Pug Hill - Alison Pace [83]
May returns to the Conservation Studio, talking quietly into her cell phone, and I can’t help wondering how she could pick either of them over me. But then I remind myself that she hasn’t picked anyone yet, and that she could still very well pick me. I pull my magnifier visor down over my eyes, but not before I dart accusing glances in the direction of Sergei, Elliot, and, maybe most of all, May.
An eternity later, I push my magnifying visor up, and look at my watch. It is ten-thirty. Ten-thirty in the morning, and already I am desperate for it to be after lunch. I’m not good with suspense. Not at all. Honestly, I’m almost wishing at this point that I could stop thinking that maybe Sergei and I have a chance. I’m almost wishing we could all just skip ahead to once we’ve already lost. Even if it means that once we’ve skipped ahead, Sergei and I might be looking back at it all with regret, shaking our fists at the tiny bit of light coming in through the basement windows, saying to each other, to Elliot, “I coulda been a contender!”
And though, clearly, this is not the best scenario that I could envision for myself, I’m pretty sure that it would be better than this, than all this tension. Because, really, there is so much tension.
I manage to work continuously through the rest of morning, not thinking about any of it, thankful for the respite, until I hear everyone rustling around behind me, putting things aside, and getting ready to break for lunch. I’ve got that blurry feeling. Looking at what appears to be an endless field of red under a magnification lens for a few hours makes it so that your eyes don’t just get blurry, your entire body does. I take the visor off completely and turn around to set it on my desk. I notice May heading out again, notice Sergei opening up a newspaper over at the lunch table, as far away from the paintings and canvases and chemicals as it is possible in the Conservation Studio to be. I glance over at Elliot, who’s leaning back and squinting at what must surely be the twelve millionth Old Master landscape he’s worked on today. I pull my visor off, and head over to join Sergei at the lunch table. As I do so, I look up at the April sun shining through the window. I am tempted to run away from this and head to Pug Hill, but I imagine it is not in my best interest to do that, regardless of what May’s decision will be.
It all happens pretty quickly.
“Hey, gang,” May says joining Sergei and me at the table. Elliot sidles up right behind her. “As you all know, in a month or so, I’ll be heading off for a year.” We all nod solemnly.
“Elliot’s going to be in charge while I’m gone,” she says and smiles shyly. There is no “I’ve given this a tremendous amount of thought,” no, “This was a very difficult decision for me to make because you are all so conscientious and studious and hardworking, just some in subtler ways than others, and I’d trust each of you to be in charge.” Things like that would have been nice to hear, had they been said. The way she says it, so casually, like there was no contest, makes me wonder if she just thinks that will make it easiest, will make it so that Sergei and I feel okay. Because May is really nice like that, she wants us to all feel good. But also, I can’t help wondering if it seems like there had never been any contest, because all along, there never really had.
“Thanks, May,” Elliot says, and smiles, “Thanks a lot.” He’s not smug or triumphant about it all. Not that I really ever thought he would be, he’s not that type of guy. Sergei gets up and claps him on the back. Elliot puts his hands in his pockets and . looks down at the floor.
“Congratulations, Elliot,” I say.
“Thanks, guys,” he says to all of us, “thanks.” And seeing him so humble, and so, well, Elliot, I get butterflies in my stomach. I forget all about everything I’d thought at first, how I’d thought that if Elliot got the promotion I’d be bitter, outraged, and how I’d maybe hate him for taking the promotion that was so rightly mine (well, not