Elements of Chemistry: Capture Page 6

  Instead I opted to make the decision his and, by doing so, I hoped it would push him away. “Let’s say I only agree to be your friend if you tell the world your father is an evil asshole and that our families were never close, that he never had influence over my mother. What would you do?”

  I didn’t expect Martin to grin, but that’s what he did as he quickly replied, “Parker, I already did that. I did that, like, two months ago.”

  Again I felt my mask slip and I blinked at him in astonishment. “You did?”

  “Yes. The interview was in the Washington Post. Haven’t you read any of the interviews I’ve given?”

  I shook my head and answered honestly, “No. I haven’t. I’ve been avoiding them.”

  “None of them?” Something like dawning realization cast a shadow over his features.

  Again I shook my head. “No. I didn’t…” I took a deep breath and forced myself to continue the thought, “I didn’t want to know about you. I didn’t want to know what you were doing.”

  This was mostly because given how well and unaffected he’d looked the last time I saw him, and how wretched and heartbroken I’d been, I assumed he’d quickly moved on with his life, maybe even dated other women. In fact, given the fact he had a date last week at my show, I was now certain he’d dated other women.

  I didn’t need to see magazine spreads and page sixes of Martin Sandeke, the most eligible bachelor of the universe, hitting the town with his legion of admirers.

  Meanwhile I hadn’t been able to move on.

  He stared at me for a long moment, his grin waning into a pensive frown.

  “Are you going to read them?”

  I shrugged, tried to look unaffected. “Probably not.”

  Martin’s open gaze morphed into an irritated glare at my statement.

  Abruptly he said, “I searched everywhere trying to find out about you, what you were doing, how you were. That’s how I found your band.”

  “My band? Wait, what?”

  “I hired your band to play that party last week. Well, my PA did. It was for a group of startups focused on rural technology education initiatives. It’s a new project of mine.”

  I didn’t hear anything after, I hired your band to play that party last week.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “For the same reason I’m sitting here right now.” Martin sounded like he was on the border of exasperated and angry.

  My gaze drifted to the table between us as I tried to sort through this mountain of surprising information. He hired my band? Why? To have the opportunity to talk to me? But then he brought a date to the event? What the what?

  But before I made it very far, he stood, drawing my attention and focus back to him. He’d pulled out his wallet.

  “Listen, you take some time. You think about it. Here’s my number.”

  I accepted his card without looking at it as I was too busy staring at him with muddled incredulity.

  Dumbly I said, “You have a card?”

  “Yes. It has my personal cell phone number. If I don’t hear from you I’ll stop by again next week.”

  “So…you what? Have other business cards that have a different number on them? Ones without your personal cell phone number?” Leave it to me to be caught up in the details.

  His frown intensified, as though I’d asked a trick question, then he eventually responded, “Yes. My other cards have the number of my PA. So what?”

  “You realize you’re a twenty-one-year-old with two different business cards, right? And a PA. And likely a corner office someplace.” This was all coming out of my mouth stream of consciousness, as I was thinking and speaking at the same time.

  He blinked at me, shook his head like he didn’t understand my meaning, like of course he had a corner office.

  “That makes you both impressive and ridiculous. Please tell me your towels aren’t monogrammed.”

  Martin set his jaw as he recognized my meaning, but I could see the reluctant smile in his eyes as he peered down at me.

  “They are monogrammed, aren’t they? And you’ve probably taken to calling them ‘linens.’”

  His lips pressed together in a firm but rueful line. Martin crossed his arms and said, “Is this what I can expect from our friendship? You giving me shit about my linens?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, then indicated to his wrist with my chin, “and your fancy watches.”

  “So, is that a yes?” he pushed, lifting a single eyebrow.

  “It’s a…it’s a maybe.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Avogadro’s Number and the Mole

  Now that I was working, I typically didn’t have a chance to look at the agenda for the weekly family call until ten minutes before I was supposed to dial in. We’d shifted the time due to my new work schedule, which was nice. But it also meant I was rushing around just before, and I never seemed to have enough time to review the materials.

  This wasn’t usually a problem. However, today, five minutes before I was supposed to call into Skype, I read the agenda and I spotted a new item.

  Benefit and Campaign Fundraiser - Kaitlyn to perform.

  I frowned at the topic. But there was nothing to do about it, no reason to ask for clarification ahead of time since our meeting was just about to start. So I highlighted the line and wrote a big question mark on my paper copy of the agenda. Then I opened the Skype session and dialed in.

  “Hello?” I heard George, my mother’s PA, on the line. He hadn’t activated the video yet.

  “Hey, George. It’s Kaitlyn.”

  “Yes. I see you. Let me switch on the video.” I heard some rustling as he added, “Your mother is on the phone with Senator Peterson, trying to talk him off the ledge. She’ll be right back and then we can get started. Your father was called into surgery.”

  “Sounds good.” I scanned the rest of the agenda. Everything else looked fine. Once his face popped up on my computer screen I asked, “Hey, George. I have a question about one of the new items on the agenda, the one about the benefit and fundraiser.”

  “Oh, yes. Your mother has a campaign fundraiser coming up in May. The week after is a benefit concert for Children’s Charities. Both are in New York. She thought it would be good for you to perform at one or both.”

  I saw my expression in the little box located in the bottom right corner of my computer screen. I looked just as surprised as I felt. But what my expression didn’t show was the spike of panic. The idea of performing in front of a crowd of people who knew who I was, who my mother was, held absolutely no allure for me. Being just another member of a random band meant I was anonymous. But being Senator Parker’s daughter, on stage in front of hundreds or thousands of people sounded horrible and terrifying.

  “Really? That seems strange.” My voice cracked a little.

  He shrugged, scratching the top of his bald head. “No. Not if you think about it. You’ve always been gifted with music. I remember when you were thirteen and you taught yourself all of Beethoven’s sonatas without sheet music. When music was just a hobby for you, asking you to perform would have been an exploitation of your private life. But now that it’s your chosen career, this will be beneficial for you both.”

  That’s what I liked about George, he was a straight shooter, never minced (or chopped) words, just said things plain and simple.

  My mother popped into the picture and gave me a wide smile as she adjusted the computer so they were both visible. “Did George tell you about William?”

  “Yes, Dad was called in,” I said.

  “Since he can’t make it today we’ll skip over the house stuff and hold it until the next meeting,” my mother clarified, still smiling warmly. She looked so happy to see me.

  “Sounds good.” I smiled back.

  This was only our second week using Skype instead of a dedicated conference line (with no video) and I really liked it. I liked seeing my mom and dad (and George); it made them feel more real. I liked they could see me
and see I was doing well.

  “We were just talking about agenda item four,” George said, drawing my mother’s attention to a piece of paper he had placed in front of her on the table.

  “Oh, yes.” Mom glanced at me, her smile even wider. I could see the excitement in her eyes. “Let me tell you about this, I think it’s a great opportunity for you.”

  “George already filled me in on the basics. You want me to perform in front of people for a campaign fundraiser and for a benefit, both in New York in May?”

  “Yes, well, that’s the gist of it. There will be a large number of industry professionals present, people from Broadway and Hollywood at both events. I know you have your little wedding band, but I also know you’re capable of so much more than that. Just think of it as a way to network and make connections for your career.”

  I tried to keep my face from betraying the pang I felt when she’d said little band. I know she didn’t mean anything by it, because—to her—it was a little band. Whereas for me it was a giant leap of self-actualization.

  I had to clear my throat of emotion before responding. “Would I be performing with others? As part of an ensemble? Would there be practices leading up to the performances?”

  “No. You’d be solo, and hopefully playing one of your own compositions if you can have that ready in time. I’m sure it won’t be a problem for you.” She was distracted as she answered because her cell phone was ringing again; she didn’t see me sit back in my chair or the color drain from my face.

  “I’m so sorry, Kaitlyn, but I have to take this call.” She turned an apologetic and frustrated gaze to the computer screen. “We’ll hold the rest of the agenda until after the holidays.”

  I nodded, relieved I would be given a reprieve from having to give her an answer. She stood up again as she answered her cell phone, leaving George and I on the call.

  “Next week is Christmas,” George noted absentmindedly. “Did you mail your packages yet? Do you need me to send you a shipping label?”

  “I’ll mail everything on Tuesday, before I head to New York. A label would be nice,” I answered distractedly, trying to imagine myself playing one of my own compositions in front of industry professionals. I grimaced, feeling slightly sick. It’s not that I lacked confidence. It’s that I disliked people. I especially disliked people looking at me with expectations and judgment. I just wanted to play music.

  “Sounds good. I have the address of where you’ll be staying next week in Brooklyn while you’re up there playing shows. According to our last call, you are planning to stay with your bandmate, Janet Deloach, and her two friends, the Mr. Bergmans. Is that still correct?” George asked, obviously running down his list of questions.

  “Yes.”

  “Your father will be calling you this week just to talk. He expressed his extreme disappointment that he had to be absent from today’s call and wished me to tell you that he loves you and misses you very much. Is the calendar you send for this week still valid?”

  I smiled at my dad’s words—as read by George—and answered his question, “Yes. There haven’t been any changes to my calendar.”

  “Okay, then I think we’re finished.” He glanced up and gave me his trademark, flat and friendly George smile. “Merry Christmas, Kaitlyn.”

  I mustered up enough wherewithal to return his smile with one of my own. “Merry Christmas, George.”

  Then we ended the call.

  ***

  “Sam, can I ask you a question?”

  “Do it.” She was studying her menu. We’d opted for Italian tonight; she could never decide between the lasagna and the chicken carbonara.

  I put my menu down and folded my hands, readying myself to ask a question that had been forming in my mind for the last several months.

  “When did you feel like it was okay—like, it was appropriate—for you as a girl or a woman or whatever, at what age was it that you felt comfortable, or wanted to dress and act, and I guess be perceived as—”

  “Spit it out already. Just ask the question.”

  “Fine. At what age did you feel like you wanted to be sexy?”

  Her eyes darted to mine, grew wide, and she stared at me from across the table.

  “Is sexy a difficult word for you to say out loud?”

  I shook my head. “No. But it’s a difficult concept for me to contemplate and not be confused. I don’t think I fully understand sexy.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, her eyes drifting back to her menu.

  We were on our Monday night date…with each other. We’d started doing this after we both secured employment over the summer. It was an excuse to get dressed up because otherwise I would spend all my time in either a tuxedo uniform, or baggy jeans and a men’s concert T-shirt.

  I was trying to explore the concept of traditional femininity—perfume, makeup, matching lacey undergarments, dresses, jewelry, pretty shoes—because I didn’t want to dismiss dressing up having never given it a real chance.

  Yes, I recognized that “traditional femininity” was historically steeped in misogyny. However, I also recognized deciding to eschew traditional femininity because of chauvinism was just as flawed as subscribing to lace underwear just because men seemed to like it.

  I wanted to explore this part of myself for me, not in spite of or because of another person. If I was going to change my style or add to it, I wanted to do it because of how it made me feel. Not because I wanted to make someone else feel better or view me differently.

  At least, that’s how it had started. But after seeing Martin last Sunday, and realizing how hurt I’d been by the fact he now viewed me as a platonic friend, I was starting to wonder if I had deeper, subconscious motives for exploring my femininity.

  An example of one of my less than healthy thoughts: Maybe if I’d been sexier and more traditionally girly, Martin wouldn’t have been able to get over me so fast.

  So…yeah. Not healthy. Which was why I still hadn’t looked up or read any of Martin’s interviews. I didn’t want him to be the motivation for my decisions.

  Of note, I still hadn’t decided what to think about Martin’s offer of friendship or about wearing makeup and frilly garments.

  Regarding the clothes, at first everything itched and I felt like my movement was restricted. After a while though, after four girl-dates, I began looking forward to glamming it up, and found myself noticing other peoples’ makeup and clothes with appreciation.

  “Hmm,” she said at last, still studying her menu. “That’s a really interesting question.”

  I took a sip of my water and waited for her to answer.

  “Do I want the lasagna or the carbonara?”

  “The carbonara.”

  “Okay. Decision made.” She placed the menu on the table and closed it, giving me a searching stare. “So you want to know when I started to feel sexy or when I started wanting to feel sexy?”

  “Were they different ages?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me when you started wanting to feel sexy.”

  “I guess I was fourteen.”

  My mouth fell open. “Fourteen?”

  “Yes. Or maybe thirteen, or twelve. I remember wanting to be sexy like the girls in the magazines.”

  “What magazines?”

  “Vogue, Glamour, Cosmo.”

  “You read Cosmo at twelve?”

  “Yes. When did you start reading Cosmo?”

  I sputtered for a moment, then admitted, “Never. I’ve never read Cosmo.”

  “Most of it is garbage, meaningless fluff, stupid stuff. But they sometimes have brilliant articles and short stories. Also, it’s how I learned to do the cat-eye.”

  “You mean that black eyeliner thing?”

  “Yeah. They had step-by-step instructions with pictures.”

  I thought about this, the fact she’d been twelve when she’d first wanted to be sexy. Meanwhile I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be sexy, even now.

  “Do you feel like
twelve was too early? Too young?”

  She shrugged, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t know. I got my period at ten. Five hundred years ago women were getting married at fourteen or fifteen. In some parts of the world they still do.”

  “But in modern times and western culture, our context being the here and now, do you think it’s too early?”

  Sam squinted at me. “Yes and no. On one hand, I think it’s natural to be curious about sexuality. But on the other hand, I think girls are caught in this terrible net of perpetual disappointment. We’re not really allowed to talk about sex, or ask questions about it, or be interested in it. If we are interested and if we like it, then we’re labeled as easy or sluts. If we’re not interested, then we’re frigid and repressed…we’re prudes. It’s like, we see images of women being objectified everywhere. And then we’re told to act and dress like a man at work and school, or else no one will take us seriously—even other women won’t take us seriously. Basically, women are fucked.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  “Yes. Yes it is. How about you? When did you first think about being sexy?”

  I gathered a large breath and shook my head slightly. “I guess the first time I thought about being sexy was when I was seventeen.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. So that makes me a frigid, repressed prude?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. And I’m a whorey slut. Why seventeen?”

  “Honestly, it was only because I could never get Carter—”

  “Your gay boyfriend.”

  “Yes, my gay boyfriend who I didn’t know was gay. I could never get him to do anything but kiss me, and only in front of other people. He never wanted to do anything when we were alone together. I thought maybe it was because I wasn’t sexy.”

  Sam watched me for a bit, considering this, then asked, “But…didn’t you ever want to be sexy for yourself? Just to feel good?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, put on a new outfit or eye shadow? Not because someone was going to see you, but just because you wanted to dress up and feel pretty?”