Page 49 of The Chemistry Test
Penny
It’s been three weeks since I rolled over the pin on my way to TEDx, and each week since, Elias has met me at my door, insisted that I go, and walked there with me.
Before I fully re-committed myself to my proposal, I thought he just didn’t want to risk me changing my mind, getting a puncture and needing to be carried back all over again.
But he knows I’m armed with a spare inner tube (and a healthy dose of both intrinsic and extrinsic motivation) these days and he still drops by to make sure I go, so I guess he actually likes having me there. And that we’re actually friends now.
This evening, the nerves are clearly eating away at him too as we head over to the lecture theatre in near silence, ready for the speakers of the big TEDx conference to be announced.
With no news from CJ, and Ro’s parents shutting down the fashion discussion before it even began, I’m surprised I even made it out the front door this evening, with the prospect of more disappointment just around the corner, mere minutes away.
And yet for some reason I’m still barrelling towards it. I look over at Elias.
I may be president of the worrywart club, but tonight he’s definitely somewhere on the committee too. The hair by his forehead is damp with nerves and his skin shines as we near the illuminated building. Heck, in this light, he’s practically grey.
‘I think you’re in with a good chance,’ he says finally, right as we reach the double doors, stepping forward to open them for me.
‘So are you,’ I quip back, almost on autopilot – because neither of us can really mean it. I asked what his proposal was about when we started filling out the prompts together, but he just said I’d have to wait and see. And that I should do the same with mine. Don’t tell anyone.
So, that’s what we did. For the past couple of weeks, we sat side by side, with his satchel on the table between us so we couldn’t see each other’s work.
I know he has a lot of ideas, and a lot to say, though.
When we folded our A3 proposals into quarters ready to put in the submissions box last week, I could see the ink through the page, and he’d absolutely obliterated every square inch of it.
Whether it’s any good is another matter entirely, but I have my fingers crossed for him, nonetheless.
Once inside, we’re ushered into seats at the back and Fiona tells us there’ll be another live speaker before we find out who’s been chosen. As far as building suspense goes, I guess that’s an obvious way for them to do it. And that’s exactly what it does.
As always, it’s someone I’ve never heard of, so I’m guessing the tremendous turnout is due to the conference announcement rather than to hear them speak. And I feel a bit bad for them, honestly. We, collectively, could not care less about their talk right now.
The whole lecture theatre is filled with a palpable frisson, and as the lady taps around on the computer at the front, I hope everyone will at least try to pay attention despite the fate of our own TEDTalks floating in the time and space continuum in front of us like some sort of Schrodinger’s speech; inching closer to being revealed as ‘happening’ or ‘not happening’ with every passing second.
The speaker wakes up the screen with a handheld remote and walks to the centre of the stage, quieting the room.
But less than five minutes in, I find myself counting the PowerPoint slides on the handout to see how long we have left.
And, of course, it’s not like it’s a bad topic, or that she’s doing a bad job.
On any other day, I’d probably love learning about sustainability myths and greenwashing, but tonight my attention dips in and out freely as I sit back, letting my mind wander.
Like the other students, I’m half listening to how we need to re-use cotton bags at least 7,100 times for them to be more eco-friendly than single-use plastic bags, and half picturing myself up there giving my own speech, as the lady talks away.
These days, it’s been my brain’s default activity whether I like it or not, whenever and wherever I am.
Whether I’m waiting for the bus, cooking dinner, or trying to fall asleep, you can bet that both my anxiety and inner longing have made themselves comfortable on the stage in my head, practising my speech for the millionth time.
Even though the chance of even getting a chance to perform it must be slim to none now.
I didn’t have time to check my proposal for plagiarism like I planned, so it might not even be eligible for all I know.
When the woman’s talk finally comes to an end ten minutes later, I realise the only things I actually paid attention to were the cotton bag statistic and the fact that deleting old emails is somehow good for the planet. But for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you why or how.
The lady steps away as the applause dissolves back into silence around her, letting Fiona take the floor once again.
‘Wasn’t that brilliant?’ she asks, gesturing to the poised sustainability activist, now sitting in the front row.
We all clap again, albeit for a much shorter duration than before.
‘Now, I know you’re all eager to hear who’ll be speaking at this year’s TEDx conference, so you’ll be pleased to know we have come to a decision,’ she says, delicately clasping her hands in front of her.
‘I have to be honest, each and every one of the submissions we received this term met the standards required for our TEDx talks, so you should feel really proud of yourself if you submitted a proposal.’
My ears prick up and my heart lifts. Each and every one? My heart pounds. I made it through Copycatch?
Fiona continues, pulling a small card out of her pocket. ‘And for the first time in five years, we’ll also be accepting repeat submissions for the summer conference, so try not to be too disheartened if you didn’t get picked this term.’
God. I can’t tell if that’s good news or not.
Sure, I want a second chance to give my talk, but I don’t want to need one.
And, selfishly, I don’t want the competition to be good enough to warrant that either.
It’s just my luck that this year’s cohort would be strong enough to change the rules.
I lean on my armrest, unable to take my eyes away from the stage.
Come on, come on, come onnnn.
‘So, without further ado, the speakers for the winter conference are as follows.’ She reads whatever’s on the paper in her head before looking up to meet our eyes.
‘Qaiza Zamaan,’ she says, smiling at someone with cropped black hair who’s cheering as though they just won the lottery.
‘Penelope Steele,’ she says, nodding to me, and I jump in my seat, the heaviness of the past hour zapping right out of me. I turn to Elias instinctively, but he doesn’t seem to realise what she’s said. ‘And Elias Thompson-Knight,’ she says, starting a round of applause.
And then, there it is. There’s the Cheshire Cat grin I was looking for. He puts his hand up for a high five, already returning to his usual shade of pink. ‘What did I tell you?’
‘You called it!’ I squeal, still not quite believing that my voice is going to be heard. All those nightly rehearsals weren’t for nothing, after all.
‘I just knew it,’ he says, looking at me proudly, like he picked just the right planning partner, even though we haven’t been involved in each other’s planning process at all. Or at least, not in any meaningful way. ‘We have to celebrate, Penny,’ he says. ‘I know just the place.’
As Elias pulls up to a grand manor house, I feel my stomach drop.
It’s sitting in its own grounds and looks a little bit like a castle but without the turrets.
Like a house-castle hybrid sort of thing.
It’s clearly steeped in history, but I’ve never been good at that – or architecture, for that matter, so I can’t tell what sort of time period it’s from.
And as much as I’m trying not to think about it, I dread to think what the prices are going to be like here.
Once we’re out of the car, Elias runs ahead to grab the door and I go up to 5 kph on the SmartDrive so he’s not waiting for too long.
As I close the gap between us, I catch sight of the A-frame sign informing us that the main course service has closed for the night – and have never been more thrilled to read such words.
Both for my bank account and my head that’s already starting to throb from sitting up for so long.
‘Ah,’ Elias says, reading it too. ‘Just drinks and desserts. Is that okay?’
I smile earnestly. ‘That’s perfect.’
A man with an impeccable RP accent greets us in the foyer from behind the desk, rounding past the tall grandfather clock to escort us to the dining room. And what a dining room it is.
Elias follows the waiter, walking past tall marble columns and gilded statues until he reaches our table. He turns to pull out my chair but stops when he sees me distracted by the vast, kaleidoscopic frescoes on the ceiling.
His eyes climb up the soaring floor-to-ceiling windows and rest next to mine. ‘Take your time.’ He smiles. ‘Not enough people admire art like we do.’
I’d like to, but my energy’s already beginning to wane, so I carefully head to the table, admiring everything as I go.
Once seated, Elias orders us prosecco, declaring that ‘It’s only right, don’t you think?’ and I smile gratefully, far too shy to tell him that drinking makes my nausea ten times worse.
The waiter brings it out mere seconds after we order it and as we pore over the artfully crafted dessert menu, we find ourselves engaging in all the usual small talk that almost-strangers do.
Up until now, I realise we’ve only ever talked about public speaking or how November feels too cold to not count as winter, back when he carried me home.
He tells me he’s had his car on campus ever since so he doesn’t get chilblains again, but before I can apologise or say what a sensible idea that is, he delves into his life history, telling me about the myriad hobbies he’s mastered over the years.
As always, I’m really starting to crash from being out for so long, so I try as hard as I can to look enthused as he tells me all about his endeavours – from cosplaying to chess and even yachting. I didn’t even know the noun could be turned into a verb like that.
‘Gosh, that’s an interesting one,’ I laugh, trying to hide my surprise. ‘Mine are a bit less exciting. I used to play the piano, I like baking and I love to read.’
‘Hmm, the piano’s a wonderful instrument,’ he murmurs, but he seems distracted by something. I crane my neck to look over – I think it’s his spoon.
‘Is it okay? We can ask for another if it’s dirty,’ I say, hoping it’s that and not that I’m just being a complete and utter bore.
I always hate the hobbies question for that exact reason – it’s not like I can go scuba-diving or rock-climbing these days.
And now, the poor guy is finding his spoon more interesting than me.
What a confidence booster, I think, realising if CJ were here, I might’ve joked about it out loud.
The two of us somehow skipped the small-talk stage, although I don’t think I would’ve minded if we hadn’t.
CJ’s life may be worlds away from mine, but he was always so goddamn nonchalant about everything.
As if he wasn’t an actor – just someone who acts.
And if you think about life like that, you realise how silly our man-made hierarchies really are.
Something about that always made me feel safe.
Because you can’t be at the bottom if the hierarchy doesn’t exist in the first place.
‘Oh, no, not at all, Penny!’ Elias says suddenly, as if he’s just snapped back into focus. ‘I just always like to see if there’s a hallmark.’ There’s a noticeable pause, while he continues searching. ‘Bingo,’ he says, pointing it out to me, as if not wanting to be rude or keep the glory to himself.
‘That’s good,’ I say, clearly showing off my extensive reader’s vocabulary.
And I find myself wishing I was the sort of person who’s impressed by stuff like that.
And being here in general. And nice boys like Elias, to be honest. Who will carry me home in November even though they hate the cold more than stubbing their toe.
And are into lovely, sedentary activities that I can actually join in with. But I’m not. And I just want to leave.