by Erin Mallon
“You’re welcome!”
“Have you gotten that out of your system?”
“Yes! And I’m sorry! That was completely disrespectful of me! Also, am I yelling!? I think I’m yelling!”
“You are, yes.”
“Alright. Dialing it down. I am dialing it down.”
“Calliope. Every woman on earth has had mishaps and misfortunes when it comes to eyebrow grooming. After over a decade of my generation plucking and thinning incessantly, do you know how incensed I was when we were told that now to be considered beautiful, we needed full and bushy brows like those caterpillars that have landed on your face ?”
“It was a natural microblading situation without the blade” I mumble sheepishly. They should be fading in about a week.”
“I don’t care one bit about your grooming habits, Miss FitzGerald. What I do care about are your interactions with your team, with your fellow museum staff, and with yourself. I will not tolerate hearing you call one of our female employees featherbrained again. Do you understand me?”
“I do. I understand, and I apologize for that.”
“We women scientists have to work together. Lift one another up.”
“We do?”
“You disagree?”
“No! No, I agree completely. I just didn’t know you agreed.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Well, you’ve been… You’ve been pretty…”
“Pretty what?”
“Hard on me.”
“I absolutely have. A life in science isn’t easy for any woman. I want to train you to be prepared and to be strong and steady for the realities of that. However, I do not want you to be combative or unnecessarily harsh or argumentative. That won’t help you find your footing. It won’t help you build a career full of exciting challenges and discoveries. And I get the sense that’s the kind of career you’re looking to have. Am I right?”
“Completely right, yes.”
“The problem I was referencing has nothing to do with your eyebrow grooming practices and everything to do with your eyebrow communication.”
“Sorry, what? I mean, fuck you, what? Sorry! Dr. Knowles, I am so sorry for that! I was—”
“Using sorry as a filler.”
“Yes!” How did she know?
“We women need to stop doing that immediately.”
“Yes! You get it! I guess I just haven’t found a replacement for sorry yet, so fuck you comes out.” Apparently, I am a woman of extremes.
“I can understand that, but you absolutely have to get your language under control. At least in the workplace.”
“I do. Yes. You are one hundred percent right about that. And most things. Obviously.”
“Calliope, let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“When you walked in here a few minutes ago and looked at my face, what did you feel?”
“Abject terror?”
“Alright.”
“Intimidated?”
“Sure.”
“Out of my league?”
“Fantastic. And do you know why you felt all those things?”
“Because you’re a formidable woman with decades of work in the field, you’ve written three textbooks on paleontology, and I can only dream of achieving what you’ve achieved before I die?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Well, yes, all of that is true. But no. You felt all those things because my eyebrows did not invite you in.”
“Excuse me?”
“Have you ever noticed that I move very few muscles on my face when someone is speaking to me, particularly my eyebrows and forehead?”
“Now that you mention it, yes! It’s unnerving!”
“Drives people crazy, yes.”
“So you do that on purpose?” I’m completely floored by this.
“To drive people crazy? No. To stay in my power? Yes. As soon as the eyebrows go up”—she demonstrates and looks like a completely different person—“you’ve given away your power. But keep the eyebrows steady…” She demonstrates again and looks more like the strong, intimidating woman I’ve been studying. Though something tells me I won’t be quite so intimidated moving forward.
“And you make them wonder. You make them err on the side of giving you the respect and consideration you deserve. You don’t need to throw a fit or threaten people or cause drama to gain people’s respect, Calliope. In fact, that’s a surefire way to lose it. You can sit strong in your own power. Let me be clear: it is not your job to be more palatable for others, particularly men. It is not your job to be the accommodating woman who is always smiling and making things okay for everyone around her. But it is your job to work well with others and to be civilized and strong.”
I just gawk at her, totally in awe.
“Just a tip from one woman to another,” she says with a nod.
“Wow, you’re like… mentoring me.”
“That’s a part of my job, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I suppose it is. Thank you.”
“Well, I take pride in my work, and that means I want to take pride in yours as well. All right, enough of that. The second reason I summoned you here today was to address the South Dakota trip you mentioned yesterday.”
“Yes! Oh my gosh…” I feel the energy in my body revving up with hope.
“Easy…” she warns. “I’m sorry to say that the position as my assistant on the dig is already filled.”
“Oh. Okay.” I’m almost positive my face just fell. I have work to do on this muscle control thing.
“But,” she says vibrantly, “if that changes for any reason and you continue to do outstanding work throughout your internship, I’d be willing to reopen that discussion with you.”
“Amazing. Thank you. Wait. Continue to do outstanding work? You think I’m doing outstanding work?”
“Chewing out your teammates and spewing profanities aside? Yes. Calliope, I’ve been reading your daily reports for The Trix and Monty Project so far. They read more like research papers than meeting minutes. Where are you finding time to do all this?”
“Oh. Well, I’m a bit of a night owl. And I just feel so inspired listening to you and Lionel – and occasionally even Bruce – throughout the day, that when I get home at night I can’t seem to stop working, writing, envisioning… So I thought I’d include my ideas for the exhibit and additional programming in the notes you asked me to keep.” I’m suddenly overcome with doubt. “I can stop doing that though. I don’t mean to overstep.”
“I appreciate your insights and your passion, Calliope. Keep it up.”
She gives me a rare smile.
“Thank you so much,” I beam. “What was the third reason for my… summoning?”
“Oh, yes. I’m going to need you to chaperone the annual parent and child ‘Scientific Sleepover’ next Saturday night at the museum.”
This does not actually sound awesome to me, but of course, I would do anything to keep this camradery flowing between us, so I say brightly, “Awesome! I’d love to.”
“Fantastic. You’re dismissed.”
I’m dismissed. That was abrupt. This woman certainly takes me all over the place.
“Thank you, Dr. Knowles.”
I stand, gather my shoes, and walk to the door on stockinged feet. Right before I exit her office, she says, “Oh, and Calliope?”
“Yes?”
“Please secure three other responsible people to chaperone with you. I’d like to see you making some friends while you’re with us this spring.”
I look at her, surprised.
“No one gets through life alone, Miss FitzGerald.”
Chapter Thirteen
ME: Hey! Can I call?
SASHA:No. At booze thing w Dad.
Sup?
ME: Want to chaperone a sleepover at the museum with me next Saturday night?
SASHA: Slpovr?? Yes! So IN! Omg best memories frm musm sleepover as kid! Went evry yr 2 musm n NYC. Kids wd cut a bitch 2 get spot 4 sleeping bag undr big ass whale.
ME: Your texting abbreviations drive me nuts.
SASHA: Sry.
ME:Well, we don’t have a whale in Philly. But we do have a giant walk-through heart. Oh and Bee-Tee-Dubs? I kissed that guy Ralph in there today.
SASHA: Kissing?!?? Since when r we ksng this guy? Also, ur completely msng point of phrase BTW spelling out Bee-Tee-Dubs.
ME: Whatever, I do what I want!
SASHA:Ur doing Cartman’s voice right now, aren’t u?
ME:You know I am! And I am kissing Ralph. There’s no we in this, my friend.
SASHA:Ur ksng him right now!? He’s there?!?
ME:No, I meant in general, I am kissing him, not you. No we statements necessary. This is why texting blows. You can’t get emphasis across in a text.
SASHA: Ur the yngest old persn ive evr met. Nxt time il just fax u or page u on ur beepr, k?
ME: Sounds perfect. Ooh. He’s calling. Gotta go. Bee-Are-Bee.
SASHA:Ur trribl at txt speak.
ME:Ell-Oh-Ell.
SASHA: Oh, lord.
ME:Ell-Oh-Ell means lots of love, right?
SASHA: No grndma, it means LAUGH OUT LOUD.
ME: Oh, that’s dumb! Texting is dumb.
SASHA: Ansr phone, u dork. Have phone sex 4 me! TTYL
Phew. That was exhausting. Give me an old-fashioned phone call over texting any day of the week.
I look down. Oh shit. Missed call.
Wait. How did I even get his number in my phone? Did he program it into my phone the other night at my place when I wasn’t looking? Is he a creepy creeper?
Do I call him back? No. I don’t, right? I make him wonder? I have no idea how this dating stuff works. Wait. Are we dating? No, we’re not dating. We just kissed. We’re not dating.
But man, it was a gooooood kiss, wasn’t it?
What would Dr. Knowles do in a situation like this?
Ugh. I already dislike what this is doing to my head. My internal monologue is irritating even to myself. Related sidebar: I saw this study online recently, claiming that not everyone has an internal monologue. Whaaat? How is that possible? I mean, what are people’s brains doing if not talking to them all the time? I have absolutely no idea what that would be like.
The phone rings again.
He’s calling back? Less than five minutes later and he’s calling back? I pick up this time.
“Dude. Major party foul.”
“What do you mean?”
We skip the hellos and get right into it.
“Well, I guess it’s not so much a party foul as it is a dating foul.”
“What is?”
“Calling back again less than five minutes after the initial call? You’re supposed to wait until I call you back. Don’t you know the rules?”
“Oh. What do I care about the rules?”
“You really don’t, do you?”
“Not about rules like this. Besides, you likely weren’t going to call me back, were you?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“Alright. I’ll take it. And don’t think I missed it a moment ago when you used the word dating.”
“It was a slip. I just meant that—”
“It’s all good. I’ll let that one slide.”
This guy.
He continues, saving me from myself. “I just wanted to say that it was really nice today. Spending time with you.”
“Yeah. It was.”
“Cool. We’re in agreement then. I hope it’s not too late to call?”
“Nah.”
“So. Whatcha doin’?”
“Just doing a little writing.”
“Friends on in the background?”
“You bet it is.”
“Which episode?”
“‘The One with Unagi.’”
“A classic. You know what I was going to say yesterday, before you cut me off with your impressive monologue on the inherent problems in Friends, was that I’ve noticed science geeks like ourselves often relate to Ross. Even aspire to be more like him in some respects.”
“Whaaat? Ross is a total basket case!”
“True, but he does get the girl and get it on with her in a planetarium. I don’t know if you’ve noticed… but I, myself, have access to a planetarium.”
“Ralph! I am shocked! Are you insinuating that you’d like to do things with me in your planetarium?”
He laughs.
“Nah.” I can almost hear him blush. “I’m just being… Nah. Anyway, what are you writing?”
“Secret.”
“What you’re writing is a secret?”
“Yup!”
“Why?”
“If I told you, I’d be letting you in on the secret.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with what I spotted in your notebook last night, does it?”
“You really don’t understand what the word secret means, do you?”
“Alright. You keep your secret. I think it’s cute.”
“Ugh. Cute.” I scoff.
“What? You got a beef with the word cute?”
“I’m surprised a vegan would use the word beef so casually as you just did, but okay. Yes, cute is the absolute worst! So insulting. I had this high school teacher who forbade us from using the word. Banned it and told us to correct anyone who used it to describe us. Know what cute actually means?”
“Uh… I guess I don’t, no.”
“Attractive in a pretty or endearing way. Clever or cunning, especially in a self-seeking or superficial way. Fuck cute.”
“Oh yeah, fuck it indeed. That right there is some bullshit.”
“Thank you, Ralph. Yeah, I remember when my first ever article was published in the Intelligencer when I was seventeen and—”
“You write a lot, huh?”
“Sort of? Not really. I come from a family of writers. Or would-be writers. Whatever, that’s a whole other story. As I was saying… when my first article was published in the local newspaper, my chemist uncle, who’s always seemed to have some weird competitive thing with me, said, ‘Read your article about the Cretaceous period. It was cute.’ I wanted to pop him.”
“Was that your impression of your uncle?”
“Yup, he’s a bit of a doofus.”
“Well done then. Hey, as long as we’re being sticklers for vocabulary, the word is pronounced for-bad.”
“Huh?”
“You said your high school teacher for-BADE you from using the word cute. It’s spelled forbade, but actually pronounced forbad.”
“No shit!”
“Yes shit.”
“Wow. Thank you for setting me straight. Ignorance is the enemy. Anyway, in conclusion, cute is diminutive. It’s denigrating. It’s disparaging.”
“You sound like a thesaurus. Ooh. Thesaurus. That sounds like one of your dinos, doesn’t it? The-Saurus? Get it?”
“Aren’t you too young and childless for dad jokes?”
“I’m older than you are, and who says I don’t have kids?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! That was really… Gosh, how many kids do you have?” I try to sound supportive.
“I’m messing with you.” He bursts out with that happy throaty chuckle thing he does again. “I don’t have any children.”
“Oh. Good.” Why do I sound so relieved?
“That I know of, of course.”
“Of course,” I say snidely. “For the record, your dad joke needs some work. A dino called The-Saurus really gives you no
information about her. The-Saurus basically breaks down to The Lizard or The Reptile. And they were all reptiles of some sort. So, what kind of reptile are we talking about here? If you’re going for a dino who loves language, then Lingua-saurus would be a way more evocative and effective choice for a name.”
“Calliope, it was a dumb joke. I was just trying to relate to you on a subject I know very little about. I left my dino days back in preschool.”
“You and most of the population. So sad. Why do people stop learning about these beauties? It’s such fascinating stuff! Alright, check this out. Tyrannosaurus Rex breaks down to Tyrant Lizard King. Triceratops means Three Horned Face. Velociraptor means Speed Thief. And Archaeopteryx means Ancient Feather. How rad is that? You just hear the names and instantly know what kind of creatures you’re dealing with. God, Greek and Latin are so comforting. And such fucking turn-ons.”
“Are they, though?”
“YES! Mr. MacMaster taught us Latin freshman year of high school.”
“You took Latin in high school?
“Yup. All girls’ private Catholic academy. The Catholics love their Latin. In a sea of disapproving nuns, there stood manly Mr. MacMaster like a sex beacon, wearing his button-up oxford and his pleated khakis and smelling like Polo Sport. I was glued to his lessons. Fell in love with words. Aced every test. There are just so many words in the English language, so we should choose to use the ones we actually mean, don’t you think? Kills me how people just throw meaningless words around without any thought.”
A few hours later—yes, a few hours later—we’re still on the phone, and we’ve gotten a little loopy. At least I have.
“… yeah, my left boob is bigger than my right. Drives me nuts. I used to pad the right to match the left during high school, but that gets complicated. Oh damn, I said boob. I’m trying to say breast instead since boob sounds so juvenile. But breast sounds like I’m trying to be all highbrow about the sacks of flesh on my chest, and that just isn’t me. I always feel like I’m playing a role when I say breast.”
“What kind of role?”
“Like I’m a Russian spy in a sexy novel set on a yacht with lots of high-speed boat chases?”
“That’s quite specific.”
“I guess.”
“Well, if it helps at all, my left nut hangs lower than the right.”
