6

As she made the ten minute walk across campus to the 24-hour diner on the corner, Kendra considered what might have made her blab to People magazine.  An outcast’s need to salve a wounded ego, or was it a change that yet another trip from the future had made in a past that she hadn’t lived and couldn’t remember?  The implications of the last one made her head whirl, or maybe that was hunger.

The diner was nearly empty so she plunked her bag on the table of a roomy four-person booth, and slid in.  It wasn’t until she figured out what she could afford to eat, and had laid down the menu that she noticed someone had slid soundlessly into her booth--Dr. Xenopoulos. 

Kendra cleared her throat, and tried to sound as if she were not shocked.  “Oh, hello.  I didn’t see you come in.”

Xenopoulos smiled broadly.  “Working breakfast?” she asked, and nodded toward Kendra’s book bag.  Kendra saw that it had flapped open when she set it down.  Xenopoulos could probably read the top page of The List.  Thanking the heavens that she hadn’t brought her real work with her, she pulled the bag onto the seat next to her.

What sort of company executive lurked around a university early on a Saturday morning?  Kendra looked up, ready to confront the beautiful woman across from her, but before she could do more than open her mouth, Xenopoulos went on.

“You no doubt have noticed that American Missile and its subsidiaries appear many times on that list.” 

Many times?  Really?  A job with a prestigious company like AM would pay well, maybe enough to hire a cook for the condo she would buy.

Xenopoulos coolly surveyed the menu, and Kendra hoped that the woman had not noticed the flash of greed—it might mess up her job negotiations.  When the stunning doctor looked up, however, Kendra was sure that the woman smirked briefly.  Maybe she’d hallucinated it.  Sleep deprivation could do that to a person.

The waitress filled their mugs with coffee without bothering to ask, took their orders, and left.

Kendra’s hand jerked enough as she stirred two packs of sugar into her coffee that she spilled some on the table.  Uncoordination--the other thing lack of sleep brought.  She really was in no shape to match wits with an industrial sp, yet she felt as giddy and unconcerned as she had the night of her first big party when she was fourteen.  She wondered how LB was doing, then jerked herself back to her current time line. 

“You know, isn’t it kind of weird for you to hang around campus early on a Saturday morning?” Kendra asked grumpily.

“It might be weird, if my goal weren’t to meet a rather strange young woman,” Xenopoulos replied, and her eyes flicked to Kendra’s chest again.  “Wouldn’t most of the country think it odd that an attractive 19-year-old spends her Friday nights alone in a physics building?” 

“Eighteen,” Kendra muttered, ignoring the compliment she’d just been paid, though her heart swelled in her chest.  She had to be alert.  The battle of wits had begun.

“Pardon?”

“I won’t be nineteen for another four months.”

Xenopoulos peered at Kendra for a moment, then said, “Of course,” as if she were soothing a cross child.

Kendra squinted at the spy.  How she longed to hop back in time half an hour to make sure this meeting never happened.  She’d probably enjoy the jump since the Kendra of thirty minutes ago would be easier to deal with than the Little Bitch.  She tapped her foot impatiently.  If she could just eat and go--

Xenopoulos leaned back in the booth and smiled as if she knew what Kendra thought. 

Kendra stilled her foot, and smoothed her face as she emptied her mind. 

Xenopoulos frowned. 

Creepy, thought Kendra, maybe the woman is a telepath.  Great, just when I thought things couldn’t get worse. 

Xenopoulos brightened.  “You know, it might help to talk about it if you’re having any particular trouble.  Sometimes a clear statement of all the obstacles can be inspiring.”

“And I suppose you’ll just tape it, so I can play it back at my convenience,” Kendra grumbled, not caring if she alienated one of the most powerful companies in the country.  She had a huge list of job offers in her current time line.

Xenopoulos looked shocked.  “Of  course not.  Anything you say to me will be held in the strictest confidence.”

“Just you and the research and development team at American Missile, right?”

“Kendra--may I call you Kendra?”  Xenopoulos did not wait for her reply.  “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.  Let me assure you that I want you to shine.  American Missile has five Nobel laureates on staff.  We support our scientists.”

Even Kendra, who had never been courted by the heavy hitters before, knew that this was the canned part of a company pitch.  Not for nothing had she studied the devious plots of the gals on Sex in the City in her younger years, or “the pre-enlightenment” as she had come to think of that time.

Their food came. Kendra ate, trying to maintain a polite pace though she was starving.  Xenopoulos didn’t eat much.  As Kendra chewed, she watched the elegant spy’s face as the woman talked on about perks and benefits, salary and prestige, tech support, and expense accounts.  By the end of her spiel, though it had been well delivered, Xenopoulos looked so cranky that Kendra, who had kept her expression carefully neutral as she imagined what her father would say if she ever worked for a defense contractor, wondered again if the woman were psychic.

Xenopoulos scowled for an instant, but cleared her expression so fast that Kendra figured her brain must still be hinky with early stages of starvation.

“So, what do you think?” Xenopoulos asked with false cheer.  “Any questions?”

Tons, thought Kendra, a bit confused by the spy’s presentation.  Shouldn’t she rank a better opening gambit from American Missile in her current time line?  Perhaps Xenopoulos really was not really a player, or not really from AM. 

Before she could think better of it, Kendra called the woman out.  “I have just one question.  You don’t seem to be taping this, so I figure that you’re wearing a wire.  Where’s the rest of your team?”

The question caused enough response that Kendra was sure she was right, and was a little surprised.  She’d been guessing. 

Xenopoulos stood in a huff, threw a twenty on the table, then stalked off.

Kendra smiled.  She’d won that round, unless…the smile fell from her face.  Surely Xenopoulos let her win.  Surely a suave, sophisticated spy would know how to deal with a pouty young genius, wouldn’t she?  Kendra thought of the Little Bitch…Elle, and smiled.  Her younger self had confounded her the first three times that Kendra had confronted her.  It occurred to her then that Xenopoulos might try another three times.  She’d have to remain vigilant.

Accustomed to being short of cash, Kendra waited for the waitress to make change for the spy’s twenty, tipped a meager ten percent, and then left.  She stopped twice on the walk back to the physics building, once to spend some of Xenopoulos’ change on a pack of sugarless gum, and then again to read a poster that advertised some band playing at Carlisle’s, a neighborhood bar, that night.  Each time she stopped, she scanned her surroundings, but saw no one tailing her.

The first thing she did when she returned to her lab was to search the Internet for a counter-surveillance sensor circuit.  When she had it assembled (minus a case, which made carrying it around the lab awkward until she plopped the breadboard circuit and speaker on top of a dusty clipboard that she unearthed from a bottom drawer), Kendra swept her lab.  She found not one, but four electronic bugs, and one surveillance camera.

Her initial impulse was to smash them, but on second thought she dumped what was left of the sesame candies her father had sent her for Valentine’s Day out of the tin box they’d come in, and then put the surveillance equipment inside.  Kendra put the tin in one of the bench’s bottom drawers, and pushed the heavy thing shut.  Good luck seeing or hearing anything through that.  When she had time, she’d figure out how to interrogate each of the treacherous things.  Hastily she consulted a few more counter-surveillance sites on the Internet, then scrawled a list of electronic supplies she’d need for the interrogation.

A bit giddy with the excitement of espionage, but finally well nourished enough to think clearly, she went back to her real work.  By noon she was fairly sure she understood the return leg well enough that she’d conquered the problem of “where”.  She shouldn’t land on top of her bench again.

The rest of the PhD candidates drifted in to their labs after lunch.  Kendra had never let their chatter disturb her focus, but Xenopoulos’s smirk that morning must have cracked her emotional armor.  That afternoon she heard it all:  the excited chatter about the parties the night before that quickly died as each small group approached her door, the second of silence as they passed it, and then the whispers.  How strange that what she heard best were judgments about her--what a nerd she was, how hopeless, how she must be a virgin (true), and that she’d never get married, or even have any fun.  Jealousy at its best, she told herself, but by the time the hall was quiet again Kendra noticed was surprised to find that her face was wet.  She drew a calming breath.  It turned into a sob.  Shit.

She struggled to focus on her work for the next three hours.  By four o’clock she admitted that it was hopeless.  She’d read that suppressing emotion could cause cognitive problems, and it seemed to be true.  Kendra hacked into the university’s student health program.  The best-liked counselor worked until five on Saturdays.  He had no appointments for the rest of the day.  She extricated herself from the system, and called him.

“Mental health services,” answered a pleasant male voice.

Kendra hesitated.  She’d expected to reach a female secretary, and realized immediately how sexist that was.  “Um, I need to talk to someone.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Well, I’m a PhD candidate, and I can’t think clearly this afternoon.”

“Ah.  New patients are registered Monday through Friday--”

“Look, you’re Phil Rosenberg, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in three and a half minutes.”  Kendra slammed the phone onto its cradle.  Screw all the bureaucratic bullshit, this was as good as life or death.  Her career was on the line.

“Ms. Tanagawa,” Phil Rosenberg stood behind his desk after she’d walked in and introduced herself.  “Regulations state--”

“Bullshit,” she said unfazed.  She’d never thought much of the soft sciences--psychology, medicine, and especially psychiatry. 

“You have,” she turned the digital clock on her desk so that she could see it, “forty-five minutes left in the weekend shift that you work once a month.  You want to skate out of here, but I’m a student.  I need some advice.  You should be able to help me in thirty minutes or less.  That’ll give you plenty of time to do the paperwork afterwards.”  She plunked herself into an overstuffed armchair.  It was that or the couch--how clichéd.

Phil Rosenberg sighed, sat, and rocked back in his plush leather desk chair.  “I can see that you’re determined, so we may as well go ahead.”  He gestured unenthusiastically for her to speak.

Kendra hoisted herself forward until she sat upright on the edge of the armchair.  Now that she had his attention, how to start?  She stared past Phil at the tree outside of his window.  She’d never really noticed that a maple branch in full leaf hung down as if heavy, or maybe the branch was just angled that way.  “Well,” she began, “I am the university’s youngest PhD candidate.”  She glanced at Phil, who nodded, bored. “Ever.”

He looked up, eyebrows raised in question.

“When I earn my degree in four months, I’ll be the youngest candidate in the university’s history to do so,” she clarified for him.

He thought for a moment, then nodded, as if he’d place her.

“As you might imagine,” she went on, “my life has been devoted to my work…since I was fourteen anyway.  I’ve made significant scientific gains in the fields of…in science.”  Who was this guy that she should trust him with her secrets?  All she needed was a little advice about her stupid colleagues.  She cleared her throat, and went on.

“I’ve never had a social life, no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no sex.”  Kendra felt herself blush, but continued.  She had to be able to think clearly.  “I’m pretty sure that I’m straight.  My fantasies tend that way, when I have time for them.  I’ve never been on a date.  This never bothered me until today, when I heard my colleagues whisper about me as they passed the door of my lab.  They said that I must be a virgin, and that I’ll never get a man--”  Kendra broke off.  Her throat felt thick and she didn’t trust her voice.

“Is that true?” Phil leaned forward.  “Are you a virgin?”

“Yes,” Kendra replied, nonplussed.  “I said that already.  Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Ah, hem,” Phil sort of laughed and cleared his throat at the same time.  Kendra felt annoyed.

“Of course,” Phil went on, “but sometimes clients speak in metaphors, or absolutes that they don’t really mean--”

“I’m a very literal, specific person, Mr. Rosenberg.”

“Everyone calls me Phil.  Feel free to do the same.”

“Yes, well.  I couldn’t focus on my research after I heard those stupid remarks, so I figure I should do something about it.  I’m willing to work on being social, but what do I do about the emotions I feel?  They get in the way of my work, and the timing is exceedingly…inconvenient.”

Phil smiled.  “That’s the one consistent thing about big emotions, they’re inconvenient.  The trick is to talk about them, let them out before they get big.”

Kendra sighed.  “Obviously, but it’s too late for that.”

Phil did the throat-clearing, laugh thingy again.  Kendra stifled a snarl. 

“The best next step then is to start therapy.”

“We’re doing that, aren’t we?”

“Yes, well, my docket is full, I’m afraid.  That’s the reason we have clients go through intake, to avoid you bonding with one counselor, then having to start over with another.”

“I noticed that 10 percent of your schedule is open every week for the next month.”

“Those are emergency slots.”

Kendra stared at him.  Was he really that dense?  “What would you call my situation?  I told you that I can’t think!”

Phil rocked back in his chair again.  “I’d call it a delayed social-sexual awakening, a case of arrested development.”  He smiled as if pleased with himself.

“Fine,” Kendra snapped.  “Just in case we didn’t solve my problem in 30 minutes today, I booked a session with you every week for the next month.  That ought to be more than enough, though I’ve read that therapy tends to drag on.  It must be a very inefficient process.”

Phil stared at her open-mouthed.  “You--you booked appointments?”

“Yes, and they’re unalterable.  I did mention my curriculum vitae, did I not?”

He nodded, dazed, then murmured, “--but that’s a violation of the university’s code of ethics.”

“Mr. Rosenberg,” Kendra said patiently, “do you know with whom I breakfasted?”

He shook his head.

“An industrial spy from American Missile.  After breakfast, I swept my office for bugs.  I found four audio surveillance units and one camera.  If companies outside the university can so freely defy its code of ethics, how often do you suppose the university itself does so?”

Phil shrugged, then glanced around his office. 

“I’ll sweep your office next time I come, but for now give me an assignment.”

“An assignment?” he repeated blankly.

“Yes,” Kendra huffed impatiently, “homework, you know.”

He looked at her blankly.

“Fine,” she said.  “How about I, uh, go to that band thing tonight at Carlisle’s?”

Phil grinned.  “The Rocking Horses are playing.  Excellent alternative rock.  So you find time in your busy life to listen to music?”

Kendra shook her head.  “Only the best--Beethoven, Mozart, some classic R & B, and the Rolling Stones.”

Phil raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.  He glanced at his digital clock, then stood.  “Well, I think you’ll find tonight interesting.  We should have a lot to talk about, um, when are we meeting next week?”

“Wednesday at three.  It’ll show up next time you open your calendar.”  Kendra had already added it to her own triple alarm system.

“Good, now for that paperwork.”  He gestured for her to precede him out into the reception area, where he rummaged through the file behind the secretary’s desk until he found what he was looking for.  He slid two stapled pages onto a clipboard, then handed it and a pen to Kendra.  “If you’ll just fill this out and leave it on the secretary’s desk, I’ll get busy with my part.”  He took the five long steps to his office door rather quickly, Kendra thought.

“Wait,” she said.  “What should I do to get my brain back on track?” 

“The human spirit will not be rushed, uh, what’s your name again?” Phil asked, the door to his office open only a few inches.

“Tanagawa.  Kendra Tanagawa.”

“Right.  We’ll talk more Wednesday.”  He closed the door. 

Kendra heard him turn the lock and sniffed.  “Fine.  Be that way” she muttered.  “I guess I got something out of it anyway.” 

She shrugged, and then started in on the intake form.   Halfway down the first page, she snorted.  At what age did you have your first crush?  “None of your business,” she muttered, and read the next question.  Were you more fond of your father or your mother when you were 12?  16?  Kendra left those, and most of the last twenty questions blank.  She left the form upside down on the secretary’s desk, with the clipboard resting on top.  Phil really should be more careful about confidentiality.