I CANNOT BELIEVE he got to Boris before I could. I cannot believe he sneaked past me while I was talking with Rocío. Though I absolutely should, since it’s the exact kind of dick move I’ve come to expect from him. I actually stomp my foot like a surly six-year-old. That’s what I’ve been reduced to. What do I do? Do I barge in and stop Levi from poisoning Boris’s mind with lies? Do I wait for Levi to get out and focus on damage control? Do I curl into a ball and cry?
Dr. Curie would know what to do. Dr. Königswasser, on the other hand, is looking around like a lost calf, grateful that there’s no one around to see her sulking outside the director of research’s office. When I decided to become a scientist, I figured I’d grapple with theoretical framework issues, research protocols, statistical modeling. Instead here I am, living my best high school life.
And then I realize I can make out some words.
“—unprofessional,” Levi is saying.
“I agree,” Boris replies.
“And not conducive to scientific progress.” He sounds calmly exasperated, which should be technically impossible, but Levi does have a knack for bringing oxymorons to life. “The situation is unsustainable.”
“I fully agree.”
“You’ve said that every time we’ve talked before, but I doubt you understand how catastrophic the long-term repercussions can be for BLINK, for NIH, and for NASA. And this is unpleasant on an interpersonal level, too.” I lean closer to the door, white-knuckled. I cannot believe he’s feeding Boris this crap. I am unpleasant to him? How? By being offensive to look at? I’m about to slam the door open to defend myself when he continues, “She cannot continue like this. Something must be done.” Oh my God. Am I trapped in a bizarro dimension?
“Okay. What would you have me do with her?”
I’m going to screech. Whatever Levi says, it’s going to make me yell with rage. I’m already vibrating with an un-screamed howl. It’s rising up my throat.
“I want you to let her do her job.”
Up and up and up my larynx, through my vocal box, and—wait. What? What did Levi say?
“I’ve done as much as I can.” Boris is faintly apologetic. Levi, on the other hand, is hard and uncompromising.
“It’s not enough. I need her to have authorized access to every BLINK-related area in the building, to have a NASA.gov email address, to attend project meetings. I need every single piece of equipment she asked for to be here now—it should have arrived ages ago.”
“You’re the one who canceled the order that was placed.”
“Because it wasn’t the system she asked for. Why would I blow a chunk of our budget on an inferior product?”
“Levi, just like I told you every single day you’ve come to me with this last week, sometimes it’s not about science—it’s about politics.”
I am fully leaning my ear and palms against the door now. My fingers shake against the wood, but I don’t feel them. I’m numb.
“Politics is above my pay grade, Boris.”
“Not above mine. We’ve been over this—things have changed a lot, and very quickly. The director was on board with an NIH-NASA collaboration as long as NASA got credit and autonomy on the project. Then NIH insisted on having a larger role. NASA can’t have it.”
“NASA must have it.”
“The director is under lots of pressure. The possible ramifications are huge—if we patent the technology, there’s no telling how widely it can be applied and what the revenue might be. He doesn’t want NIH to own half of the patent.”
A pause, brimming with frustration. I can almost picture Levi running a hand through his hair. “NASA doesn’t have the budget to do the project alone—that’s why NIH was brought in to begin with. Are you telling me that they’d rather have BLINK not happen at all than share the credit? And who will be in charge of the neuroscience portion?”
“Dr. Königswasser is not the only neuroscientist in the world. We have several at NASA who are—”
“Not nearly as good as her, not when it comes to neurostimulation.”
This is a bizarro world. More bizarre than I could ever imagine. I’m in the Upside Down, my heart’s thudding in my ears, and Levi Ward just said something nice about me. A cold, slimy feeling coils in the pit of my stomach. I might throw up, except that I’m completely hollow. I was full of rage when I came here, but that’s draining.
“We’ll make do. Levi, BLINK will be moved to the next budget review, and by then NASA will approve full funding. That way we won’t need NIH. You’ll still be in charge.”
“That’s a year from now, and you can’t guarantee that. Just like you can’t guarantee that the Sullivan prototype will be used.”
A pause. “Son, I understand this is important to you. I feel the same, but—”
“I doubt it.”
“Excuse me?”
Levi’s voice could cut titanium. “I seriously doubt you feel the same.”
“Levi—”
“If you do, authorize the equipment purchase.”
A sigh. “Levi, I like you. I really do. You’re a smart guy. One of the best engineers I know—maybe the best. But you’re young and have no idea about the pressure everyone’s under. BLINK’s unlikely to happen this year. Better make peace with it.”
Seconds pass. I can’t hear Levi’s reply, so I lean in even farther—which turns out to be a terrible idea, because the door swings open. I jump back quickly enough that Boris doesn’t see me, but when Levi steps outside I’m still standing right there, by the office. He slams the door and begins stalking away angrily. Then he notices me and freezes.
He looks furious. And big. Furiously big.
I should say something. Play it cool. Make it seem like I only just wandered here, looking for the office supply closet. Oh, Levi, do you know where they keep the pencil sharpeners? Problem is, that ship has long sailed, and while we study each other with equally raw expressions, I experience an odd, transient feeling. Like this is the first time Levi sees me. No, not quite: like this is the first time I see him. Like the elaborate maze of mirrors through which we’ve been looking at each other has been shattered, the shards swept away.
I can’t bear it. I lower my gaze to my feet. Thankfully, the feeling dissolves as I stare at the pretty daisies on my faux-leather sandals.
My fingers need to quit shaking or I’ll chop them off. If my tear ducts dare to let even a single drop slip through, I’ll tie them shut forever. I’m almost ready to look up again without making a fool of myself, when a large hand closes firmly around my elbow. Shouldn’t have worn a sleeveless top today. “What are you—?”
Levi lifts one finger to his lips to signal me to be quiet and leads me away from the office.
“Where—” I start, but he interrupts me with a low whisper.
“Hush.” His grip is gentle but tight around my flesh. I’m dismayed to find that it seems to help with my nausea.
Without having a clue of what to do, I close my eyes and follow his lead.
I’M A SLOW processor. Always have been.
When my nonna died, everyone around me had been sobbing for several minutes by the time I finally parsed what the white-haired doctor was saying. When Reike decided to take a gap decade to go travel the world, I didn’t realize how lonely I’d be until she was on a plane to Indonesia. When Tim moved out of our apartment, the implications only hit me several days later, the moment I found two of his mismatched socks still in the dryer.
Probably why the enormity of what I heard outside Boris’s office doesn’t fully dawn on me until I’m on one of the benches in the little picnic area behind the Discovery Building, elbows on my knees and forehead in my hands.
It’s such a lovely spot. The shades of two cedar elms and a live oak cross right where I’m sitting. I need to eat lunch out here from now on, I think. Then my Lean Cuisine won’t stink up the office. My stomach twists. There might not be an on from this now.
“Are you okay?”
I glance up, and up, and up. Levi is standing in front me, still icily furious but more in control. Like he counted to ten to calm down a bit, but would gladly go back to one and flip a desk or three. There’s a hint of concern in his eyes, and for some reason I’m thinking again of him pinning me to the wall, of the smell of his skin, the feeling of his hard muscles under my fingers.
There’s something very wrong with my brain.
“I double-checked,” he murmurs. “I received seven emails from you, and all my replies were sent. I’m not sure why they didn’t deliver. I’m assuming the same happened to the one Guy sent to invite you to today’s meeting, and I take responsibility for it. You should have a NASA email address by now.”
The weather outside is perfectly nice, but I’m cold and sweaty at the same time. What a complex organism, my body.
“Why?” I ask. I’m not even sure what I’m referring to.
He exhales slowly. “How much did you hear?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
He nods. “NASA wants exclusive control of whatever patent comes out of BLINK. But it currently doesn’t have the budget to pull off the project, and there was some arm-twisting to include NIH. But NIH is insisting on co-owning the patent, and NASA decided that letting BLINK die a natural death is better than picking a fight with NIH.”
“And this is it? The natural death?”
He doesn’t answer, simply continuing to study me with worry and something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s unsettling, and I nearly laugh when I realize why: this is the first time Levi has sustained eye contact with me for more than a second. The first time his eyes don’t flit away to some point above my head right after meeting mine.
I turn away. I’m not in the mood for ice green. “What if I told NIH?”
A brief hesitation. “You could.”
“But?”
“No buts. It’d be fully within your rights. I’ll support you, if you need me to.”
“. . . But?”
I look at him. There are small scratches on his hand; hairs dust his forearm; his shirt stretches across his shoulder. He’s so imposing from this angle, even more than usual. What did they feed him growing up, fertilizer? “If you told NIH, the only outcome I can imagine is NIH pulling out and the relationship between NIH and the human research branch of NASA souring. BLINK would be shelved until—”
“—until next year. And it would still be a NASA-only project.” Either way, I’m screwed. Catch-22. Never liked that novel.
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it,” he says carefully, “but if the endgame is to make BLINK happen as a collaborative project, it might not be the best move.”
Not to mention that I’d need to get Trevor to believe that this isn’t my fault. Seems like I’d have better luck just telling him that NASA has been taken over by shape-shifting aliens. Yeah, I’ll try that. Might as well.
“What’s the alternative?” I ask. I see none.
“I’ve been working on it.”
“How?”
“I think having Boris on our side would help immensely. And there are . . . things that I might be able to leverage to persuade him.”
“And how are those things working out for you?”
He gives me a dirty look, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Not great. Yet,” he grumbles.
No shit, Sherlock. “Basically, I’m the only person in the world who wants BLINK to happen now.”
He frowns. “I want it, too.” I remember his earlier anger, when I accused him of not caring. God, that was probably less than an hour ago. Feels like nine decades. “And so do other people. The engineers, the astronauts, contractors who’d be out of a job if it were postponed.” His broad shoulders seem to deflate a bit. “Though you and I seem to be the highest-ranking people on board. Which is why we need Boris.”
“It sounds like if you sit tight for a few months the project will fall in your lap and—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “BLINK has to happen now. If it’s delayed there’s a chance that I won’t be in charge, or that the original prototype will be modified.” He sounds so uncompromising, I wonder if this is his pick-up-your-toys-and-go-to-bed dad voice. It sure seems effective. If I end up having kids, I hope I can pull off something this authoritative.
“Still, you’ll be fine no matter what.” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my tone. “While NIH is making personnel cuts, and the main criterion is successfully completed grants. Which I don’t have because of . . . reasons, reasons that have little to do with me not trying or not being a good scientist—which I am, I promise I am good at this, and—”
“I know you are,” he interrupts. He sounds sincere. “And this project is not just another assignment for me. I transferred teams to be here. I pulled strings.”
I run a hand down my face. What a dumpster fire. “You could have told me that NASA was roadblocking. Instead of letting me believe that you were . . .”
He looks at me blankly. “That I was?”
“You know. Trying to oust me for the usual reasons.”
“The usual reasons?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “From grad school.”
“What reasons from grad school?”
“Just the fact that you . . . you know.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
I scratch my forehead, exhausted. “That you despise me.”
He gives me an astonished look, like I just coughed up a hair ball. Like the person who avoided me like I was a flesh-eating porcupine was his evil twin. He’s speechless for a moment, and then says, somehow managing to sound honest, “Bee. I don’t despise you.”
Wow. Wow, for so many reasons. The blatant lie, for instance, like he doesn’t consider me the human equivalent of gas station sushi, but also . . . this is the first time Levi has used my name. I haven’t kept track or anything, but there’s something so uniquely him in the way he says the word, I could never forget.
“Right.” He keeps staring at me with the same disoriented, earnest expression. I snort and smile. “I guess I must have misread every single one of our grad school interactions, then.” He did tell Boris I’m a good neuroscientist, so maybe he doesn’t think I’m incompetent like I always suspected. Maybe he just hates . . . literally everything else about me. Lovely.
“You know I don’t despise you,” he insists with a hint of accusation.
“Sure I do.”
“Bee.”
He says my name again, with that voice, and all I see is red.
“But of course I know. How could I not know when you’ve been so relentlessly cold, arrogant, and unapproachable.” I stand, anger bubbling up my throat. “For years you have avoided me, refused to collaborate with me without valid reasons, denied me even minimally polite conversation, treated me as though I was repulsive and inferior—you even told my fiancé that he should marry someone else, but of course you don’t despise me, Levi.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. He stares at me like that, stricken, disconcerted, like I just hit him with a polo mallet—when all I’ve done is tell the truth. My eyes sting. I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay, but my stupid body betrays me once again and I’m crying, I’m crying in front of him, and I hate him.
I’m not mad at him—I hate him.
For the way he’s treated me. For having the solid career I don’t. For concealing the politics of this damn septic tank of a project. I hate him, hate him, hate him, with a passion I thought I could only reserve for defective airbags, or Tim, or the third move of the year. I hate him for reducing me to this, and for sticking around to see his handiwork.
I hate him. And I don’t want to feel so much.
“Bee—”
“This is not worth it.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and walk past without looking at him. Of course he has to be massive and make that hard, too.
“Wait.”
“I’ll tell NIH about what’s happening,” I say without stopping or turning back. “I can’t risk my superiors thinking that the project failed because of me. I’m sorry if that puts you in a bad position, and I’m sorry if that means delaying BLINK.”
“That’s okay. But please, wait—”
No. I don’t want to wait, or to listen to even one more word. I keep on walking in my pretty daisy sandals until I can’t hear him anymore, until I can’t see through the blur of my tears. I walk out of the Space Center and fantasize that I’m leaving Houston, Texas, the United States. I fantasize about getting on a plane and flying to Portugal to get a hug from Reike.
I fantasize all the way home, and it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I’M STARING AT my phone—just that: brooding and staring at my phone—when a Twitter notification pops up on my screen.
@SabriRocks95 Second year geology Ph.D. student going through a rough patch, here. @WhatWouldMarieDo if she felt like the universe is trying to tell her to give up?
Ouch. This one hits a little too close. My sense of helplessness reached critical mass earlier today, halfway through Alanis Morissette’s discography and well past my second tub of orange sherbet. I feel like I was run through a paper shredder. Like a used Q-tip. A flushable wipe. Not fit to give advice to the moth that’s been fluttering against my window, let alone an intelligent young woman with career trouble. I retweet, hoping that the WWMD community will take care of @SabriRocks95.
“Maybe I should quit academia,” I muse, leaning back in my chair, staring across the open-plan kitchen to Dr. Curie’s magnet. “Should I quit my job?”
Marie doesn’t reply. Silent approval? There are things I could do. Brush up on the German accusative and meet Reike in Greece, where olive oil tycoons would hire us to instruct their teenaged heirs. Shop that sitcom idea I once had: a Bayesian statistician and a frequentist become reluctant roommates. Write my mermaid YA series. Move under a bridge and ask riddles in exchange for safe passage.
Maybe I shouldn’t quit. At least one Königswasser twin needs a stable job, to post bail when the other gets arrested for indecent exposure. Knowing Reike, that’s any day now.
Then again, I’m fairly sure that without BLINK, Trevor won’t renew my contract anyway.
My career is the ultimate unrequited love story, littered with well-reviewed grants that never got funded for political reasons, a shitty boss instead of the rock star I was promised, and now NIH and NASA petty-fighting like cousins at Thanksgiving. When your supposed big break turns into a losing game, that’s when you cut your losses, right?
But what would be left of me without neuroscience? Who would I even be without my burning need to correct people who say that humans use only 10 percent of their brain? (They even made a movie about this. For fuck’s sake, does no one fact-check Hollywood scripts?) Did you know that conservatives tend to have larger amygdalae than liberals? That taxi drivers’ hippocampi grow bigger as they memorize how to navigate London? That brain differences predict variations in personality? We are our nervous systems, the complex combination of billions of neurons firing in distinctive patterns. What’s more exciting than spending my life figuring out what a little chunk of these neurons can accomplish?
I avoid my reflection as I brush my teeth. Maybe I love what I do too much. I should go back to school for something boring. Auctioneering. Naval architecture. Sports broadcasting. I should also stop crying. Or maybe not. Maybe I should feel all my feelings now, so I can be solution-oriented later. All wept-out for tomorrow, when I explain this mess to Trevor. When I tell Rocío to pack her bags.
The second my head touches my pillow I know I’ll explode if I don’t do something. Anything. On impulse, I message Shmac.
MARIE: Do you ever think of leaving research?
His reply is immediate.
SHMAC: Sure am today
MARIE: You hate your life, too? What are the chances.
SHMAC: Maybe we’re the same astrological sign.
MARIE: lol
SHMAC: What’s going on?
MARIE: My project’s a shitshow. And I’m working with this total camel dick who’s the worst. I bet he’s one of those assholes who doesn’t switch to airplane mode during takeoff, Shmac. He probably bites into popsicles. I’m positive he sneezes in his palm and then shakes people’s hands.
SHMAC: Eerily specific.
MARIE: But true!
SHMAC: I don’t doubt it.
MARIE: How’s the girl?
SHMAC: Still married. Plus, she probably thinks I’m a camel dick.
MARIE: She could never. You two having a torrid affair yet?
SHMAC: The opposite.
MARIE: Did she at least get ugly while she was gone?
SHMAC: She’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
My heart skips a beat. Oh, Shmac.
SHMAC: That aside, I’ve been thinking about how much easier my life would be if I quit and became a cat trainer. Except, I can’t even convince my cat not to piss under my living room carpet.
MARIE: I can see how that would be an issue.
MARIE: Do you ever feel like we put too much of ourselves into this?
SHMAC: On the bad days, for sure.
MARIE: Are there good days? Ever?
SHMAC: My last one was in middle school. Second place at the science fair.
MARIE: Did you win a Toys R Us gift certificate?
SHMAC: Nope. A Marie Curie bobblehead, holding two beakers that glow in the dark.
MARIE: Omg. I would MURDER for that.
SHMAC: If we ever meet in person, it’s yours.
We chat for a long time, and it’s nice to commiserate while it lasts, but once I set my phone on the nightstand I feel hopeless again. The last thing I see before falling asleep is Levi’s stricken expression when I threw at him all the things he did to me, painted on the back of my eyelids like the poster of a movie I never want to watch again.
