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Maybe it’s SpaceX, they’re a prestigious young company. Or GeoTech,
they were advertising for a polymer engineer in their London lab. Or, he said it started with the research paper. Maybe it’s one of the British auto manufacturers.
Professor Tillman finally passes me the papers in his hand as my heart is ready to beat out of my chest. But he hasn’t let them go.
As I have one hand on them, he continues, “Now, it’s just an interview, I can’t promise you the job. But I know a higher-up, and well, he owes me a favor. They read the paper, this job is unexpectedly open, and, of course, I told them you’d be perfect.”
Manners be damned, I snag the papers out of his hand and try to control myself from dreaming of the next step in my career, the new and exciting opportunity I begin now.
No.
No, no, no. What the hell is this? Some kind of sick joke? Am I being punished for something I’ve done in a past life, despite not believing in reincarnation? Maybe this is a sign I should start.
“Can you believe it?” Professor Tillman smacks the table and taps the papers.
“No,” I mutter, staring at the lob listing.
No, I cannot believe it.
There is a sinking feeling in my gut, it radiates down from my chest. I have diligently avoided this for ten freaking months, and now the logo stares me down like I’m an animal trapped in a cage.
This is just… well, it’s goddamn ridiculous, is what it is.
“Imperium! You have an interview with Imperium, Emily!” I lift my face and see Professor Tillman’s eyes as round as saucers.
Shit shit shit.
How am I going to get out of this? I’m not doing this shit. I’m not ready.
“Umm, I don’t know about this,” I start fidgeting with the papers and creating plausible excuses as to why I will absolutely never, ever attend this interview.
“Don’t be nervous. I know it’s an enormous opportunity, but you would be perfect for this role. They’d be foolish not to snap you up!”
“Right,” I clear my throat and stall, fight the panic from within. “It’s just that, I’m not really interested in Formula 1.”
I only watch every free practice session, qualification session, and race, in secret. I only have fake usernames on the F1 subreddit and a few other social platforms created to indulge my neurotic behavior, which, at this point, can only be described as cyber-stalking.
But I’m not interested.
“Nonsense, half of the engineering students are here to land a job in Formula 1. And you, my dear Emily, are on the fast track in! Do you know how lucky you are to be considered just out of college?”
Professor Tillman is right, of course. An overwhelming number of students are here chasing dreams of F1. London is surrounded by six of the most successful racing teams, and Cambridge has several degrees catering to the specialized industry. This part of the UK is even called Motorsports Valley.
But I did not sign up for that. I came to Cambridge despite the proximity to everything F1.
I’m here running away from my F1 dreams.
F1 nightmares, more like it.
“Thank you for the recommendation, truly. I’m sorry, this just isn’t right for me, though.” I push the papers across the table back toward him and do my best to remain professional, polite, sane.
“Not right for you? What are you on about? It is a Tire and Performance Engineer position, and it’s available immediately, in the middle of the season. It’s custom made for you, did you read the description?” Professor Tillman’s bushy brows are furrowed, and his face is getting red. I’ve never seen him angry before.
I glanced over the description. If it were at another company in another industry and, preferably, on another continent, it would be perfect.
“I’m not qualified,” I stammer in a desperate attempt to get out of this. I want to slink back to my flat and reassess my life choices over a stiff drink.
“Don’t insult me,” Professor Tillman barks in an uncharacteristic, bitter tone. “I am your advisor and professor, and my name is listed alongside yours on that research paper. If you feel unqualified, then that is a reflection upon me.”
