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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!”
