Lessons in Chemistry(58)

“Jesus Christ. Zott. Of all people.” There was a long moment of silence.



* * *



—

Miss Frask, now age thirty-three, who, for the last four years, had dutifully followed every path promising promotion—from overselling Hastings’s benefits, to spying on specific departments, to authoring an in-house gossip column called “You Heard It Here First”—had still not been promoted. In fact, she was now reporting to a new hire— a twenty-one-year-old boy fresh out of college with no discernible skills other than making chains out of paper clips. As for Eddie—the geologist she’d slept with to prove she was marriage material—he’d dumped her two years ago for a virgin. Today’s latest slap in the face: her new boy-boss had given her a seven-point plan for improvement. Item one: lose twenty pounds.

“So, you really are back,” Frask said from her stall. “Like the proverbial bad penny.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Bring the dog, too?”

“I did not.”

“Turning into a rule follower are we, Zott?”

“My dog is busy in the afternoons.”

“Your dog is busy in the afternoons.” Frask rolled her eyes.

“He picks my child up from school.”

Frask shifted her position on her seat. That’s right—Zott had a kid now.

“Boy? Girl?”

“Girl.”

Frask spun the toilet paper roll. “Sorry to hear that.”

From her stall, Elizabeth studied the floor tiles. She knew exactly what Frask meant. On Mad’s first day of school, she watched in horror as the teacher, a puffy-eyed woman with a malodorous perm, attempted to pin a pink flower on Mad’s blouse. abcs are fun! it read.

“Can I have a blue flower instead?” Madeline had asked.

“No,” the teacher had said. “Blue is for boys and pink is for girls.”

“No it isn’t,” Madeline said.

The teacher, a Mrs. Mudford, shifted her gaze from Madeline to Elizabeth, looking at the too-pretty mother as if to pinpoint the source of the bad attitude. She glanced at Elizabeth’s empty ring finger. Bingo.



* * *



—

“So, what brings you back to Hastings?” Frask asked. “Shopping for a new genius?”

“Abiogenesis.”

“Oh right,” Frask mocked. “Same old song. I’d heard the investor came back, and shazam! Here you are. I’ll say one thing for you: you’re predictable. At least you’re chasing a richer man this time. Although, between us, isn’t he a bit old for you?”

“I’m not following.”

“Don’t be coy.”

Elizabeth tightened her jaw. “I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

Frask thought about this. True. Zott wasn’t the coy type. She was obtuse, oblivious, just like that day when she had to be told that Calvin had left her a parting gift— a gift that was (how was this possible?) already in school and being picked up by the dog. Really?

“The man,” Frask said, “who gave Hastings a huge grant to fund abiogenesis based on your work? Or rather, the work of Mr. E. Zott.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know very well, Zott. Anyway, the rich man’s back, and goodness, so are you. I think you might be the only woman at Hastings—out of three thousand employees, mind you—who isn’t a secretary. I can’t imagine how that could have happened. And yet you still tried to pass yourself off as a man. Is there any level to which you won’t stoop? By the way, do you know why the institute says we ladies aren’t a good investment? It’s because we’re always running off and having babies. Like you did.”

“I was fired,” Elizabeth said, her voice filling with fury. “Thanks, in part, to women like you,” she snapped, “women who pander—”

“I do not pander—”

“Who play along—”

“I do not play along—”

“Who seem to think their self-worth is based on what a man—”

“How dare you—”

“No!” Elizabeth shouted, pounding on the thin steel panel that separated them. “How dare you, Miss Frask! How dare you!” She stood up, opened her stall door, strode to the sink, turning the faucet handle with such force it came off in her hand. Water spewed out, soaking her lab coat. “Dammit!” she yelled. “Dammit!”

“Oh Jesus,” Frask said, materializing at her side. “Let me.” She pushed Elizabeth to the left, then bent down and shut off the water valve under the sink. As she straightened up, the two women faced off.

“I’ve never pretended to be a man, Frask!” Elizabeth shouted as she blotted her lab coat with a paper towel.

“And I’m not a panderer!”

“I’m a chemist. Not a woman chemist. A chemist. A damn good one!”

“Well, I’m a personnel expert! An almost-psychologist,” Frask shouted.

“Almost-psychologist?”

“Shut up.”

“No really,” Zott said. “Almost?”

“I didn’t have a chance to finish, okay? What about you? Why aren’t you a PhD, Zott?” Frask shot back.