The Bennet Women

by Eden Appiah-Kubi

  The best advice she got on this subject ended up coming from Will Pak, of all people. She was sitting in the school’s small art gallery after lunch trying to psych herself up for this conversation when Will sat next to her on the bench. They talked about art for a minute—Will was really excited about the Turner painting on display. EJ tried to keep up her part of the conversation, but he could tell she was a little nervous. Somehow she ended up blurting everything out. Then Will told her a story from his career.

  He said when he was seventeen, he was having trouble making the jump from kid TV to teen roles. Then one day his agent called him with an audition for this sitcom pilot that was pretty much a sure thing. The director and writer were both well known. It sounded like the perfect gig—except his character was a sexless, nerdy Asian stereotype. He said he avoided the conversation for as long as possible, but eventually had to tell his agent that he wouldn’t accept the role, even if offered. He didn’t want to play stereotypes. And if that meant that he did mostly commercials or small parts, he was fine with that. Will said his agent was mad—but not for him passing on this opportunity. She was upset that she was working so hard to give him something he didn’t want.

  “If someone’s going to have your back, they need all the information. Telling your advisor what your goals and desires are—it’s not unreasonable. If she’s someone you trust, she’s going to want to know.”

  It was precisely what EJ needed to hear. Stella had been firmly in her corner since EJ had asked her to become her advisor. She helped balance her schedule, maximize her GPA, and minimize stress. She told EJ which professors were looking for protégés among their students and which ones were looking for girlfriends. She even recommended that EJ take one of her core classes at Smith because the lecturer teaching the course at Longbourn never gave women better than an A minus. Stella also preached the gospel of work-life balance to her undergraduates.

  “She’ll understand,” EJ said to herself, repeatedly, as she climbed the stairs to her advisor’s office. When she finally reached the top floor of the Physics Building, EJ squared her shoulders and did her best to exude cool confidence as she walked through Stella’s open door.

  Her advisor was riffling through her bookshelves when she arrived. “EJ! Good, right on time.” She turned around in her office chair. “Would you like an apple cider doughnut? Donny brought them from his writer’s retreat.”

  EJ loved apple cider doughnuts. This was a sign that the universe was on her side here. She was going to tell Stella all her thoughts. After the usual holiday break pleasantries, she launched right in.

  “I have to be honest, Stella, while I was tremendously honored that you would consider nominating me for the Fields Fellowship, my initial instinct was to say no.”

  “Oh?” Stella’s thin eyebrows hopped up over her large round glasses. She wobbled her head in a way that made her earrings jingle lightly. “Were you feeling burned out?”

  Stella was the first person to even suggest this possibility. “Yes! After my capstone, I just felt like all my resources were depleted, but that wasn’t the only thing. I’m a little weary of the life of an engineering student. I’d like to have a bit more money in my pocket—I’m at the point where, if I’m going to endure the casual racism and sexism that we have to put up with in this field, I want to be paid for it. If I were to do the fellowship, I’d like to start in January of next year so I could work for a bit and raise money for my time over there. I know it wouldn’t be much, but if I could have a head start against being broke . . . Do you think that would be okay?”

  Stella nodded. “They don’t care when you matriculate as long as it’s in the following academic year. Is that all?”

  EJ gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “No. I’m also thinking about my future. I don’t just want a career. I want a partner, and I want to enjoy my life when I’m not in labs. Basically, I want to live in a city, preferably in the UK. I know there’s no official geographic restriction for the fellowship, but is international study discouraged?”

  Stella shook her head vigorously. “Quite the opposite, in fact. The program was started as an exchange between North American and European universities. Before you go on, let me say that you can study whatever you want as well, and I mean whatever. I’ve seen everything from MFA in sculpture to way too many MBAs.” She shook her head. “The only thing the foundation asks is a year of public service after you graduate.”

  EJ sat back in the creaky wooden chair. “Huh,” she said aloud. “Well, that’s good, because I’m interested in doing two one-year master’s programs: the first in historic building preservation and a second in sustainable design. Basically, I want to create the products and materials that help maintain our beautiful old buildings and prepare them for climate change. I know it’s small compared to designing the next Mars rover, but I think it’s important. And while I’m all for discovery, someone’s got to make sure that we keep what we have.”

  “Then let’s do it!” Stella declared, stretching her arms wide. “It’s a little unusual, but I’m confident you can make the argument for both. Is that all, now?”

  EJ checked the list in her lap. That was all, and asking for it was much easier than she expected. She nodded.

  “You’ll apply, then?” Stella asked. At EJ’s nod, she squealed. “I’m so glad!” the older woman effused, clasping her hands together.

  “Thanks, Stella. I know I’m not the typical Fields Fellow genius, but I’ll do my best not to let you down.”

  Stella crossed her arms. “Now stop that. You’re a brilliant girl. You just don’t see that because you compare yourself to the most brilliant person in the room. You know the old Longbourn joke: How do you know you’ve met the dumbest person on campus?” She paused and leaned forward. “He’ll tell you he’s the smartest. Ha!” She chuckled for a bit, then continued. “The only way you’d let me down is by not seeing this through, and I know that’s not in your nature.”

  Stella adjusted the large-framed glasses that made her look like a friendly owl. “I nominated you for two reasons: first, because I know you would take the public-service part seriously—not take something corporate clothed as nonprofit work or blow it off completely by taking the donor option and running to the first oil field you could find.”

  “The donor option?”

  Stella rolled her eyes. “It was introduced recently so that the fellowship ‘wouldn’t hold back entrepreneurs,’ meaning the tech boys. Essentially, if you want out of the public service requirement, you can donate fifty grand instead of completing your service year and go off to make your millions.”

  EJ’s face reacted before she could speak.

  “See!” Stella exclaimed. “I knew that wouldn’t fly with you. You have this strong sense of honor, which frankly, wouldn’t serve you well in I-banking—or most of law—but is still very valuable to engineers. I know I can trust your bridges.”

  She went on. “The second reason I nominated you is also the reason I believe in your success: your discipline. If you get this opportunity, I know there is no force that will be able to stop you from making the most of it. I’ve seen how you work. That internal drive is crucial, especially for women in this field. We don’t often have the boosters that the boys do. What powers us has to come from inside.”

  EJ simply nodded. She’d never known Stella had so much faith in her. Nor had she realized the value of her “wasted years” in ballet until this moment. Even without going pro, dance had given her a thirst for perfection and a relentlessness in pursuit of it. It had shaped her into a potentially awesome engineer.

  “Stella,” she said hesitantly, “I think I can do this.”

  “I know you can, EJ.”

  EJ sat quietly, reflecting on the fact that if she hadn’t had that heart-to-heart with Maya, she wouldn’t have even attempted to do the Fields Fellowship her own way. Hell, she was probably going to chicken out until she talked to Will in the art gallery. Because of those two conve
rsations, she’d found the courage to ask for what she wanted. She still had to back it up with her application . . . but she was going to try. Bennet Women try.

  Will

  What a week! The Longbourn magic seemed to be happening for Will. On Tuesday, the day after he returned to his sublet, he got a call from the anthropology professor who was leasing the place to him. She wanted to come by and get her masks off the walls. Will gladly told her yes. When he got back from lunch and running errands, every single mask was gone. He didn’t realize how much they were messing with his well-being before, but now his mind felt quiet. It was wonderful. He opened a good bottle of wine and put on some Thelonious Monk.

  It is high time, Will thought, that I spent the afternoon in my living room.

  The next day, he went to his 9:00 a.m. Impressionism and Post-Impressionism class with the enthusiasm of someone returning from a vacation. When their professor, Andreas, told the class about the arrival of the Turner painting, Will instantly perked up. He was kind of a Turner superfan. He had read two biographies of the painter and had made all his friends watch Mr. Turner at least once.

  The gallery was Will’s favorite space on campus. It was chronically underused by the student body, which meant it was always peaceful. Also, the school’s curator did a bang-up job in putting exhibits together. The current exhibit, On the Waterfront, was a collection of seaside landscapes from Whistler to Hockney. Today, though, he was interested in only one work. Will moved with elegant speed through the exhibition space until he saw the painting, on its own wall. He noticed someone sitting on the bench in front of the painting, but not looking at it. He stepped a little closer and realized it was EJ. She was wringing her hands and very focused on the notebook on her lap. Will briefly considered quietly backing out of the room. It was strange to see her so soon after he’d realized he felt something for her. He’d barely gotten comfortable with this truth himself. Besides, EJ seemed lost in her own thoughts.

  As Will took his first backward step, his body betrayed him with a loud sneeze. EJ started and turned. “Oh. Hello, Will.”

  She’d changed her hair over the break. Instead of extensions, it was all up in a sort of cornrow French twist. Will felt like he was seeing her face for the first time. It was a lovely face.

  How does her skin seem to glow on a gloomy November day?

  He walked toward her, doing his best to remember what their dynamic was before.

  “Hey, Eej. How was home?” He was surprised to see her shoulders sink as he joined her on the bench.

  After a long silence, she replied with, “It was different,” and tellingly said no more.

  Will didn’t want to press, so he changed the subject. “Are you here for the new Turner?” he asked, pointing forward. She glanced around, confused until she registered that he was talking about the painting in front of her.

  “Oh yeah, it’s lovely.” She went to tuck a couple of loose twists behind her ear out of habit. “I went to Venice while I was on my junior year abroad. It was only for two days but—”

  Will couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “I’m sorry, that’s not acceptable. We have this amazing piece of art here, and you’re not seeing it.” He knew, of all people, EJ could get what he loved about Turner. Someone who had opinions on the Best Cinematography Oscar would have to.

  “I can see it fine,” she grumbled. “It’s right there.”

  Will sputtered. “No—just . . .” In for a penny, in for a pound. “Close your eyes.” The look EJ gave him was skeptical at best. “Please, Eej, humor me.”

  She gave a one-shouldered shrug and finally closed her eyes.

  Will moved close to her and spoke low.

  “Picture it: Venice, eighteen hundreds.” He paused at her giggle. So she does know The Golden Girls. “You’ve spent the morning selling bread in the piazza, where you were caught in a crush of people and surrounded by tall—three-story—buildings. Now that you’ve sold everything, you’re going back home for lunch and to finish the day’s chores, but you crave fresh air. You dodge puddles of water and weave around the wooden carts of fruit sellers and fishmongers.”

  He slid closer to her, and their knees brushed—just for a moment. EJ didn’t seem to notice.

  “Go on,” she said. Her eyes were still closed.

  Will continued. “You finally free yourself from the market and make your way through a series of narrow alleys. Anyone else would lose themselves, but you’re a true Venetian. You know exactly where you’re going. At last, you’re back on one of the wide thoroughfares with plenty of space. The air is fresher here, and it ripples the hem of your skirt. Now you retrieve an apple from your pocket and take a leisurely walk by the canal. You walk over a bridge. The sun is so bright, and the sky is beautifully clear. The basilica gleams in the distance like a pearl. It is the most beautiful day.

  “You walk to the center of the bridge, and the men in boats are going toward the main square. There are too many men in the dinghy. They are singing and sweating. One notices you and almost tips the boat over trying to wave. You hear the staccato splashes of oars hitting the water from all sides. A man in a gondola shouts a marriage proposal, but you ignore him. Your eyes are drawn upward, to the bright blue sky. Only the faintest whisper of clouds. At this brief moment in your busy life, you feel peace. Now, open your eyes.”

  EJ blinked as if waking from a dream. She stood and thoughtfully approached the Turner. After a few moments she took a couple of steps back and, still looking at the painting, unconsciously drew a curve in the air between the basilica and the sky. Then she turned to him, eyes sparkling.

  “It’s like magic: then I didn’t see it, now I do,” she said brightly. She walked back to their bench. “That was amazing. I felt like I really understood what capturing that moment meant. You should do, like, a Reading Rainbow for art. If people could see paintings as moments in a story, maybe they would be more interested.”

  They ended up having a really nice conversation. EJ, who was clearly stressed out about something, unburdened herself to him. He listened and gave her some hopefully helpful advice. She hugged him when she left. Will felt warm all day.

  READING PERIOD

  EJ

  It was the last salsa night at the Tropicana before finals, so most of the Longbourn ballroom team piled into cars and took the one-hour drive over. Since there were enough sober drivers, EJ squished herself in the back of a Jetta with Franz. She intended to have at least one of the club’s embarrassingly ornate drinks tonight. EJ vaguely remembered drinking something blue out of a top hat with four other people the last time they made the trip.

  Aside from the booze, the Tropicana drew people in with the best salsa night within thirty miles and the only social dancing outside of competitions. The best and worst part of going out salsa dancing was salsa culture. On the plus side, it was super open and inclusive, which meant it was considered a faux pas to reject partners when asked to dance. This created a dance-floor meritocracy: the most skilled partners were the most popular regardless of size, age, or height. Unfortunately, this meant that salsa nights attracted a certain kind of sketchy middle-aged guy who reveled in getting close to young women.

  Once the lessons were over and the Longbourn contingent was scattered throughout the dance floor, EJ found that she was the target of one of these sketchy dudes. She’d given him one obligatory dance, on the off chance he had any skill. He did not. In fact, the guy was the worst kind of bad dancer. His palms were sweaty, and he wore way too much cologne. Plus, he counted all his steps aloud and clamped down on both EJ’s wrist and any of her gentle attempts to back-lead.

  She thought she’d done her duty after the first dance, but he just wouldn’t leave her alone—even after she excused herself once to the bathroom and twice to the bar. Everywhere she went, there he was. Franz found the whole thing funny in a way that made EJ want to punch him—but he also helpfully swept her onto the dance floor every time the guy got close enough to tap her on th
e shoulder.

  They were doing a highly unskilled bachata when the song trailed off. EJ spotted her eager suitor over Franz’s shoulder and asked her friend if he wanted to step outside for a cigarette.

  “I quit, remember? That’s why I was so angry for most of September,” he said with a light laugh. “Do you smoke now?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I’m thinking I should start.” Her shoulders dropped as the floor began to clear and she resigned herself to either getting a ride home, or dancing with the gross guy again so she could get thirty minutes of peace. Leaning against a column, EJ looked in his direction. Captain Sketch spotted her and began making his way over. Just as she was preparing to receive his clammy embrace, EJ was swept into a much more pleasant hug.

  “There you are, sweetheart! Sorry I’m late.” She found herself held by a stranger who happened to look like a matinee idol. He had wavy blond hair and cheekbones to cut glass, with a muscular frame that was just shy of burly. She beamed up at him, affecting familiarity.

  “That’s all right, sugar dumpling. I’m glad you could get out of your MMA training tonight. Let’s get you a drink.”

  They made their way to the bar with his arm around her waist. She risked a look back, and Captain Sketch was gone, on the hunt for someone else. EJ shook her head.

  The things you have to do so some creep doesn’t follow you to your car.

  At the bar EJ discreetly shook the hand of her rescuer. “Thank you and I’m buying,” she said with a smile. “My name is EJ, by the way.”

  “Jordan Walker, milady.” He kissed her hand with a courtly bow.

  EJ suppressed a flutter. Just that little interaction was a reminder that she hadn’t gotten laid in a long time. “You, Sir Knight, are very smooth, and it may be effective. What are you drinking?”

  Usually, she wasn’t attracted to blond guys, but Jordan looked like if James Dean and Nureyev had a hot son who wrote poetry.