
I repeat the word trying to get the pronunciation right. “I don’t know that one, what is it?”
“Poop boot,” Klara thunders in the boy’s direction. “Bastard,” she sneers.
I choke on the coffee I was just sipping, almost launching microfoam out of my nose as I laugh and reach for a napkin. “Klara!” I scold her as the boy’s mom gasps at Klara’s menacing glance and outburst. “You’re going to get fired,” I giggle across the round table.
“Ja, ja, ja,” she cajoles and waves her hand. “There is only one choice. You get a job and support us,” she taps the screen of my laptop.
“I’m trying, I’m trying. But if you get canned, we’ll have to pay for coffee.”
“Unimaginable,” Klara shudders her shoulders at the thought.
I do have to get a job, though. Quickly.
Now that I’ve graduated, my student visa is only valid for four months. I have to get a real job if I want to stay in the UK. And I do want to stay.
Maybe not here, perhaps not so close to London. That’s a little too close for comfort.
Maybe something in Wales or Ireland. Scotland would also be delightful. Minimally, something several hours away from London.
Not that London isn’t lovely. It is.
But I can’t stay here.
I’ve done well the past ten months to avoid London at all costs, but I can’t do it forever, hiding out in Cambridge sixty miles to the north. Bad enough I have to come up with constant creative excuses not to join Klara on weekend benders in the city.
In many ways, I’ve missed out on the quintessential college experience, being holed up in my room, buried in books, spending my weekend in the labs instead of being young and having fun. I wonder if I’ll regret that one day, doing anything at all exciting like I used to.
Then again, school is safe for me. I’m good at it.
Usually, I blame my strict parents for my reclusiveness and cite Major General Walker’s notorious lack of tolerance for shenanigans. But a twenty-five year old not being allowed out by mommy and daddy, who are three-thousand miles away, is lame, even for me.
I let out a long, audible sigh.
“What?” Klara asks, picking up on the change in my demeanor.
“Mmm, nothing,” I shrug my shoulders. “Just remembered I need to call my parents back.”
“Ugh,” she rolls her eyes.
Apparently, the Swedish have a different parenting style, which doesn’t involve hovering, authoritative discipline, or constant reminders that failure is not an option. Klara was given freedom as a child, allowed to explore and experience the world, make her own mistakes.
I was… not.
My parents love me, and I wouldn’t be where I am today, a master’s graduate from one of the finest educational institutions in the world, without them. A tingle of guilt stabs at me, but I sometimes wonder what it would feel like if mistakes were an option.
But, they aren’t, and I learned that lesson the hard way when I didn’t listen and made the biggest mistake of my life. One that continues to haunt me, in secret, every day, wakes me up from dreams and infects my mind even though it’s been almost six years.
The mistake who lives in London.
In his fancy fucking apartment with his fancy fucking girlfriend-of-the-week.
Stop it, you crazy person.
“Ladies,” I look up and see Professor Tillman pulling up a chair to our table.
I was so zoned out in my self-inflicted neurosis that I didn’t even notice him come in. He’s in his customary tweed jacket with elbow patches and carrying a leather portfolio. With his bushy gray hair, he could pass as an original Cambridge founder, but he is brilliant, and I have tremendous respect for him.
“Professor Tillman,” I stand up to meet him, but he motions for me to stay sitting and takes a seat.
He’s extra perky today, his eyes bright and his shoulders dancing back and forth. He looks like he’s ready to dance a tango.
My stomach grows tense hoping he has good news for me today. Maybe someone has picked up our research and wants us to continue our work. Then I could stay here forever.
“Emily, Emily, Emily,” he teases. “One of these days, you will start calling me Roger.”
“Sorry, Doc,” I smile back at him. “Old habits die hard.”
I was taught from a young age that you call someone by the name they earned, not the name they were given. Hence why Dad is still Major General, and Doc is the least formal name I can bring myself to call Professor Tillman in respect for his earned PhD.
“Ms. Bergner,” he turns toward Klara. “Only two courses left to go, the end is in sight now.”
“Ja, Emily has been helping me in Advanced Energy Transformation. It’s in the bin now,” Klara smiles.
“Bag, it’s in the bag now,” I lovingly correct her. “Bin would be bad, bag is good.”
“Ha,” Professor Tillman chuckles. “You’re lucky to have my star pupil as a tutor, Ms. Bergner. I have every confidence that it’s in the bag now.”
“Ah, bin, bag, as long as I graduate,” Klara shrugs and pulls her blond ponytail tighter. “Back to the coal mines,” she says, winking at me as she stands to go back to work.
I nod at her, she got that colloquialism right.
I need to research what her poop-boot phrase from earlier means, in more detail. Is it poop on a boot, like one stepped in it? Is it a boot full of poop—that would be horrifying. A boot made entirely out of poop? That would be gross and structurally unsound.
“Emily, I have wonderful news,” Professor Tillman leans in toward me and catches me off guard, going off in one of the many tangents my mind dreams up at any given moment.
He unzips his portfolio and starts pulling out papers. He’s beaming, and my excitement grows. “Is it about the paper?” I bounce in my seat.
“Better! Well, it started with the paper, of course, so many emails and phone calls, Emily.”
“I know, I have one from the research and development department at Echeleon Tire today asking about the hydroperoxide radicals.”
“You aren’t giving our secrets away, are you?” He snickers.
“No, of course not” I shake my head. “I was hoping they’d offer me a job, but they just have more questions. Still, how exciting.”
“Pffft, Echeleon,” he rolls his eyes and waves his hand as if they’re rubbish. “We can do better than that, Emily.”
Better than Echelon? They’re one of the top ten tire manufacturers in the world. “What is it?” I ask him, unable to control my excitement a moment longer. The suspense is killing me.
“You have an interview!”
“An interview? For a job? With who?” My pulse picks up, and I feel my palms start getting clammy.
It’s really happening. After years of working diligently toward this, studying into the late hours of the night instead of binge drinking, after getting into my chosen program at Cambridge and relocating to Europe, it’s finally happening.
“Only one of the most advanced engineering roles available at one of the most prestigious young companies in London,” he rambles with frenzy in his voice. He’s almost hysterical as he shuffles papers and beams at me. “I’m so proud of you, Emily!”
“Oh my god, what is it? You’re going to give me a heart attack!”
Maybe it’s SpaceX, they’re a prestigious young company. Or GeoTech,
they were advertising for a polymer engineer in their London lab. Or, he said it started with the research paper. Maybe it’s one of the British auto manufacturers.
Professor Tillman finally passes me the papers in his hand as my heart is ready to beat out of my chest. But he hasn’t let them go.
As I have one hand on them, he continues, “Now, it’s just an interview, I can’t promise you the job. But I know a higher-up, and well, he owes me a favor. They read the paper, this job is unexpectedly open, and, of course, I told them you’d be perfect.”
Manners be damned, I snag the papers out of his hand and try to control myself from dreaming of the next step in my career, the new and exciting opportunity I begin now.
No.
No, no, no. What the hell is this? Some kind of sick joke? Am I being punished for something I’ve done in a past life, despite not believing in reincarnation? Maybe this is a sign I should start.
“Can you believe it?” Professor Tillman smacks the table and taps the papers.
“No,” I mutter, staring at the lob listing.
No, I cannot believe it.
There is a sinking feeling in my gut, it radiates down from my chest. I have diligently avoided this for ten freaking months, and now the logo stares me down like I’m an animal trapped in a cage.
This is just… well, it’s goddamn ridiculous, is what it is.
“Imperium! You have an interview with Imperium, Emily!” I lift my face and see Professor Tillman’s eyes as round as saucers.
Shit shit shit.
How am I going to get out of this? I’m not doing this shit. I’m not ready.
“Umm, I don’t know about this,” I start fidgeting with the papers and creating plausible excuses as to why I will absolutely never, ever attend this interview.
“Don’t be nervous. I know it’s an enormous opportunity, but you would be perfect for this role. They’d be foolish not to snap you up!”
“Right,” I clear my throat and stall, fight the panic from within. “It’s just that, I’m not really interested in Formula 1.”
I only watch every free practice session, qualification session, and race, in secret. I only have fake usernames on the F1 subreddit and a few other social platforms created to indulge my neurotic behavior, which, at this point, can only be described as cyber-stalking.
But I’m not interested.
“Nonsense, half of the engineering students are here to land a job in Formula 1. And you, my dear Emily, are on the fast track in! Do you know how lucky you are to be considered just out of college?”
Professor Tillman is right, of course. An overwhelming number of students are here chasing dreams of F1. London is surrounded by six of the most successful racing teams, and Cambridge has several degrees catering to the specialized industry. This part of the UK is even called Motorsports Valley.
But I did not sign up for that. I came to Cambridge despite the proximity to everything F1.
I’m here running away from my F1 dreams.
F1 nightmares, more like it.
“Thank you for the recommendation, truly. I’m sorry, this just isn’t right for me, though.” I push the papers across the table back toward him and do my best to remain professional, polite, sane.
“Not right for you? What are you on about? It is a Tire and Performance Engineer position, and it’s available immediately, in the middle of the season. It’s custom made for you, did you read the description?” Professor Tillman’s bushy brows are furrowed, and his face is getting red. I’ve never seen him angry before.
I glanced over the description. If it were at another company in another industry and, preferably, on another continent, it would be perfect.
“I’m not qualified,” I stammer in a desperate attempt to get out of this. I want to slink back to my flat and reassess my life choices over a stiff drink.
“Don’t insult me,” Professor Tillman barks in an uncharacteristic, bitter tone. “I am your advisor and professor, and my name is listed alongside yours on that research paper. If you feel unqualified, then that is a reflection upon me.”
“No,” I shake my head, and my jaw drops in horror.
Shit. The last thing I mean to do is insult him. Not even because doing so would be monumentally stupid for my career, but because I value Doc’s opinion and hold him in such high esteem. He has been one of the best things about coming to Cambridge. He has taught me so much.
“What is this about, Emily? I have never known you to run away from a challenge.”
Ha, if you only knew.
I can see the disappointment in the gray of his eyes, and I look down into my mug of flat white that’s still steaming.
The foam has almost all dissolved into the coffee. It shouldn’t have denatured so quickly, not at this temperature.
I glance at Klara, working the cappuccino machine behind the counter, pushing a button over and over and cursing at it. I know why she cannot make good foam art. She’s overheating the milk, melting the lipids, and destroying the hydrophilic ends of the protein chains.
“Emily?”
“Sorry, Professor,” I snap back to attention and wring my hands together under the table, desperate for an acceptable excuse to offer him.
I’m allergic to racing fuel.
My religion does not tolerate motorsports.
I have cranophobia, fear of helmets.
Is there a fear of heartbreak and rejection? If not, there should be, and I should be allowed to cite it.
I deserve to cite it.
“Listen, I was young once and nervous about leaving academia, too.” Professor Tillman’s shoulders soften, and he attempts to reassure me, but he doesn’t understand. “This is a position that will challenge you, and maybe that frightens you. But you need to be challenged to be fulfilled. I believe in you, and you’re going to ace the interview. You have a couple of days to prepare and, if I know you, you will use them wisely to strategize.”
“A couple of days?”
Oh, hell, no.
“Yes, as a favor to me, you are fast-tracked to interview this Friday at 9:00. I wrote it down for you, see?” He flips the paper and shows me the details. “Edmund Lloyd, Engineering Director, that’s who you’ll meet. Surely you’ve heard of him?”
“Uh-huh,” I nod and force my lips to rise in a quivering smile. I’ve heard of him because I see him on TV, too. I read about him, also.
“Wonderful, just wonderful!” Doc’ claps his hands together. “What an opportunity. Promise me good tickets when you get this position, Emily. I knew you were destined for greatness, I just knew it.”
His smile has returned, and he radiates pride back at me now.
Oh, bloody hell. What am I going to do?
Three
Seven Years Ago - Florida
“Baby you need a break so let's just run away. Well I'm tired of coding Perl, tired of VBA, Maggie throw your law books away. Turn on, tune in, drop out, give up with me.” Cracker - Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out With Me
Cole
“Please get back in the boat before a fucking alligator eats you.”
“There are no alligators here, Cole. I’m much more likely to be eaten by a snake,” she tries to flatten her lips, but I can see a corner of her mouth quirk up, just a tiny bit.
She knows exactly what she’s doing to me, she always does.
I’m right here. Come in the water and chase me, Cole.
I’m trying not to dump this ridiculous orange kayak while reaching for Emily. She’s stubbornly keeping herself just out of arm’s reach, wading in the clear, shallow waters of St. Petersburg’s Weedon Island.
Her long brown hair is even darker than usual, waterlogged, and slicked back against her head. It floats out around her shoulders when she submerges herself. When she pops back up from under the water, it drips off her eyelashes, and the sun catches the drops, glistening all over her sun-kissed skin.
I want to lick every drop of it off her as soon as she gets back in the k
ayak. The monstrosity looks like an oversized hunting vest, complete with yellow oars so that displaced tourists and drunk kids can be spotted by helicopters when they don’t return home from their kayak adventures.
Or when they get eaten by alligators.
“I have a snake in the boat for you,” I mumble to myself.
Dangling precariously over the side of the kayak, I manage to reach her fingers and start to pull her back to safety where there are no alligators, piranha, or swamp creatures, and the only snake posing a danger to her is in my board shorts.
The kayak starts teetering from side to side.
“Em,” I warn her. She’s brought her feet up to the underside of the boat, clutches my hand, and bites her lip mischievously. “Don’t you do it.”
When I surface for air, the kayak is flipped over, the yellow oars float aimlessly nearby, and our once-dry clothes are sinking. Our little cooler is floating nearby but has sprung open and liberated empty soda cans.
But Emily is laughing, her smile lighting up the shadows of the mangrove trails, and the darkest corners of my world.
Like the last several weekends, Emily has dreamt up a new adventure to embark us upon, and while I’ve lived in Tampa most of my life, I’ve never kayaked the mangroves before. Or any of the other undertakings, experiments, games, or projects she’s so keen on.
She thinks she’s dragging me to all these adventures, and, if I’m honest, I let her think that because I want the brownie points. But besides getting to spend time with her all day, she’s also making me live a little beyond the only other obsession I’ve ever known—the track.
It’s only been a month or so since she finally relented and started speaking more than one-word answers to me, stopped running away all the while begging me to chase her.
Once she did, we were late for every class. I was entranced with her every word and couldn’t end a simple conversation with her when the bell rang. And as soon as she saw me, her face would light up. The girl spoke in novels like she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to listen to her.