Pretty Smart Girls

by Shae Ross

  “I got it,” he says, nodding down.

  I turn away and start to gather my papers. Disappointment runs through me, and I let out a long breath.

  “You sure, Ryan?”

  I nod. “Yes. I could never get through mine, even with my auto-show wiggle.” There’s a hint of a smile curling his lips.

  He pushes away from the wall and moves back into his seat. “I’ll get through it for both of us,” he says in a confident tone. You can show me your auto-show wiggle later.” I raise my eyes, and he flashes a sinful smile, then returns his gaze to the computer screen. His expression settles into all-business mode, giving his chiseled features the appearance of having been sculpted by a master artist.

  Maybe I will…show him…someday…

  What am I thinking? Snap out of it Ryan!

  After ten minutes of pretending to check my emails while Jett works, I look up and another long sigh escapes my lips. I’ve failed—failed PAN-CAN and failed myself. I lay my hands in my lap and rub them over my knees.

  “Ryan. Look at me.” His smooth voice interrupts my thoughts and he’s waiting for me to look up. I raise my gaze to his. As if in slow motion, he lays his forearm down on the table and turns it, open palm.

  I stare at his hand reaching for mine. He moves it closer on the table and spreads his fingers out to me. I raise my hand and drop it into his. He covers my hand entirely in his grip, and a tingling sensation shoots up my arm.

  His voice is low and steady. “I got this,” he says. “We’re partners and you did your part. You wrote your presentation and we decided I’m going to present. That’s what we agreed on.” He’s rubbing his thumb back and forth over my skin, as if I’m someone he cares about. I’m lost in a swirl of charcoal and blue with no desire to find my way out. This must be what it feels like to be Jett Trebuchet’s girlfriend.

  I tuck the thought onto a shelf in the back of my mind. It’s an imaginary shelf that I’ve stacked with all sorts of episodes from my past, worthy of reconsideration. Some things linger on that shelf for years, while others I take down daily, polish with thought, and reshelf. I may have underestimated Jett Trebuchet.

  I nod slowly, thinking about his words. “Right,” I affirm. My fingers linger within his. He’s making no move to withdraw his hand, and I wonder how long I can stay connected to him in this way before it feels awkward. By my very own questioning thought, I’ve answered it, and I pull back my hand.

  “Do you want me to review your Ele’s Place proposal?” I offer.

  “I think I’d better spend the time reacquainting myself with the material. It’s been a while since I looked at it. Just relax. Once I have it down we can go over it.”

  Something has mellowed between us. The Trotts were right. This forced collaboration has broken something loose in our relationship.

  At three thirty Jillian brings us a partner evaluation form. We have fifteen minutes to fill them out. I’m to critique Jett on his work performance and spirit of cooperation, and he’s to do the same. The board wants to review the completed evaluations before we present. We both go to work.

  After ten minutes, I’m chewing on the end of my pen and Jett’s hand is still moving across his paper in a wave of fluid motion. I can’t resist asking him, “What could you possibly be writing?”

  He smiles without looking up at me and continues applying ink to paper.

  “Jett, seriously?” I say in a half laughing, half pleading voice. “Are you counting on the fact that I’m never going to see that evaluation?”

  “Yep,” he says, still writing.

  I can’t resist. I lunge across the table and grab his paper. He’s lightning fast, up in a flash, and coming at me. There’s not far to go in the small space to get away from him, but I hedge my stance and move right as he moves left. He leans his long arms over and grips the edges of the table between us.

  I panic and flip my gaze to his evaluation, hoping to catch at least some of what he’s written. Out of the corner of my eye I see him lift the table and set it against the wall. Yikes! Nowhere to run.

  He smiles, and I shriek as he pounces forward and clamps his arms around me. My back is pressed against his chest, and I’m clutching the paper, still trying to read. He holds me with one arm and plucks his evaluation form out of my fingers.

  “Say you’re sorry,” he says over my ear.

  “Not a chance in hell,” I reply, trying to keep the laughter out of my voice. His arms squeeze me until I squeal out another laughing shriek and then again, another squeeze and another laughing shriek.

  “Say it, Rose. Two simple words.”

  “All right, all right,” I say. “Let me go and I will.”

  He sets me down and I move out of his arms. I turn toward him and step back, brushing the hair off of my face and smoothing my skirt. One more step and I’ll be able to reach the door handle. I lunge and manage to pull the door open a crack. It shuts from the force of Jett’s flat palm above me. I turn so my back is against the door. He’s hovering over me with a predatory smile. Shit. I slide down the door and try to duck past him but there’s no way. His arm locks around my waist and he swings me up until I’m teetering against his shoulder.

  “You are in so much trouble now, Rose.” His voice is a threatening tease.

  He’s carrying me to the other side of the room when the door opens.

  Jillian’s brow furrows and she gives us a condescending look. Jett shifts my weight and I feel every hard muscle press against me in slow motion as he lowers me gently. My heels hit the floor and he continues to hold his hand against my back. How embarrassing. I push him away and glance at his profile. He’s still smiling and doesn’t appear the least bit phased by Jillian’s untimely interruption.

  “We convene for presentations in fifteen minutes. You can head to the waiting area with the others and we’ll call you in,” Jillian says in a terse pitch.

  I gather our paperwork, my purse, and Jett’s iPad while Jett grabs the laptop and hands Jillian our evaluations on the way out of the room.

  He puts his hand on the small of my back as we walk. “You ready? Feel okay?”

  I smile up at him. “It’s your job to be the rock star. All I have to do is help you change guitars.”

  He laughs. “Well, I’ll try not to let you down.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jett

  We walk into the boardroom ready to go. I pull out a chair for Ryan and sit beside her.

  Mr. Trott’s gaze pans around the table. “Well…do we have any volunteers to go first?”

  “We will.” Devi jumps up and heads toward the front of the room. Ben follows and sets up their laptop.

  “My partner and I have decided to recommend the Boys and Girls Clubs of America as the next Trott Ventures charitable giving recipient. The Boys and Girls Clubs of America serve four million kids in thousands of facilities throughout the country.”

  I know exactly why they’ve picked this charity. Ben has volunteered with this organization since we were sophomores in high school. Over the holidays they dress him up as Santa Claus and he makes the rounds to the area clubs.

  Devi’s voice carries over the room. “Over fifteen million kids are left alone and unsupervised between the hours of three and seven p.m. It’s no coincidence that this is the time of day that juvenile crime escalates. Clubs are open every day after school, when kids need them most.”

  Ben is watching her with a permanent smile of adoration as she saunters back and forth.

  “The clubs are now measuring the effectiveness of their programs by tracking the success of their kids.” The board throws questions to the two of them, which they field with ease. They know their stuff and have made a compelling case for the Boys and Girls Clubs of America.

  “Ben and Devin, you’ve done an excellent job, and you’ve given us much to consider in your proposal. Thank you.” Mr. Trott looks at the remaining two teams. “Who’s next?”

  Jade stands and introduces their chari
ty, The Children’s Village, while Vaughn prepares their PowerPoint. “Since 1851, The Children’s Village has been working in partnership with families to help immigrant children become educationally proficient, economically productive, and socially responsible members of their communities.” She nods to Vaughn, who clicks to the next page of the presentation, and she continues. “Children who are born here in America, as American citizens of immigrant parents, face many issues, one of which is the deportation of a parent. When an adult immigrant is deported, they have to decide whether to leave their American-born children in someone else’s care or take them out of the only environment they’ve ever known.”

  I glance at Ryan and she’s leaning forward in her seat, her fingers gripping the skin on her crossed arms. Her head is slowly moving up and down as if in agreement with everything Jade says. I move my gaze between her and Jade and I’m thinking we might be hearing Jade’s life story here. I wonder if Vaughn knows the scoop.

  It takes us all a confused moment to determine where the loud interruption of music is coming from. “Living in America” blares through the room. Jade’s mouth freezes open mid-sentence. All heads turn to the small black cell, skittering across the table in front of Jade’s empty seat like a feverish spider caught in a burst of bright light.

  The corners of her eyes wilt with anxiety and she stares as if in a trance as the phone vibrates another half inch across the table. Vaughn lunges forward, grabs it and walks it to Jade. He holds her elbow and guides her out of the room. The boardroom door swishes shut, and Vaughn is left in the spotlight.

  His hands move over one another, as if he’s washing them in slow motion. “Uhh…I apologize for the interruption.”

  Jillian shifts her head from left to right, looking for someone to share her disgust with. Vaughn presses a humble smile on his face and makes his way to the front of the room. “Jade’s mother is ill and today she’s expecting the call that will give her a diagnosis.” Ryan and Devi exchange wide-eyed looks with one another and Vaughn continues. “This issue we are discussing hits home for her.”

  “Please allow me to continue?” he asks the board.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Trott nods.

  He lets out a long breath and dives in. “For many immigrants, being deported means going back to a country they left long ago, a country completely foreign to their child, most likely lacking in opportunity, health care, and financial stability. In order to break the cycle of poverty and afford their children the chance of a better life, they make the greatest sacrifice of all—they leave their children behind.

  He pauses and his gaze moves over each and every person in the room, measuring their understanding of his cause before he moves into the conclusion.

  “On behalf of Jade and myself, we would ask that you consider the statistics we’ve presented, the millions of children affected, and the great opportunity Trott Ventures has before it to change lives.”

  Jillian’s abrupt voice clips through my thoughts. “I have a question,” she blurts, a measure of offense in her voice. “Do you think it’s wise for Trott Ventures to lend support to an issue that’s controversial? I mean, the immigration question is fraught with problems. Aren’t the kids really in that position because of bad choices their parents made?” She looks left, then right to the other board members.

  Vaughn pauses a long beat and for a moment I think she’s stumped him. He clears his throat. “With all due respect, Jillian, Trott Ventures is already involved. Your company employs more foreign workers than your top three competitors, thirteen percent of your workforce has one foreign-born citizen within their immediate family, and more work visas are issued to Trott Venture employees than any other Fortune 500 company in New York.”

  The room is completely silent. Mr. Trott drops his steepled fingers and swivels his chair half a turn. “He’s right,” he says, directing his gaze to Jillian. Then with a tone that indicates discussions are over, he says, “You’ve given us a lot to think about, Vaughn. Thank you.”

  We’re up. I push back my chair and hold a hand out to Ryan. She starts to set up the laptop as I begin. “Thank you for the opportunity to talk to you about the Pancreatic Cancer Organization.” Ryan’s body freezes. She raises from her position leaning over the laptop, clenches her hands together in front of her waist, and looks at me with a question in her eyes.

  I keep talking and move toward her. “Need help here? My fault,” I say. “I saved it under…” I put my hand on the small of her back and direct us into a lean over the computer. My hand covers hers and with my index finger, I move until the black arrow hits the File menu. She’s looking at me and I see her swallow out of the corner of my eye. “Right here,” I say, pressing my finger down on hers. I turn my head and our eyes are inches apart, locked. “Okay? Got it now?” I watch as realization comes over her. She nods her head slowly.

  “Yeah. I think I got it.” Her voice comes out in a breathy whisper.

  “Good.” I smile at her and give her arm a reassuring squeeze as I move back to the center of the room.

  When she stepped out of our workroom earlier today to compose herself, I read her proposal. Then I cursed myself for having acted like an insensitive ass. I shouldn’t have been giving my dad’s shit more priority than my partner and our assignment today. I changed direction and spent the afternoon preparing to present her proposal, which was so much better than my old grant proposal. Having a mother who died of breast cancer, it was easy for me to relate and pick up where her thoughts left off.

  I begin the presentation with a discussion about the disease itself, reading information Ryan extracted from the PAN-CAN website.

  “Pancreatic cancer is the fourth leading cause of cancer death in the U.S., and is the only one of the most commonly diagnosed cancers with a survival rate in the single digits at just six percent. Think about what that means… Of those diagnosed, only six percent will live beyond five years—a virtual death sentence.”

  I survey the board members. The material she assembled is riveting and easy to deliver. “Pancreatic cancer is anticipated to move from the fourth to the second leading cause of cancer deaths in the U.S. by 2020. As the baby boomers age, it will increase the number of older adults and raise the number of total cancer cases. Startling, isn’t it?” Heads nod. I glance at Ryan and her crystal blue eyes are glowing with gratitude. Her hands are crossed in front of her and there’s a small smile on her lips.

  I move into talking about the PAN-CAN organization and the valuable work it’s doing and finally our conclusion. I’ve covered all of her material, plus the points I added, including the fact that more funding is needed for early diagnosis and detection tools. “I’ve never considered myself a victim of anything, and I’m sure if you ask Ryan, she’d feel the same. We are both survivors of parents who died from the disease of cancer. We both lost parents at a young age.” I’m careful not to take it any further into her personal details, remembering the look on her face when she pushed back from the computer this morning. Instead, I share my own experience.

  “If I’m being truthful with myself, I can only remember my mom from pictures. I can’t remember the sound of her voice at all. She wasn’t at my graduation or any of my high school sporting events. I grew up longing for what other kids had, and I feel the loss of her in my life every day.”

  The Trotts are impressed into quiet contemplation. I doubt I can go much further down in my bank of gut-wrenching memories without breaking. I wrap it up and wait for questions. Thankfully, I think I’ve said enough.

  “Why aren’t there any early detection methods for pancreatic cancer like there are for other cancers?” Jillian snaps.

  I open my mouth but Ryan steps forward to answer her question. “There’s not a test sensitive enough to detect pancreatic cancer in the early stages. The symptoms are commonly confused with other minor ailments. By the time someone knows they have pancreatic cancer, it’s likely they will have an advanced stage.” Jillian nods while Ryan c
hecks the room for further questions.

  “Wonderful presentation, Jett and Ryan. Thank you,” Mr. Trott says, dismissing us from the spotlight.

  I’ve pulled it off. I look across the room at Ryan and she hasn’t moved. She’s staring at me with bright eyes and the smile that I’ve been waiting to see since I sat down next to her in that limo. Her lips move with exaggerated slowness and she mouths out the words, “Rock star.” My chest expands. Yes! Mr. Trott is walking to the front of the room, getting ready to announce today’s winner. Regardless of what he says, I’m pretty sure I just won something.

  Chapter Nine

  Ryan Rose

  We make our way back to our seats and Jett pulls my chair out. What he just did has jarred all of my senses. I’m blown away as if I was standing by the amplifier when he started that show. Jett Trebuchet underestimated me when he sat down in that limo. And now I know I underestimated him.

  Mr. Trott is talking and I’m still watching Jett’s profile—I don’t even care if I’m being rude. Jett’s head rolls a notch my way and our eyes meet. A single black eyebrow raises, and out of the corner of my eye I see his fingers spreading close to my thigh under the table. I lay my fingers in his palm and he closes. The connection between us pulses through me. I feel like jumping him—straddling his lap and holding his face while I plaster kisses up and down his cheeks. I mouth the words “Thank you” to him and squeeze his hand. Someday I will have to tell him just how much it meant to me to present on behalf of the pancreatic cancer organization, but right now I have to look away from him or the tingling behind my eyes will turn into a boardroom meltdown.

  I hear Mr. Trott gearing up to announce the winner. It’s like waking up from a warm dream and realizing you have to walk a mile across campus in the dead of winter to take a final. I drop Jett’s hand and focus on Mr. Trott’s mouth, moving as if in slow motion. My fingertips feel numb and I’m so nervous I can hardly think straight.