Cosmin is there in his green racing suit, crouched down pointing out some features of the inside of his helmet to a group of four little ones. Three people who appear to be mechanics—two men and a woman—stand around a sturdy table, disassembled engine parts spread in front of them as they demonstrate how it all works. At a bank of monitors, Emerald’s engineering director and chief strategist talk tech data with a few of the older kids.
Near them, Klaus stands by two children seated on high stools, walking them through how the radio comms work. One little girlhas her hands clapped over the headset dwarfing her little blond head, nodding and grinning, eyes wide. Beside her, a wiry red-haired boy soberly listens to Klaus, who concludes his explanation with a warm smile before slipping the headset over the boy’s ginger curls.
Phae and I pause to take in the scene, and I pull my phone from the outside pocket of my cross-body briefcase to snap some candid pics. The happy chaos swirling around the room is punctuated here and there with children’s shrieks of delight.
Pulling herself tall with a deep, fortifying breath, Phae scowls. “Welp, guess I’ve gotta go chitchat with the pint-size anarchists.”
“Phae!” I scold. “You’re a hero to these little girls. You could be changing lives today.”
She swivels my way, her face a mask of alarm. “Holy shitbiscuits—don’t say that to me! No pressure, right? Jesus, this is hard enough. I don’t know how to… like,talkto kids. It’s not my thing.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“It’s easy for you because of the tutoring you do!” she counters. “Plus, y’know, you babysat as a teenager. Plenty of practice. But to me, they’re—” She eyes a nearby child who’s jumping up and down like a prizefighter waiting for the bell. “They’re unpredictable and a little scary. You can’t…troubleshootthem like machinery.”
“Not untrue.”
Sliding my phone back into the briefcase pocket, I set a reassuring hand on Phae’s shoulder, which she glares at as if I’ve dropped a banana slug on her. Undeterred, I give an encouraging squeeze.
“Okay, well… pro tip: Talk to them like they’re people. And smile. No, not like that!” I add as she tests out a weird half-grimace. “Smile like you’re telling someone about a thing you love—whichyouare. You’re passionate about engineering, and your enthusiasm will be contagious. Also,no cursing,” I conclude in a discreet hiss.
A little girl with a dark pixie cut and a T-shirt that shows a bazillion digits of pi walks up to us, staring at a visibly uncomfortable Phaedra. Clasped under one of the girl’s arms is a spiral-bound sketchbook.
After several seconds of nervous silence, Phae manages, “Hey there, short stuff. What’s shakin’?”
I close my eyes, pressing my lips together to hide a laugh.
“You are Phaedra Morgan,” the little girl ventures in an adorable lilting accent. Her golden eyes glitter with fangirl hero worship.
“Uh, yep. Yours truly.”
The girl calls over to Cosmin, rattling off a question in Romanian. He replies, standing and walking our way.
“Cosmin tells me,” the little girl goes on, “that you are a great genius engineer.”
Phae gives Cosmin a dubious squint as he draws up to our little group. “Hmm, I’m agenius, eh? Looking to score brownie points with me, Legs?”
The girl’s lips part in an excited gasp. “We get brownies too?”
Cosmin laughs, ruffling her hair. “There will be lunch in an hour. And ice cream, I believe.” He angles a quick look at Phaedra that’s half playful, half admiring. “Liliana,” he tells the girl, “why don’t you show Miss Morgan your pictures?”
After a burst of giddy foot-tapping, Liliana pulls the sketchbook from beneath her arm and flops it open, revealing careful drawings of cars. Phae bends at an awkward angle, towering over the girl while examining the work.
I tug her sleeve and lean toward her ear, murmuring, “Anotherpro tip: Don’tloomover children like King Kong. Squat down to her height.”
She gives me a serious nod and does as instructed. I pull out my phone and hold it up wordlessly at her and Cosmin, letting them know I’m going to make the rounds and get some more material for an article.
I stop off at the mechanics’ table and ask a few questions, getting quotes from the children and one of the lanyard-wearing guides accompanying them, as well as the mechanics. Next I shoot a bit of video for the new YouTube showARJhas entrusted to me.
As I make my way around the room—keeping myself inconspicuous to ensure everyone will behave naturally—I can’t ignore the prickle of awareness of Klaus’s presence.
Cutting through all the noise, his dark, satiny baritone is unmistakable, drawing my attention again and again. Something about my reaction to it reminds me of the comforting sounds floating through the window of my aunt’s house when I’d walk up the driveway, coming home at the end of a summer afternoon of playing around the neighborhood: the familiar sigh of water in the sink, the clink of dishes, our kitchen radio playing oldies tunes.
I suspect Klaus might be sneaking similar glances at me as I pretend to be focused purely on the activities in the workshop. Gradually I make my way closer, pausing for snippets of interviews, losing the fight with his gravity like a moon being pulled into orbit.
The hour we spent together a few nights ago in Bahrain—electricity crackling across the small table in the lounge, despite my efforts to look casual—has played on a loop in my head, nagging me to reexamine every word I said (Was that commentsilly? What about this other one?) and every hypnotizing sentence of his, along with his minnow-quick smiles and lingering gazes.
He told me in parting that if I’d like to come to Austria to cover the first Jump Start event, he’d pay my airfare and put me up in one of the hospitality guest suites on the Emerald factory campus. I agreed, telling him thatARJwould pay my airfare, but I’d be happy to accept the room. It’s a lovely little modern space, all soft white with emerald-green and chrome accents, the walls hung with artsy framed engineering diagrams and black-and-white racing shots.
