Page 33 of Sharkbait
“Don’t say hardy har har. It’s lame.”
Last spring, Ralph and Calliope had psychedelic mushroom sex in the dinosaur room at the natural science museum where he worked as an astronomer in the planetarium. This would have been bad enough after-hours when the museum was closed. But these two geniuses decided to get their groove on while chaperoning a family sleepover event. Security cameras caught the footage, and he was fired. Obviously.
“Anyway,” Ralph continues, “We like where we are. We don’t want to leave Philly. We’re looking to put down roots here.”
“Wow. So many ‘we’ statements are happening.”
“What’s wrong with ‘we’?”
“Forget it. Let’s head in.”
We reach the top of the grand stone steps that lead to the event.
“Ugh. I’m nervous,” I whisper as we pick up our name tags at the check-in table.
“Nothing to be nervous about.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I went to my share of these things when I was in grad school. Think of it this way. You already have the scholarship, right? This is just the thank-you part of the transaction. Easy! As long as you…” He trails off. “Never mind.”
“No. What were you going to say? You give great advice, and I need great advice right now.”
“I was going to say… as long as you don’t do theJeopardything, you’ll be fine.”
“What is wrong with you people?” I whisper-scold him. “Gail just said the same thing. I’m not going to do theJeopardything. I haven’t done theJeopardything since I was a teenager. Why the hell would I start doing it again now?”
“Well, you used to do it whenever you got nervous in big groups of people. And here we are.” He gestures to the crowd milling in the lobby. “You’re nervous and…”
“We’re heading into a big group of people,” I finish the sentence for him.
“Here’s all I’ll say: If you can stop yourself after the trivia, that would be ideal. That trivia aspect of it is generally adorable. It’s when you get indignant and belligerent immediately afterward to cover your embarrassment that things get tricky. So just… skip that part if you can.”
“Great. Now I’m terrified. Of myself.”
“Forget I said anything.” He rubs a hand up and down my back a few times. “You’ll do great, and I’ll be by your side the entire time.”
I take a deep breath, plaster on a smile, and we enter the event space.
“Ralph! Ralph Anderson!” a male voice calls from a cocktail table across the room.
“Oh, wow! It’s Otto! I know him from my museum days! Be right back.”
With that, he tears across the room.
“By my side the entire time, huh?” I say under my breath. Leave it to my brother to immediately find a friend. Everyone loves Ralph. They always have.
I take a moment to get my bearings. Everywhere I look, servers in black pants and white tuxedo shirts scuttle around with trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks. One passes by with a crab rangoon tart thingy. At least, I think that’s what he called it. I politely decline. As I always do when someone offers me seafood. For obvious reasons.
The flute of champagne, though? That I happily accept.
I scan the room as I sip and quickly realize that something is off about this supposed social event.
The left side of the room is a sea of gray and black suits. The right side is full of jewel-toned cocktail dresses.
Men to the left. Women to the right.
Bizarre.
It’s like a seventh-grade school dance, but instead of preteens and chaperones, the attendees are grad students and wealthy alumni.
A silver-haired woman in a magenta sheath dress spots me standing by myself and gives me a warm smile. She waves me over to her cocktail table. Not wanting to be rude, I nod and slowly make my way over to her and her friends.
