Waves and Light: Opposites Attract Series

by Elizabeth J. Merrill

  She glanced at the card and raised her eyebrows. “I’ll e-mail you my schedule. My e-mail address is on my CV.”

  “Of course.” I shook her hand and strolled back to my office to finish my work for the day.

  Chapter Three

  B.D.

  Thank goodness! I got the job. Just as I leave the building my phone vibrates. Mom is calling me. She must have remembered about my interview!

  “Hi Mom! I got the job!”

  “Job, what job?” Mom replied sounding more overwhelmed than usual.

  “You know, at the tutoring center.”

  “Right, congratulations. Good! I….umm….look I was in a car accident. Someone rear-ended me on the loop.” I could tell the tears were starting to well-up by her voice.

  “That’s terrible. Are you okay? Where are you now?”

  “They just released me from the ER. I’m fine. Really. Just a little whiplash. They told me to stay in bed for a few days,” her voice cracked on days.

  “Is someone coming to pick you up? Where’s the car?”

  “I think they towed the car somewhere. I’m not sure. I’m not sure who can pick me up. And I don’t know where the car is.”

  “Take a deep breath. First, let me call Mrs. Wimbish to pick you up. Which hospital are you at?”

  “St. Joseph’s” she wheezed out.

  “Relax. I’ll call right back.”

  I hung up on Mom and called Mrs. Wimbish who is retired and is always willing to help out. Once she was on her way, I called Mom back. “Mrs. Wimbish is on her way. Just sit down in the lobby. Did they give you any papers?”

  I heard shuffling in the background. “Oh yes, they gave me instructions on caring for whiplash and a prescription for something. I think I’m supposed to take it for pain. And here’s the police report. Oh. Apparently a Lagos Produce van hit me from behind. They towed the car to the police impound. That sounds bad.”

  “Look Mom, it’s not so bad. Our insurance company will help you deal with their insurance company. They should cover your medical expenses, the impound, fixing the car, even provide a rental car. You need to call our insurance company as soon as you get home. Did you get their insurance number?”

  “Let me see…oh yes, here it is in the police report.”

  “You need to give that information to our insurance company, and they’ll tell you what to do.”

  “What are we going to do? Now I don’t have a car. I don’t know how long it will take to fix ours—if they can even fix it. I’m sure they won’t cover all the medical expenses.”

  “They should, but you should still be okay. Do you still have some money left from selling that brooch?”

  “Some—it’s just—I was hoping to use that for a nice birthday for Veronica. She’s been trying so hard. She even got a job at the mall.”

  “She got a job? Great! You probably can still use some of the money for a present, and don’t worry about the car. I got the other job on campus. I was going to bring my car back anyway and lend it to Veronica. I don’t need it. And I’ll figure out where you can sell more of your jewelry—nothing you care about—just some of the pieces you don’t like so much. You should go through the pieces in the safety deposit box and pick several that you don’t see yourself wearing much and sell those for an emergency fund—so you don’t have to worry when things go wrong. Maybe you could even use a bit of it to supplement your income.”

  “Maybe…we’ll see. When are you coming home then.”

  Right then I see David walking past me, but tell Mom. “I’ll come home Saturday morning. I hate driving on the Katy Freeway on Friday afternoon. Then I can take a bus back Sunday afternoon.”

  David stopped with a frown on his face. And he looks fantastic in an odd kind of mismatched way. He’s wearing this fabulous blue suit that looks a little small, but brings out his eyes and shows off his narrow hips and broad shoulders, but he’s wearing a darker blue T-shirt with the suit. Who wears a T-shirt with suit?

  “That would be great honey. Maybe you can help me work some of this stuff out, but I wish you didn’t have to ride the bus home. Doesn’t it stop at every small town between here and Austin?” Mom dithered.

  “It only stops at Magnolia and a few other towns whose names I can’t remember. It’s fine. Just call the insurance company when you get home and look out for Mrs. Wimbish. Don’t forget to fill the prescription on your way home. Take notes when you talk to the insurance company so we can discuss it when I get there. What about school tomorrow?”

  “They told me not to come in until Monday when I called to tell them I’d been in an accident. And I’ll look out for Mrs. Wimbish and try to remember to take notes.”

  “Bye Mom. Take care of yourself, and I’ll sort everything this weekend.” I hung up and nodded to David.

  “Trouble?” he asked.

  “Oh my mom was in a car accident, and I need to lend her my car until she gets the insurance stuff straightened out. It’s not a big deal. I was probably going to lend my car to my sister anyway, so I don’t have to buy a parking sticker.”

  “They are expensive. Look, I was planning on going home to Houston this weekend anyway. I could give you a ride back on Sunday. Where in Houston do you live?”

  “Idlywood.”

  “Really!?! Me too. How come I didn’t see you in school,” he asked.

  “I went to Regent’s until my senior year. We probably never went to the same school at the same time.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I’ve got your telephone number from your CV, and you’ve got mine. Just text me when you think you want to head back to Austin on Sunday, and I’ll pick you up. Okay?”

  “Okay? Yeah great! That would be great. I hate riding the bus,” I replied.

  Maybe David Slade isn’t quite as socially inept as I thought.

  David

  Here was my chance to fix her look! I’ll just call Mom and have her pull some samples for her. She’s so short, I’m sure I’ll have to have them taken up, but it will be worth it. I’ll tell her alterations are on the house so she won’t balk. We do get an employee discount, and it will be totally worth the cost to never have to see that hideous jacket on her hot body again. If Mom could just manage to find a suit, a cocktail dress, some decent casual tops, and some shoes, I could take her to all the official Fineman scholar functions without being an embarrassment. I wouldn’t be doing it for myself; I would be doing it for our profession. I needed to stamp out the tired dorky physics professor trope. If one of us looks bad, it makes all of us look bad.

  I dialed up Mom and explained the situation. Mom said she’d be happy to do it, but she would need her measurements. So how to convince her to let me take her measurements and dress her without telling her she looked like she just stepped out of a seventies horror flick.

  B.D.

  In my dorm room, I shucked my “fancy clothes” and opted for pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I had just settled down to get in some reading before Wendy came by to go to dinner with me, when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was 281, so it could be someone calling about Mom’s accident.

  “Hello?”

  “B.D.? It’s David…David Slade.”

  Great! I guess I’ll be riding the bus after all. David started talking in a wheedling tone. “Look, I know money can be a bit tight when you’re in school and all….”

  “Sure.”

  “So…I have kind of a sweet deal on clothes…my mother’s a buyer for Neimans.”

  Ah…That explains it! His mom probably coordinates his outfits. “I understand. That’s great for you...I guess.”

  He chuckles. “Uhhh, no, you don’t…I feel a bit guilty about all my mother’s clothing bounty, and I’d like to share especially since she has ten times more women’s samples than men’s.”

  “You’d like to share. The clothes your mother gives you?”

  “No. You don’t understand. I asked my mother and she says she has som
e samples that might work for you, but she needs your measurements. She’ll pull some stuff from last year she’d be giving away anyway, and you can try some stuff on,” David explained.

  “I’m not much for trying on clothes. They never seem to fit right anyway,” I complained.

  ”First, off-the-rack clothes don’t fit most people—that’s what alterations are for. And…B.D. as a Fineman scholar you’ll be going to luncheons and banquets, meeting with industry professionals, giving papers at conferences, and they just won’t take you seriously if you’re not dressed seriously. It can be really difficult to pull together even the beginnings of a professional wardrobe on a scholarship even with some money on the side. I’ve been lucky. My mother has made sure I always look good, and it’s paid off. Stanford and Berkeley have already encouraged me to apply for their graduate programs, and I got several lucrative coding jobs over the summer from people I met at a Fineman luncheon, and while they knew I was a Fineman scholar they didn’t see my test scores. They hired me because I looked like a professional. I would like to pass on some of my bounty to a junior scholar such as yourself. Just think of it as mentoring. I could give your measurements to my mom; she’ll pull some stuff that you can try on. If some of it needs a bit of alteration, Neiman’s provides free alterations to employees.” He sounded like some kind of work force commission video.

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” David lied. “We’ll just get you a few professional things and maybe Mom can dig up some casual pieces to supplement your wardrobe as well. You can just come down to Neimans on Saturday afternoon.”

  “I guess I could…”

  “It will be worth it. It’s never too early to project a professional image. So what are your measurements?” He droned on like a self-help guru.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I wear an 8 and sometimes a 14. It kind of depends on how something is cut.”

  “Of course, that’s why we need your measurements. It’s the only way to accurately pull the right size.”

  “I don’t know what they are. My roommate might have a tape measure. I could ask her when she gets in and take them.”

  “Look I’ve got an hour before I need to be somewhere. I have a tape measure. Why don’t I come down to your room and take them?“ he offered.

  “I don’t know. Isn’t letting you know my measurements a bit like telling you my weight?”

  “They’re just numbers. I promise just to write them down and forget them immediately after I text them to my mother.”

  “Okay. I don’t have anything going on right now either. Are you on campus?”

  “Jester.”

  “Of course, I’m on the 11th floor.—1171. It’s a Sophie Germain prime. I asked for it specifically.“

  “Yeah…cool….See you in a bit.”

  David

  Even though I heard her say them, I honestly had a hard time picturing such words springing from B.D.’s perfect, pink lips. Those lips should be discussing the latest juicy couture line not Sophie Germain primes. The whole idea made me uncomfortable. Still I was determined to do what I could to break the nerd stereotype and give myself a good view from my tutoring center throne. B.D. would have clothes that showed off her considerable assets if I had anything to say about. I shoved my tape measure into my pocket and headed downstairs.

  I knocked on 1171 and B.D. answered the door looking a bit flustered. Her cheeks were slightly pink; her hair was down, creating a glorious burnished halo around her face. She was wearing Hello Kitty pajama bottoms and a white “mathletes” T-shirt that made it abundant clearly that her bra didn’t fit properly. Her breasts were spilling over the top. Not very attractive, but at least it confirmed my belief in the objective hotness B.D. was hiding with bad clothing choices.

  “Look,” she said in a slightly embarrassed tone. “I really appreciate the offer, but it seems a bit...personal to have you help me with my professional wardrobe even with your connections and all. I’m not so sure I can accept. And I’m not so poor I have to take charity clothes.”

  “Don’t think of it as charity. I’m mentoring. The clothes would be part of my mentoring duties. I’m passing my wisdom down to the next generation of Fineman scholars.”

  She gave me a skeptical look. “Have you offered such services to any of the other Fineman scholars?”

  I gave her a smug look. “Yes, I have. I took Wang in and got him fitted with some nice pants.” That was really more of a public service. His plumber’s butt when he bent over to tutor someone was frightening students and staff alike, but she didn’t need to know that.

  She chewed her lip and glanced to the left like she was clearly deliberating. “Still…”

  I explained to her in a tone I generally reserved for recalcitrant freshmen who didn’t do homework. “You really need clothes from this century. Corduroy hasn’t been appropriate for adults in decades. Decades! Where did you get that suit from anyway, your mother?”

  She blushed and looked at me a bit guiltily. “It’s her lucky suit. It’s the suit she was wearing when she met my father. She made it herself. She’s not thin enough to wear it anymore, but she likes the idea of me wearing it. It reminds me of my family,” she trails off.

  “Really…you’re wearing your mother’s clothes,” I accuse.

  “Okay, but I would prefer that I take my own measurements. It’s…”

  “I got it.” I said in my most reassuring voice. “Asking for someone’s measurements is a little like asking someone’s weight or age. I tell you what. I’ll just start the text to my mother and then you can have my phone and punch in the numbers. Once we send the text, and I get confirmation from my mother, I ’ll delete it. I promise not to look.”

  She twitches her lips like Tabitha on Bewitched, “Okay, but you better delete it.”

  “I will. Scout’s honor.” I hold up three fingers and look her earnestly in the eye then pull out my phone and tape measure before she changes her mind. I furiously text my mother and ask B.D. out loud, “How tall are you? That’s not too embarrassing to ask is it?”

  “No,” she blushes slightly. She’s gorgeous.

  “5’3.”” She replies. Fun sized! I knew it. She’s even a bit shorter than I thought. My mother replied to my text announcing her readiness, and I made sure she wants the standard measurements chest, waist, height etc. Then without warning her, I whipped the tape measure over B.D.’s head and handed her the phone.

  I started to bring the tape measure together around her chest and brushed her left breast with the back of my hand and my dick twitched, and I twisted to hide my erection. She grabbed the tape, glared at me, and ground out, “I’ll do it!”

  “That’s probably best.” I answered. “Mind if I sit?” I asked pointing to the bed that’s covered in a quilt that I suspected was hers.

  “Go for it.” She said while she’s pulling the tape taut.

  “Not too tight. You don’t want to wear your clothes that tight.” I warned her. She backed off a bit. I suspect the bad bra was queering her chest measurement, but I didn’t say anything. She typed in the number and wrapped the tape around her waist.

  “Turn around. Let me make sure it’s not twisted.” Sure enough, it’s twisted up in back. I reached over and smoothed out the tape around her tiny waist.

  “There. Read it now.” She glanced down at the tape, turned her body, and furtively typed in the number.

  Finally she slid the tape to her hips, and I reached over and adjusted it and felt a little jolt of electricity as I touched her hip. “Let me help.” I offered.

  She gave me the furtive side eye. “I promise I won’t look at the number. I just want it to be accurate.” I explained.

  “Fine. Thanks.” She replied.

  “Let’s get your sleeve and leg length. Hold the end of the tape in your arm pit.” She did this like she’s done it before. “You don’t mind if I read your sleeve length, do you?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “20” She typ
ed it in the phone.

  “And your outside leg length.” I’m glad women use outside leg length. Getting her in-seam would ratchet up the tension too much. I look down and read it. “27”

  She typed it in and sent it.

  “What should I call your mother?”

  “Huh?” I asked, confused.

  “What should I call your mother? I want to thank her.”

  “Oh, Candi, call her Candi,” I insisted.

  “As in Candice? Shouldn’t I call her Mrs. Slade or something?”

  “No definitely not that! She goes by Ms. Merriweather. That’s her maiden name. She changed it back after the divorce.” She typed a message to my mother. I can tell she addressed it to Ms. Merriweather. Whatever. She handed me the phone back, and I sent another text to make sure my mom got what she needed.

  “Congratulations!” My mother texted. “You’ve managed to find the first Barbie physics major. You know anything I find will need major alterations.”

  “I know. I’m good for it. I’m still flush from the programming gig. I don’t even need the tutoring gig, but it looks good on the CV.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do,” my mother texted. “I’m not making any promises. Tell her Saturday at 2pm.”

  “We’re good. She wants to see you at 2pm.” I told B.D. And I promised to delete the texts. I looked her up and down. “Uh…what were you going to wear on Saturday?”

  “What?” she asked in an annoyed voice.

  I guess I am being a bit of a prick, but I wanted her to look good for my mother. “What are you wearing when you go see my mother?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to Neimans right? How about this?” She pulls out a red and blue shapeless sun dress.