The She-Hulk Diaries (7 page)

Out of the vast wasteland that lay between my ears, I heard the faint echo of Dahlia’s advice to me once:
Play it cool, but not too cool!
“I’ll tell you the next time I see you, and you can tell me more about your music and your teaching. It’s really nice running into you, Dr. Ellis C. Quintal, the fourth. Well, I’d better be going.” I punched the elevator button.

“Next time then,” he said. “Jenny.”

He made me so nervous that I punched the down button again.

A female voice said mockingly, “Trying to escape so quickly from QUIRC?”

I looked to see Amber, who’d put on a black wool trench with fur trim. Quinty was escorting her toward us.

“Hello, darling!” she trilled, because she had the sort of voice that trilled like birdsong, as she went to Ellis and kissed him.

At this point, any remaining circuitry in my brain immediately fried. I could practically smell the burning insulation as Amber slipped her arm through Ellis’s and told me, “Ms. Walters, I see you’ve already met my
fiancé. Now, don’t get any ideas about poaching because he’s already turned me down about handling legal matters for his business.” I thought she must be saying this to make him feel more important about SAT tutoring, or whatever he did.

Sexy, flirty Ellis Tesla was instantly replaced by a more formal man, who said, “I have a longtime relationship with my attorney.”

Quinty looked at me and said, “His college roommate is his lawyer. He knows Ellis’s dirty laundry.”

Was I part of Ellis’s dirty laundry? Did he
still
have my panties? Agh!

“He doesn’t have dirty laundry anymore,” Amber said with a cool smile. “Like many men, all he needed was a weekly cleaning service to rid him of detritus.”

Was Amber talking in code about groupies? Had I been a groupie? Ellis’s expression remained impassive.

I didn’t trust myself to speak again, so I smiled pathetically. I know it was a pathetic smile because when the elevator arrived and we entered, I could see it reflected on the mirrored door. On the floor below, a large group got in, and they shoved me to the back of the elevator.

The stuffy air and the combination of damp wool, fur, and someone’s overpowering aftershave made my nose itch. A lot.

I really, really tried not to sneeze, and I thought I had subdued my urge. Isn’t that how it always is—you think you’ve got something under control, but you don’t.

My sneeze was explosive. And not ladylike. And right on the back of Amber’s coat. I swiped at it within the confines of the elevator, saying, “Sorry! Sorry!”

Amber looked over her shoulder at me and said coldly, “Leave it. I’ll send it to the cleaners.” The elevator reached the first floor and the doors opened.

“Please let me pay for the cleaning! Send me the bill,” I said, following Ellis, Quinty, and Amber into the marble-floored main lobby.

“That’s a very nice offer, Ms. Walters,” Amber said and smeered. “But not everyone needs public assistance.”

It’s generally a bad sign when my skin begins to change colors. This time I felt it going hotly pink.

Quinty let out an exasperated breath and said, “Ellis, Amber, I’ll see you two at the restaurant.” He gave me a more patient look and added, “Ms. Walters, I look forward to talking to you soon,” and he strode away.

Amber slid off her coat to inspect the back of it. Her mouth went down in disgust. “I can donate it to charity.”

Ellis said, “Come on, Amber, it’s not like Ginny has contagious necrotizing fasciitis.” I saw an
oh shit!
expression flash across his face, and he quickly said, “I meant Jenny. I meant Jennifer. It’s not like
Jennifer
has the flu.”

But it was too late. Amber laser-focused her icy blue eyes at me. “
You’re
the Flesh-Eating Bacteria girl?”

“I must be going,” I said. “Very nice meeting you, Ms. Tumbridge, Mr. uh, good-bye.”

I’m ignoring Dahlia’s phone call because I’m in bed with the blanket over my head thinking about everything that happened today and remembering the night I met Ellis.

I’d been a Fringe Theory fan ever since high school, when Bruce had given me a mix of their songs, my favorite being “I Wanna Be Your Frankenstein.” (“I’ll put you together/my very own creature/I’ll lovingly suture/Your limbs and your features.”) I went to their site and crushed on the lead singer, Ellis Tesla, the hard-rocking PhD chem student, with his beat-up jeans, vintage nerd T-shirts, and smoldering sardonic stage presence. Brains and brawn, he was my ideal man.

When I heard that the band was touring the West Coast’s premier science programs, I begged a Caltech acquaintance to get me into the sold-out show.

The Fringe Theory concert ended with fireworks, a two-story waterslide, and lots and lots of their signature Rocket Fuel shots. I felt like Ellis
was singing right to me as I danced in front of the stage in a cami and cutoffs. It was a sultry Pasadena night, and when someone sprayed a hose at the crowd, I let the water rain down on me.

A homemade missile whizzed into a Porta Potty, setting it ablaze. A siren wailed, and a few minutes later, squad cars and fire trucks roared up, eager to shut down the party. When cops rushed the stage, Ellis reached into his pocket, took out something, and threw it in the opposite direction.

In the instant that brilliant flames licked out and smoke billowed, he leapt off the stage, grabbed my hand, and said, “Come on, babe! Run!”

And we ran until we were far from the crowd. We hid in someone’s yard, and Ellis pulled me close and said, “You’re quite a stretch of a girl, aren’t you? I like that.”

I was breathing hard from the run and the excitement. I asked, “What was that you threw?”

“Magician’s flash paper. Because sometimes I need to divert attention while I steal away with a gorgeous girl.”

Then he kissed me, and the warmth and solidity of him made my knees weak. The slip of his tongue into my mouth sent pleasurable currents through my body.

When he said, “I’m staying nearby,” I said, “Okay.”

I remember a rambling wood-shingled house. We stumbled upstairs, kissing and grabbing at each other.

Then we were in an academic’s room, with books, computers, papers. Moments later, we were naked. Being with Ellis Tesla felt like a dream where I was someone other than a dutiful, serious, lonely grad student. I was wild and shameless as we did things I’d fantasized about and things I’d never imagined.

While taking a breather between filthy hot sex, Ellis held me in his arms and said, “I want to write a song for you. Name a subject and I’ll write a song about it for you.”

I was feeling OMG! amazed that I was with the hawtest geek in the most rockin’ geek band of pranksters in the nation. “Really?”

“Anything you want, babe.”

I saw a book titled
Flesh-Eating Bacteria: Conquering Necrotizing Fasciitis
on the desk, and I said teasingly, “Write a song about flesh-eating bacteria.”

Ellis reached over and grabbed a guitar, keeping me close. He strummed and hummed for a minute or two and then sang:

We laughed about the song because, really, what could be less romantic than necrotizing fasciitis, but two months later it was at the top of the charts and it stayed there for weeks. There was lots of speculation about the actual identity of the Flesh-Eating Bacteria Girl. I never told anyone.

And now Amber, a member of the QUIRC hiring committee, knows that I was one of her fiancé’s groupies. Not just any hapless giggling groupie, but the inspiration for his first big hit. I can say good-bye to that job opportunity. It doesn’t seem to matter much, because I’m obsessing about Ellis. I would never have thought a scientific rocker renegade like him would end up with a hammerhead shark in Armani like Amber Tumbridge.

I’ve kept my secret long enough. Tomorrow I’ll tell Dahlia.

Then I realized: this is exactly one of those setbacks that would have stopped me dead in my tracks if I’d made New Year’s Resolutions.

I’m not going to let this get me down. Why should I care about a man who couldn’t even remember my name or bother to call me? If he’s engaged to Amber, he must be a horrible human being. It’s time to let go of my teenage daydream and move on to someone who has actual boyfriend potential.

Like a stripey kitten, I’m going to keep hanging in there!

Now that I have Ellis’s real name, I was able to find him online. I feel pretty stupid for not locating him before—because
everyone’s
heard of Manic Quantum Mechanics Science Camp. Okay, maybe not everyone, but I remember my cousin mentioning it. Why didn’t Bruce tell me that Ellis owned the program?

I watched a dozen videos of Ellis and his MQMC team of scientists and engineers leading kids to conduct insane experiments, competing in wild challenges, and even having the president’s wife test-drive a rocket car built with recycled materials and fueled with organic compost and carrot juice. He looked amazing in a wife-beater and cargo pants with a tool belt low on his waist.

He was listed as a consultant for the Institute of Ethics for Science & Bioscience, and I found his social networks. Ellis C. Quintal IV is “engaged.” Everything else is set to private.

I could ask one of the hackers at the Mansion to find out more, but there could be blowback if they decide to find out why I want to know. Do I really want the other superheroes to know that I’m stalking a
old boyfriend romantic interest
drunken hookup? No.

I’ll never be able to sleep. Checked my aPhone, and Shulky has a message from Trey and Matt.
The Book of Mormon
cast wants to treat her to “borscht and belly dancing” for saving Broadway from the water sphere attack. Shulky loves both borscht and belly dancing.

I thought I’d have to wait until the salon closed this evening to talk to Dahlia, but she answered my a.m. call right away or, as she’d say, stat!

I picked up two lattes and met her at Washington Square Dog Park. The day was freezing and she was trying to get Rodney out of his carrier. She’d dressed him in a bulky orange sweater. Every time she took him out, he’d scramble back in.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked. “Dogs are supposed to like running around.”

“He hates orange and thinks these dogs are not as chic as the dogs at Tompkins Square. He has a point, but I don’t condone his canine elitism.”

“I thought dogs don’t see colors.”

“Rodney does. It’s one of his many talents. So how did your interview go and what’s your reason for the 911?” We walked around stomping our feet to keep them warm.

“I thought I did okay in the interview, but the only time I’m verbally impressive is in the courtroom, which they know. As for the 911: Ellis Tesla. I saw him yesterday. He’s the son of the senior partner at QUIRC.”

“OMG! Tell me everything!”

I relayed the facts, which took several minutes because I kept repeating “I was FREAKING OUT!”

Dahlia slugged me on the shoulder and said, “I asked you a kazillion times if you were the Flesh-Eating Bacteria Girl and you said no,
nyet
,
nein
. Why did you lie to me?”

“Maybe Ellis got the idea for the song when he was with me, but if I really was the girl he described, he would have called. Yesterday he said that he’d tried to find me at USC and thought my name was Ginny, but I’d given him my number, so his claim is easily disputed.”