#FairGraduateAdmissions is a movement, and it has a real chance at getting rid of this stupid, unfair test. I’ve been all aflutter.
You know who else has been aflutter? Rocío. Who barged into the office declaring: “I won’t be preparing for the GRE anymore, in solidarity with my brethren. Johns Hopkins will have to acknowledge how badass I am from my other application materials.”
I looked up from my laptop and nodded. “I support that.”
“You know why this is happening, right?” She leaned conspiratorially over my desk. “The other day we talked about how shitty the GRE is, and now people are rallying against it because Marie started the conversation. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“Oh,” I stammered, “well, it probably is just a coincidence—”
“There are no coincidences,” she said, beautiful dark eyes staring into mine. “Bee, we both know who I owe this to.”
“Oh—I’m sure—”
“La Llorona.” She took her phone out of her pocket and showed me pictures of beautiful creeks. Her eyes shone. “I’ve been visiting nearby places where she was sighted, leaving little tokens of appreciation.”
“Tokens?”
“Yes. Tarots, poems I wrote extolling the beauty of the macabre, pentagrams made of twigs. The usual.”
“The . . . usual.”
“I think it’s her way of saying, ‘Rocío, I recognize a kindred spirit, perhaps even a successor in you.’？” She smiled at me, setting her bag on her desk. “I am so happy, Bee.”
I smiled back and went back to work, relieved that Rocío doesn’t suspect who’s behind WWMD. Sometimes I wonder if Dr. Curie, too, had a secret identity she couldn’t reveal. Period-wise, she could have been Jack the Ripper. Never say never, right?
MARIE: Do you think we’re actually going to get rid of the GRE?
SHMAC: We’re closer than ever, for sure.
MARIE: Agreed. Thank you for helping out, by the way.
Shmac and I have the same number of followers but completely different reaches. I hate thanking dudes for Sausage Referencing?, but truth is, there are plenty of male academics who’d rather guzzle curdled milk than engage with WWMD. Which is fine, because I’d love nothing more than pouring gallons of curdled milk down their throats. Still, #FairGraduateAdmissions can use all the support it can get.
MARIE: How’s The Girl?
SHMAC: How’s Camel Dick?
MARIE: Astonishingly, we’re almost getting along. If we haven’t come to blows yet, are we even collaborating? Also, nice deflection. Tell me about The Girl.
SHMAC: Everything’s fine.
MARIE: Fine has variable definitions. Narrow it down.
SHMAC: How narrow?
MARIE: Very.
SHMAC: Okay. Narrowingly: things are great, in the worst possible way. We’ve been working together a lot because that’s what the project demands. Which might be why I’m on my fourth beer on a Thursday night.
MARIE: Why is working together bad?
SHMAC: It’s just . . . I know things about her.
MARIE: Things?
SHMAC: I know what she loves to eat, what shows she watches, what makes her laugh, her opinions on pets. I know her dislikes （aside from me）。 I’ve been cataloging a million little quirks of hers in my head, and they are enchanting. She is enchanting. Smart, funny, an incredible scientist. And . . . there are things. Things I think about. But I’m drunk, and this is inappropriate.
MARIE: I love inappropriate.
SHMAC: Do you?
MARIE: Sometimes. Hit me.
SHMAC: I need you to know that I’d never do anything to make her uncomfortable.
MARIE: Shmac, I know that. And if you ever did, I’d cut your dick off with a rusty scalpel.
SHMAC: Fair.
MARIE: Tell me.
The clock in the kitchen ticks on. Late-night cars make soft noises past the window, and the screen of my phone goes black. I don’t think Shmac will continue. I don’t think he’ll open up, and it makes me sad. Even though I don’t know anything about his life, I get the impression that if he doesn’t do it with me, he won’t with anyone else. My eyes drift closed, accustomed to the dark, and that’s when my screen lights up again.
The air rushes out of my lungs.
SHMAC: I know what she smells like. This little freckle on her neck when she pulls up her hair. Her upper lip is a little plumper than the lower. The curve of her wrist, when she holds a pen. It’s wrong, really wrong, but I know the shape of her. I go to sleep thinking about it, and then I wake up, go to work, and she is there, and it’s impossible. I tell her stuff I know she’ll agree to, just to hear her hum back at me. It’s like hot water down my fucking spine. She’s married. She’s brilliant. She trusts me, and all I think about is taking her to my office, stripping her, doing unspeakable things to her. And I want to tell her. I want to tell her that she’s luminous, she’s so bright in my mind, sometimes I can’t focus. Sometimes I forget why I came into the room. I’m distracted. I want to push her against a wall, and I want her to push back. I want to go back in time and punch her stupid husband on the day I met him and then travel back to the future and punch him again. I want to buy her flowers, food, books. I want to hold her hand, and I want to lock her in my bedroom. She’s everything I ever wanted and I want to inject her into my veins and also to never see her again. There’s nothing like her and these feelings, they are fucking intolerable. They were half-asleep while she was gone, but now she’s here and my body thinks it’s a fucking teenager and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. There is nothing I can do, so I’ll just . . . not.