Time (Laws of Physics #3)(27)
“Uh, about to take a shower.”
My smile vanished. I opened my eyes, my brain stuttered, and the hoarseness of my words had nothing to do with needing to rest my voice. “That’ll do.”
“Abram.” She made another growling sound. “I can’t send you those kinds of photos.”
“What kind?”
“You know, me in just a towel.”
“I don’t need you to be in just a towel. If you don’t feel comfortable sending a particular photo, definitely don’t send it. I’m not trying to get you to do something you don’t want to do. I want to see your smile, your real smile, not something your graduate program uses for promotional purposes.”
“Fine. Then candid pictures of me. I can’t send those.” Her tone had me straightening, she sounded almost hostile.
“Why?” I asked softly, wanting her to know that I wasn’t trying to push her, I just honestly wanted to know. “What am I missing?”
Mona sucked in an audible breath. “I’ve worked hard for my reputation. I’ve been so careful. I’ve never done anything that might jeopardize me being taken seriously.”
She was solemn, severe. She sounded like a different person. Her voice was deeper, held a hint of dry antagonism, like she dared me to challenge her. I wasn’t put off, but I was confused. It was a side of Mona I’d never seen in person, but one I’d witnessed last year when she’d given her testimony to congress. Basically, she sounded superior and aloof.
I waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, I asked, “Am I asking you to do something that might jeopardize you being taken seriously?”
“Yes.” Now sadness entered her voice, unmistakable melancholy, and my throat tightened in response. “Abram, this world I live in, it is an intellectual world, but it is not enlightened. Women are not seen as equals, young women in particular. And if you’re at all attractive, it’s an impediment. I’ve been called a distraction. Do you know what that’s like? I’ve been called emotional when I raised my voice to match that of my male colleagues, I’ve been called bitchy and conceited and judgmental for recognizing my own intelligence, and not just by men.”
As she spoke, she started to sound more like herself, but the despondency only increased.
“I have to demonstrate the appropriate amount of gratitude daily for being included on projects and grants that are full of my original ideas. I can’t take for granted that I’ve earned anything, because I never will, because everyone—even other women—are just waiting for me to prove everyone right, that I’m too young, too sensitive, too female to be worthy of my place at the table. They want my ideas, my research, but not enough to change the culture or be inconvenienced. Not enough to entertain the notion that I’m just another person, just like them.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I have to be faultless. I have to be perfect. I can’t afford mistakes.”
My heart in my mouth, I asked without thinking, “Am I a mistake?”
“No! God, no. Never.”
“But sending me pictures of yourself, that’s a mistake.” I didn’t know why, and I didn’t understand the impulse myself, but bitterness had leached into my voice. Not even the rawness of my vocal chords could disguise it. And yet, I wasn’t mad at her.
I was just . . . bitter.
“If—if your phone got hacked, and pictures of you in a bathing suit were leaked or published.” Now her tone was soft, almost pleading. “Or—or the photos you already sent me, if those were leaked, would it be a big deal? Would it damage your reputation?”
“You already know the answer to that question. I’m on billboards in my underwear. No one would care.”
“Oh, they’d care. But if any picture of me not looking uptight and professional were leaked, I’d never live it down. It would be ‘Girls gone wild, rocket scientist edition.’ Women—especially women in science, or politicians—aren’t allowed that freedom without lasting consequences. It’s not just my male colleagues who will judge me, it’s everyone. And that’s just the way it is.”
I felt like putting my fist through a wall, growling, “The way it is sucks.”
“I agree. But—” I could hear her breathing, it had quickened, like she was working herself up to say something difficult, and a spike of alarm had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. Before I could interject, she finished her thought, “Abram, we live in two different worlds.”
My bitterness morphed into anger, making me seethe. “I refuse to accept that. We live in the same world.”
“Our paths are—they’re very different.”
“No. They’re not. They’re the same. We’re on this road together, Mona. We’re on this path together. And I want you—I want you to feel empowered, because you are powerful. You. Are. Powerful. Someone should be telling you that, making you believe it, every damn day. You feel like you have to hide part of yourself and it pisses me off. So, yeah, I need a minute here. Because I need to mourn the fuc—” I stopped myself, taking a deep breath, grinding my teeth, telling myself to calm down. “I need to mourn this world in which we live, where gentlemen and ladies exist who are less, so much less than you. And yet, because of how a flawed system is built, they get to decide how and when you share yourself with me.”