“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “He doesn’t really . . .” exist.
“Don’t worry,” Levi tells Guy. “Tim’s mild mannered.”
I face-palm internally. I can’t believe Levi told Guy that I’m married to Tim. It’s the worst, most easily disprovable lie ever. Couldn’t he make up a random dude?
“Should I still get a groin protection cup?” Guy asks.
Levi shrugs. “Might be safest.”
I look down at my chickpeas, wishing they were Levi’s lunch. Fruit’s so much better. Believable lies are so much better.
“You sure you’re not mad, Bee?” Guy asks, a touch concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
This is what I get for asking The Wardass for help. I give Levi the stink eye, snatch another strawberry, and sigh. “Nope. Not mad at all.”
* * *
? ? ?
REIKE: What do you mean, Levi lied and said you’re married to Tim???
BEE: He saw how flustered I was and tried to help me out.
REIKE: First: Guy Fieri has no business putting you in that position.
BEE: NOT his name!
BEE: But valid point.
REIKE: Second: this is a terrible lie, easily refutable if Guy Fieri talks with literally anyone else who knows you. It’s going to bite you in the ass.
BEE: I am aware.
REIKE: Third: Levi does know you’re not married to Tim, right?
BEE: Yeah. He and Tim are buds, they collaborate. Levi was the one who told Tim to find someone better back in grad school.
REIKE: Honestly, you should have just told Guy Fieri no. You screwed up.
BEE: I know but you’re my sister and I’m human I NEED LOVE AND COMPASSION NOT JUDGMENT
REIKE: You need a full psychiatric evaluation.
REIKE: But
I sip on a blueberry smoothie and look around the busy coffee shop, waiting for Rocío to show up for our first GRE tutoring session.
It’s probably going to be fine. My marital life （or lack thereof） is unlikely to come up with Guy. And I have other things to think about. Like the stimulation protocols I’m creating. Or income inequality. Or the fact that I haven’t seen Félicette in a while, but I think she’s been eating the little treats I left for her in my office. Important stuff.
“Did you know,” Rocío greets me, sliding into the chair across from me, “that blood is the perfect substitute for eggs?” I blink. She takes it as an invitation to continue. “Sixty-five grams per egg. Exceedingly similar protein composition.”
“。 . . Interesting.” Not.
“You could have blood cake. Blood ice cream. Blood meringues. Blood pappardelle. Blood pound cake. Blood omelet or, if you prefer, scrambled blood. Blood tiramisu. Blood quiche—”
“I think I got the gist.”
“Good.” She smiles. “I wanted to let you know. Just in case blood is vegan.”
I open my mouth to point out several things, but settle on, “Thank you, Ro. Very thoughtful of you. Why’s your hair wet? Please don’t say ‘blood.’？”
“I went to the gym. I like to channel Ophelia in the lazy river, pretend I’m drowning in a Danish brook after a flimsy willow branch collapsed under my weight.”
“What was she doing on a willow?”
“She was mad. For love.” Rocío glares at me. “And they say a woman’s heart is fickle.”
Right. “Sounds like a nice pool.”
“It’s like a Sir John Everett Millais painting. Except that swim caps are mandatory and medieval dresses forbidden. Fascists.”
“Hmm. Maybe I should buy the membership after all.”
“You don’t need to, it’s free for NASA employees.”
“But not for contractors, right?”
“They didn’t make me pay.” She shrugs and pulls a GRE prep book out of her backpack. “Can we start with quantitative reasoning? Though parallelograms make me want to drown myself in a Danish brook. Again.”
Half an hour later, the reason my intelligent, math-savvy, articulate RA has been scoring so poorly on the GRE becomes unmistakably clear: this test is too dumb for her. In related news: we’re about to murder each other.
“The correct answer is B,” I repeat, seriously considering ripping a page off the book and stuffing it into her mouth. “You don’t need to solve for other options. X is a factor of y squared—”
“You’re assuming that X is an integer. What if it’s a rational number? A real number? Or, even worse, an irrational number?”