A proper meal. I can almost see it now: The esteemed Professor Hugh Pridmore perched at a gleaming mahogany table, set with a linen place mat and silver candelabra, nibbling on canapés served on a dainty china plate. Well, he’s definitely snooty enough to be our Henry Higgins.
Professor Pridmore pauses, looks over at me. “You’re Mississippi-born,” he says, lifting a finger to his lower lip. “Jackson, I presume? Lovely cadence. But masked.” He studies my face, which makes me mildly uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s the way his fingertip strokes that plump lip, grazing the top of his five-o’clock shadow. “I’d gather you’ve spent your entire adulthood in Atlanta.”
“You’re freaking me out a little,” I say, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. “How did you know that?”
“Nabs,” he says. “A simple matter of word choice.”
His eyes gleam as he smiles, clearly pleased with his sleuthing. I’d never thought about it, but no one around here calls those little cracker packets “Nabs.” I guess I did pick that up in Jackson.
I don’t smile back. Instead, I shove them back into my purse, focus my attention straight ahead, and keep walking.
“It’s a shibboleth, a linguistic giveaway. But I digress,” he says, stopping and gesturing for me to sit on a bench in the shade of an elm tree. I plop down, trying to recall whether I’ve ever heard anyone use “digress” in conversation.
“Now, back to your request. The predicament facing your actor friend is in my field of inquiry.” He takes a seat beside me. “My research interests have long centered on the relationship between social class and dialect,” he says, then crosses his legs on the bench, “beginning with my graduate studies, when I examined variations in my mother’s first language of Punjabi. It’s always fascinated me that a person’s accent can open or close doors to their social mobility.”
“I guess I never thought about it that way,” I reply, thinking about my own social standing. Because in a way, it’s the very reason I’m here: a rich and powerful man has me completely trapped.
“Well,” he says, “I grew up with an Oxbridge father and a mother for whom English was a second language. She was entirely fluent, of course. But that didn’t seem relevant.” His hands fold on his knee, as his top leg slowly taps out a silent rhythm. “As a child, I noticed how differently people in London perceived her—and by extension, me—particularly when my father wasn’t with us.”
“I get that,” I say, even though I have no idea what an Oxbridge father is. I’m assuming from context it’s someone very fancy. “My neighbor is from Eastern Kentucky,” I add. “And her accent’s a bit twangy. She thinks people treat her like a country bumpkin.”
“And is your neighbor, as you say, a ‘country bumpkin’?” he asks.
I shrug but don’t answer. Professor Pridmore here is a piece of work. I can just feel the judgment rolling off him in waves—me, living next door to a country bumpkin, using such charming turns of phrase as “freaking out,” while he’s over there piling on the SAT words. It’s as if a snobbish old British dude got trapped in the (frankly not unattractive) body of a worldly thirtysomething.
“If I can find the time, we might perchance arrange to bring your actor friend into the lab,” he says, his expression suddenly thoughtful. I watch as he lifts his hand to the nape of his neck, then runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I occasionally take on outside consulting.”
Consulting? That sounds expensive. I’m studying him too closely, trying to tear my eyes away, wondering how much this is going to cost us and where in the world we’ll manage to come up with the money. I’m fresh out of sapphire tennis bracelets. I absolutely must convince him to do this for free.
“You know,” I say, “our young actor friend also has… what did you call it?” I pause for effect. “Ah yes. Fascinating patterns of morphology.” I bring my hand to my chin and squint my eyes a little, in a feeble attempt to look smart and thoughtful. “Among the most fascinating I’ve ever heard in the South, and, believe me, I’ve been around.”
As soon as I say it, I feel that pink flush return to my cheeks.I’ve been around?Sounds like I’m sharing the details of my sex life, which I’m obviously not. (Since it’s basically nonexistent.)
“Wonderful,” he states, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “I’d love to investigate his southern Appalachian speech patterns.” Clearly, he hasn’t picked up on my unintended double meaning, which emboldens me to try closing the deal.
“So.” I paste on my most guileless expression. “It’s an even swap? In exchange for his time in the lab, you can help him learn—”
“I like it,” he breaks in, nodding vigorously. “He’ll record in the lab for me, and I’ll teach him that…” He pauses, leans in toward me. “What did you term it? Ah yes, that Mississippi drawl.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” I respond, thrusting out my right hand for a shake.
“Fabulous,” he says, clasping my hand with his and smiling, but—this time—also gently squeezing, as if the two of us are entering into some sort of secret pact. I can’t help but smile back. After all, I’ve nabbed a world-renowned dialectologist to help us—and for free. Sure, he’s a little snooty, but he knows what he’s talking about, and the price is right. Luisa will be so proud.
CHAPTER 15Luisa
Living at home is getting so old, so fast. I know she cares, but Mami’s constant stream of unsolicited advice is driving me up a wall. Juan Pablo’s mother, Vidalina, came by yesterday for her weekly blowout, which meant I had to endure my own weekly nag session. Nothing is outside the purview of my mother’s expertise, whether it be my hair, career, or marriage prospects.
To add to my growing anxiety, I rarely wake up without thinking of the Castillos and how little time they have left in their home. This week, I threw myself into a forensic financial analysis of every nonprofit Griggs’s family’s foundation has supported in the last five years, like a newshound picking up a scent. It’ll take me weeks to cross-reference donation records and tax filings, but there’s nothing like a spreadsheet to make sense of chaos.
I was actually relieved when Holly called with the news she’d landed a speech expert—a perfect excuse to get out of the house. She somehow managed to pull off the rhetorical miracle, considering our foray into Emory’s linguistics lab isn’t costing us a dime. The heavens must be smiling down on us today, because the only thing missing as we glide down the campus hallway is San Pedro holding the pearly lab doors open, ushering us into the bright lights.
“I was thinking more like a voice coach,” I remark, a little awestruck by the brand-new, state-of-the-art facility, “not a whole research lab at one of the top colleges in the country.”
“You said to get a professional…” Holly trails off, nervously smoothing the split ends around her face, then thinking better ofit and tucking the too-long strands behind her ears. “He’s got some grant to get people to talk into a mic,” she explains.
“Wait—” Eli cuts in. “I could be getting paid extra for this?”
Holly and I both roll our eyes.
