Love on the Brain

“I’M GOING TO switch off your speech center, now.”

Guy looks up from under his eyelashes with a defeated sigh. “Man, I hate it when people do that.”

I laugh. Guy’s the third astronaut I’ve tested this morning. He works on BLINK, so we weren’t originally planning to map his brain, but someone pulled out of the pilot group last minute. Brain stimulation is tricky business: it’s complicated to predict how neurons will respond, and even harder in people who have a history of epilepsy or electric misfiring. Just drinking a cup of strong coffee can mess up brain chemistry enough to make a well-consolidated stimulation protocol dangerous. When we found out that one of the astronauts we selected had a history of seizures, we decided to give his spot to Guy. Guy was ecstatic.

“I’m going to target your Broca’s area,” I tell him.

“Ah, yes. The famed Broca’s area.” He nods knowingly.

I smile. “That would be your left posterior-inferior frontal gyrus. I’ll stimulate it with trains up to twenty-five hertz.”

“Without even buying me dinner first?” He clucks his tongue.

“To see whether it’s working, I’ll need you to talk. You can recite a poem, free-style it, doesn’t matter.” The other astronauts I tested today chose a Shakespeare sonnet and the Pledge of Allegiance.

“Whatever I want?”

I position the stimulation coil one inch from his ear. “Yep.”

“Very well, then.” He clears his throat. “My loneliness is killing me and I, I must confess I still believe—”

I laugh, like everyone else in the room. Including Levi, who appears to be fairly close to Guy. It speaks highly of him (Guy, not Levi; I refuse to speak highly of Levi), considering he probably should have been BLINK’s leader. Guy doesn’t seem to mind, at least judging by the chummy chat they had over some sportsball game’s lineup while I was setting up my equipment.

“. . . my loneliness is killing me and I, I must c—” Guy frowns. “Sorry, I must c—” He frowns harder. “Must c—” he sputters one last time, blinking fast. I turn to Rocío, who’s taking notes. “Speech arrest at MNI coordinates minus thirty-eight, sixteen, fifty.”

The ensuing applause is unnecessary, but a tiny bit welcome. Earlier this morning, when the entire engineering team dragged their feet to the neurostimulation lab to observe my first brain mapping session, it was obvious that they’d rather be pretty much anywhere else. It was equally obvious that Levi had instructed them not to say so much as a peep about their total lack of interest.

They’re good guys. They tried to fake it. Sadly, there’s a reason that in high school, engineers tend to gravitate toward the robotics shop instead of drama club.

Thankfully, neuroscience has a way of defending her own honor. I just had to pick up my coil and show a few tricks. With stimulation at the right spot and frequency, decorated astronauts with IQs well into the triple digits and drawers full of graduate diplomas can temporarily forget how to count (“Woah! Is that for real?”), or move their fingers (“Freaky!”), or recognize the faces of people they work with every day (“Bee, how are you even doing that?”), and, of course, how to speak (“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire damn life.”). Brain stimulation kicks ass, and anyone who says otherwise shall know her wrath. Which is why the lab is still crammed. The engineers were supposed to leave after the first demonstration but decided to stick around . . . indefinitely, it seems.

It’s nice to convert a bunch of skeptics to the wonders of neuroscience. I wonder if Dr. Curie felt the same when she shared her love for ionizing radiation. Of course in her case, long-term unshielded exposure to unstable isotopes eventually led to chronic aplastic anemia and death in a sanatorium, but . . . you get my point. Which is that when I say, “I think I got all I need from Guy. We’re done for today,” the room erupts into a disappointed groan. Levi and I exchange an amused look.

To be clear: we’re not friends or anything. One dinner together, one night sleeping in a room that happens to contain three-quarters of my favorite books, and one yawny car ride to Noah Moore’s grave, during which he politely respected that I’m not a morning person and remained blissfully quiet, did not make Levi and me friends. We still dislike each other, rue the day we met, wish the pox on the other’s house, etc., etc. But it’s like last week, over vegan tacos, we managed to form an uneasy, rudimentary alliance. I help him do his thing, and he helps me do mine.

It almost feels like we’re actually collaborating. Crazy, huh?

For lunch, I heat up my ever-so-sad Lean Cuisine, grab a stack of academic articles I’ve been meaning to read, and make my way to the picnic tables behind the building. I’ve been nibbling on chickpeas for about five minutes when I hear a familiar voice.

“Bee!” Guy and Levi are walking toward me, holding paper cups and sandwich bags. “Mind if we join you?” Guy asks.

I do a little, since this paper on electrotherapy isn’t going to read itself, but I shake my head. I shoot Levi an apologetic look (Sorry you’re stuck eating with me because Guy doesn’t know that we’re archenemies), but he doesn’t seem to get it and takes a seat across from me, smiling faintly as though he doesn’t mind. I watch the play of muscles under his shirt, and a frisson of warmth licks down my spine.

Hmm. Weird.

Guy sits next to me with a grin, and I think to myself, not for the first time, that he’s wholesome, charming, and truly a Cute Guy™.

This is incredibly objectifying and reductive, and if you tell anyone I’ll flatly deny it, but back in grad school Annie told me that there are three types of attractive men. I don’t know if she came up with this taxonomy herself, if Aphrodite announced it to her in a dream, or if she stole it from Teen Vogue, but here they are:

There is the cute type, which consists of guys who are attractive in a nonthreatening, accessible way, as a combination of their nice looks and captivating personalities. Tim falls into this group, just like Guy and most male scientists—including, I suspect, Pierre Curie. Come to think of it, all the guys who ever hit on me do, perhaps because I’m small, and dress quirky, and try to be friendly. If I were a dude, I’d be a Cute Guy™; Cute Guys™ recognize that at some elemental level, and they make passes at me.

Then there’s the handsome type. According to Annie, this category is a bit of a waste. The Handsome Guy™ has the kind of face you see in movie trailers and perfume ads, geometrically perfect and objectively amazing, but there’s something inaccessible about him. Those guys are so dreamy, they’re almost abstract. They need something to anchor them to reality—a personality quirk, a flaw, a circumscribed interest—otherwise they’ll float away in a bubble of boredom. Of course, society doesn’t exactly encourage Handsome Guys™ to develop brilliant personalities, so I tend to concur with Annie: they’re useless.

Last but not least, the Sexy Guys™. Annie would go on and on about how Levi is the epitome of the Sexy Guy™, but I’d like to formally object. In fact, I don’t even acknowledge the existence of this category. It’s preposterous, the idea that there are men you can’t help yourself from being attracted to. Men who give you the tingles, men you can’t stop thinking about, men who pop up in your brain like flashes of light after stimulation of the occipital cortex. Men who are physical, elemental, primordial. Masculine. Present. Solid. Sounds fake, right?

“Hit me,” Guy tells me with a Cute Guy™ smile. “What’s wrong with my brain?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell.”

“Amazing news. Could you help me convince my ex-wife that I’m certifiably sane?”

“I’ll write you a note.”

“Nice.” He winks at me. He winks at me a lot, I’m noticing. “So, how are you liking Houston?”

“I haven’t really seen much yet. Besides the Space Center.”

“And a cemetery,” Levi interjects. I give him a dirty look and steal a cluster of his grapes in revenge. He lets me with a small smile.

“I could help you out,” Guy offers.

“Sure,” I say distractedly, busy glaring at Levi and making a show of chewing on his grapes.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

Levi lifts one eyebrow and bites into his sandwich. It feels a lot like a challenge, so I steal a strawberry, too.

“Maybe we could go to dinner,” Guy says. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

Levi and I instantly turn toward him. I mentally rewind the conversation, trying to recall what I agreed to. A date? Exploring Houston? Marriage?

No. No, no, no. I have zero interest in dating, zero interest in Guy, and subzero interest in dating Guy. You know what I do have? Weird, intrusive thoughts. For instance, I’m currently remembering the way Levi’s hands felt around my waist as he slid me down his body. “Um, I . . .”

“Or this weekend?”

“Oh.” I give Levi a panicked glance. Help. Please help. “Thanks, um, but actually I . . .”

“Just name the night. I’m flexible and—”

“Guy,” Levi says, voice deep and low. “You might want to take a look at her left hand.”

I glance down, confused. My fingers are still clutching the strawberry. What does he— Oh. My grandmother’s wedding ring. I put it on this morning. Some good luck for the brain mapping sessions.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Guy immediately apologizes. “I had no idea that you—”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m not . . .” Married, I want to say, but it would be a waste of the amazing out Levi gave me. I cough. “I’m not bothered.”

“Okay. My apologies, again.” He leans toward Levi, asking with a conspiratorial tone, “Out of curiosity, how big’s her husband? And how prone to violent rage?”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “He doesn’t really . . .” exist.

“Don’t worry,” Levi tells Guy. “Tim’s mild mannered.”

I face-palm internally. I can’t believe Levi told Guy that I’m married to Tim. It’s the worst, most easily disprovable lie ever. Couldn’t he make up a random dude?

“Should I still get a groin protection cup?” Guy asks.

Levi shrugs. “Might be safest.”

I look down at my chickpeas, wishing they were Levi’s lunch. Fruit’s so much better. Believable lies are so much better.

“You sure you’re not mad, Bee?” Guy asks, a touch concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

This is what I get for asking The Wardass for help. I give Levi the stink eye, snatch another strawberry, and sigh. “Nope. Not mad at all.”

•   •   •

REIKE: What do you mean, Levi lied and said you’re married to Tim???

BEE: He saw how flustered I was and tried to help me out.

REIKE: First: Guy Fieri has no business putting you in that position.

BEE: NOT his name!

BEE: But valid point.

REIKE: Second: this is a terrible lie, easily refutable if Guy Fieri talks with literally anyone else who knows you. It’s going to bite you in the ass.

BEE: I am aware.

REIKE: Third: Levi does know you’re not married to Tim, right?

BEE: Yeah. He and Tim are buds, they collaborate. Levi was the one who told Tim to find someone better back in grad school.

REIKE: Honestly, you should have just told Guy Fieri no. You screwed up.

BEE: I know but you’re my sister and I’m human I NEED LOVE AND COMPASSION NOT JUDGMENT

REIKE: You need a full psychiatric evaluation.

REIKE: But

I sip on a blueberry smoothie and look around the busy coffee shop, waiting for Rocío to show up for our first GRE tutoring session.

It’s probably going to be fine. My marital life (or lack thereof) is unlikely to come up with Guy. And I have other things to think about. Like the stimulation protocols I’m creating. Or income inequality. Or the fact that I haven’t seen Félicette in a while, but I think she’s been eating the little treats I left for her in my office. Important stuff.

“Did you know,” Rocío greets me, sliding into the chair across from me, “that blood is the perfect substitute for eggs?” I blink. She takes it as an invitation to continue. “Sixty-five grams per egg. Exceedingly similar protein composition.”

“. . . Interesting.” Not.

“You could have blood cake. Blood ice cream. Blood meringues. Blood pappardelle. Blood pound cake. Blood omelet or, if you prefer, scrambled blood. Blood tiramisu. Blood quiche—”

“I think I got the gist.”

“Good.” She smiles. “I wanted to let you know. Just in case blood is vegan.”

I open my mouth to point out several things, but settle on, “Thank you, Ro. Very thoughtful of you. Why’s your hair wet? Please don’t say ‘blood.’ ”

“I went to the gym. I like to channel Ophelia in the lazy river, pretend I’m drowning in a Danish brook after a flimsy willow branch collapsed under my weight.”

“What was she doing on a willow?”

“She was mad. For love.” Rocío glares at me. “And they say a woman’s heart is fickle.”

Right. “Sounds like a nice pool.”

“It’s like a Sir John Everett Millais painting. Except that swim caps are mandatory and medieval dresses forbidden. Fascists.”

“Hmm. Maybe I should buy the membership after all.”

“You don’t need to, it’s free for NASA employees.”

“But not for contractors, right?”

“They didn’t make me pay.” She shrugs and pulls a GRE prep book out of her backpack. “Can we start with quantitative reasoning? Though parallelograms make me want to drown myself in a Danish brook. Again.”

Half an hour later, the reason my intelligent, math-savvy, articulate RA has been scoring so poorly on the GRE becomes unmistakably clear: this test is too dumb for her. In related news: we’re about to murder each other.

“The correct answer is B,” I repeat, seriously considering ripping a page off the book and stuffing it into her mouth. “You don’t need to solve for other options. X is a factor of y squared—”

“You’re assuming that X is an integer. What if it’s a rational number? A real number? Or, even worse, an irrational number?”

“I guarantee you that X is not an irrational number,” I hiss.

“How do you know?” she growls.

“Common sense!”

“Common sense is for people who are not smart enough to solve for pi.”

“Are you implying that—”

“Hey, girls!”

“What?” we bark in unison. Kaylee blinks at us from above a very pink drink.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“No, no.” I smile reassuringly. “Sorry, we got carried away. We’re having some . . . issues.” She’s wearing a purple jumpsuit and heart-shaped sunglasses, and her hair is pulled over her shoulder into a fishtail braid that reaches her rib cage. Her purse is shaped like a watermelon, and her necklace is a pink flower with the letter K in its middle.

I want to be her.

“Aw.” She tilts her head. “Can I help?” There is something earnest about the way she asks, like she actually cares.

I ignore Rocío’s kicks under the table and ask Kaylee, “Would you like to join us in fighting the hegemony of the Graduate Record Examination?”

I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but Kaylee huffing, eye-rolling, and pulling a chair up to our table was not it. “It’s an indignity. GRE, SATs, all these tests are institutionalized gatekeepers, and the extent to which graduate programs over-rely on them for student admission is obscene. We are two decades into the twenty-first century, but we’re still using a test based on a conceptualization of intelligence that’s about as outdated as the Triassic. Graduate school success depends on qualities that are not measured by the GRE—we all know it. Why aren’t we moving toward a holistic approach to graduate admission? Also, the GRE costs hundreds of dollars! Who has the financial solubility for that? Or for the prep courses, the materials, the tutors? Let me tell you who doesn’t: not-rich people.” She wags her finger at me, precise and wildly graceful. I am mesmerized. “You know who traditionally does poorly on standardized tests? Women and marginalized individuals. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy: groups that are constantly told by society that they’re less smart walk into a testing situation anxious as hell and end up underperforming. It’s called Stereotype Threat, and there’s tons of literature on that. Just like there’s tons of literature showing that the GRE does a terrible job at predicting who’ll finish grad school. But the heads of graduate admission all over the country don’t care and persist in using an instrument made to elevate rich white men.” She shakes out her hair. “Burn it down, I say.”

“Burn . . . what down?”

“All of it,” Kaylee says fiercely with her high-pitched voice. Then she sucks a delicate sip from her straw. I really want to be her.

I glance at Rocío and do a double take. She’s staring at Kaylee, breathing quickly, lips parted and cheeks flushed. Her right hand clutches the prep book like it’s the edge of a ravine. “You okay, Ro?” I ask her. She nods without breaking her stare.

“Anyway,” Kaylee continues with a shrug, “why are we talking about the GRE?”

“Rocío is taking it, and I was helping her out. With”—I clear my throat—“mixed results. I believe we were about to shank each other over irrational numbers?”

“Sounds about right,” Rocío mumbles.

“Oh”—Kaylee waves her hand airily—“you shouldn’t be talking about irrational numbers. The thing about the GRE is, the less you know the better off you are.” I give Rocío my best told you so look. She kicks me again. “If you take a prep class, they teach you little tricks useful to pass the test—more so than actually knowing math.”

“You’ve taken the GRE?” Rocío asks.

“Yep. This manager thing is a temporary gig—I’m starting my Ph.D. in education in the fall. At Johns Hopkins.”

Rocío frowns. “You’re . . . going to Johns Hopkins?”

“Yes!” Kaylee nods happily. “My parents paid for a prep course, and I have tons of notes. Plus I remember most of it. Why don’t I help you?”

Rocío turns to me with an aghast look that almost makes me laugh. Almost. Instead, I grab my smoothie and stand. “It’s so lovely of you to offer.” Rocío tries to kick me again, but I slither away. “I’m going to check out the gym at the Space Center. Rocío said that it might be free.”

“It is. Levi had me change your status the other day.”

“Whose status?”

“Yours. And Rocío’s.” She winks. “I switched you to team members in the system, so you can get some of the perks.”

“Oh, thank you. That was very—” Unexpected? Out of character? Something you must have made up on the spot because why would he do that? “—generous.”

“Levi’s awesome. Best boss I ever had. He harassed NASA into giving me health insurance!” She smiles and turns to Rocío, who looks ready to drown herself in a Danish brook. Again. “Where did you want to start?”

Rocío incinerates me with her eyes as I wave goodbye. Honestly, she’s in excellent hands. Doesn’t even deserve it. On the sidewalk, I take out my phone and quickly type up a tweet.

@WhatWouldMarieDo . . . if one of the major obstacles preventing access to higher education were the GRE, a test that is 1) expensive 2) poorly predictive of overall graduate school success, and 3) biased against individuals who are lower-income, BIPOC, and non-cis-males?

I slip my phone into my pocket, and my thoughts go back to the gym. Levi probably just wants me to be able to use it so he doesn’t have to retrieve me from a different cemetery every week. Can’t blame him, honestly.

Yeah. That must be it.