Love, Theoretically

From: [email protected]

Subject: Thermo 201

Hiya! I haven’t come to class this semester because I can’t find the room. Where do we meet, again? Could you draw me a map? Thx.

“Egregious.”

Dr. L. says the word with soft g’s and mysterious vowels, like English is a French language that the Americans are just borrowing. I’d find it amusing, but it’s our first meeting since relaying my job news and I can’t feel anything but anxiety. He asked me to come over, and I really didn’t want to, what with the snow and the crock of shit that’s my schedule. And yet here I am.

“Egregious, that they’d choose another candidate,” he repeats. “Perhaps an appeal is in order.”

“Knowing who the winning candidate is, I doubt there are grounds.”

“Georgina Sepulveda, you said?”

I nod.

“And who would that be?”

I’m taken aback that any living physicist wouldn’t know of her work. But Dr. L. can be narrow minded when it comes to experimentalists. Maybe rightfully so?

“She’s behind the Sepulveda model. A brilliant particle physicist. And she was a Burke fellow years ago.” I look down at my knees. Then back up to Dr. L.’s deep scowl. “I’m sorry, Dr. Laurendeau. I know this is disappointing, but—”

“I wonder if Smith-Turner influenced the search, after all.”

My hand grips the armrest of the green chair. “He . . . I doubt it.”

“We cannot put it past him, can we?”

I clear my throat. “I’m convinced that he did not—”

“Elise, you want Smith-Turner to get his comeuppance just as much as I do, don’t you?”

My stomach sinks and I lower my eyes, mortified. Dr. L. spent the last six years counseling me, and here I am. A screwup. Cavorting with the asshole who nearly ruined his career.

Not being the Elsie he wants.

I need to go back to it. To Elise—hardworking, undeterred, laser focused. “This is a huge setback, but I’m . . . regrouping,” I say, trying to sound optimistic. “In terms of finding a job for next year, I—”

“But you have a job. Several, in fact.”

“Yes. Absolutely.” I take a deep breath. “But these adjunct gigs are time consuming and leave me little time for research. And I really want to finish developing my—”

“There is always time for research. One must want to find it.”

I close my eyes, because this one hurts like hell. The Elsie he wants almost slips away, but I hold strong. “You’re right.”

“Could you not simply teach fewer classes?”

I breathe slowly. In and out. “Financially, that’s not a possibility.”

“I see. Well, sometimes money must take second place.”

I grip the armrest, feeling a gust of frustration that he’d think me greedy for wanting to buy insulin and live in a place without mutant moths. It’s immediately swallowed by guilt. This is Dr. L. I wouldn’t even know the Nielsen-Ninomiya theorem if it weren’t for him.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to mention the idea that’s been swelling in my head since my morning at Jack’s. While there is no dimension in which me working for him would be feasible or appropriate, maybe there is some promise in what he said. “Someone recommended that I consider a postdoctoral fellowship or another research-only position.”

Dr. L. looks at me, alarmed for a split second, and then sighs. “We have been over this, Elise.”

“Right. But we talked about theorists. Maybe some experimentalists might be interested in—”

“Unfortunately, no. I asked widely, and I am very sorry, but no suitable physicist was interested in hiring you as a researcher,” he says, and my stomach sinks even more.

I lower my eyes to my jeans. God, I’m an idiot. A total fucking idiot.

“Elise,” he continues, tone softer, “I know how you feel.” He circles his desk, coming to stand in front of me. “Remember when you started your doctorate? How helpless you felt? How I guided you through developing your algorithms, publishing your manuscripts, making a name for yourself within the physics community? I can help you now, too.”

I think about all the things he’s done for me. All the things I owe to him. I wonder where I’d be without him, and come up empty.

“Do you trust me?”

I nod.

•   •   •

I don’t get a formal rejection from MIT till Wednesday night.

I’m in the middle of what’s rapidly becoming a semesterly endeavor: relearning Noether’s theorem to be able to teach it to a mostly snoring classroom at eight a.m., only to forget it once again by the time my nine thirty thermo lecture comes around.

My brain is a colander.

When the iTwat rings, I look up. Cece is writing her MILF (manuscript I’d like to finish) on the couch, but she meets my eyes.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Monica tells me after a long explanation that includes the words institutional fit four times. I appreciate the call. Academic rejections are often one-line emails. More often, tumbleweeds.

“It’s not your fault, Monica,” I say.

“Or is it?” Cece mutters, which has me smiling.

“I understand the situation,” I add, just to see Cece sprain an eye-rolling muscle.

“I want you to know,” Monica says, “that new positions will be opening soon.”

I thought I’d left my hope bloody and beaten on the side of the road, but apparently it’s still breathing. “Next year?”

“In three to five years. Several theorists are set to retire, and the dean won’t dare close the tenure-track lines. I hope you’ll apply again.”

Go on without me, my hope says, contemplating six more semesters of Noether’s theorem. I’ll only slow you down. “Of course I will.”

“And let’s keep in touch. Grab lunch once the semester is over.”

“I’d love that.”

“Fantastic. Was there any feedback you’d like to give me regarding the search?”

Jack’s voice rings in my ear: You say what you think. And when you can’t, at least let yourself think it.

Okay. Well. Monica, you know that highly irregular meeting we had before my interview? Maybe you should have told me that I had no chance. Also, you overdid it with the cow decor. Also also, your son is a psycho, and I hope he dislocates his dick while publicly humping a fire hydrant.

“Just, thank you for everything you’ve done. I appreciate it.”

Jack might have a point. Contemplating the truth is a nice, cheap thrill.

By the time I hang up, I have two new emails—one from a student asking for my credit card number to buy fifteen hundred live ladybugs, one from Greg.

Hey Elsie,

I’ve been wanting to get in touch, but Jack said it was better to wait, and . . . well, I hear you’re now in the know. Sorry you didn’t get the job. But it’s so cool that you’re a physicist. What are the chances? Maybe Jack can help you find something else? He has tons of connections!

Anyway, would you like to get lunch in the next few days to debrief? I’ll buy!

-G

PS: I have been informed that I attempted to urinate on/near you. I am deeply regretful of my actions.

I’m considering my sudden lunch popularity—take that, middle school bullies—and almost don’t notice Cece sitting next to me at the table. “Hey.” She’s eating croutons straight from the bag, picking them out with chopsticks. As per my usual policy, I don’t ask. “How do you feel?”

“I feel . . .” What a good question. “Like all the plot balls that I was juggling have dropped to the floor. And I have no idea what comes next in my story.”

This is not your character arc, Elsie. More like a . . . character bump.

“Could there be a positive side?”

I cock my head. “Positive?”

“Now you don’t have to juggle anymore. You can use your hands to . . . flip people off. Scratch your butt crack. Become a finger puppeteer.” She shrugs. “If you woke up tomorrow and could choose anything, what would you do?”

My eyes, quicker than my brain, fall on the upper left corner of my computer, where my Word doc sleeps its neglected slumber. I’d finish my work on two-dimensional liquid crystals, I instantly think. But how, without the MIT job? And that ball has dropped, which means that—

Cece sighs. “Okay, you know what? That was a hard question. Let’s just daydream about the future.”

“Sure.” I lean back in my seat. “Income inequality? Nuclear proliferation? Climate change?”

“I’m always up for discussing how rising sea levels will lead the merpeople to claim the lost city of Miami, but I was thinking more . . . next year. Money.”

I sigh. “UMass has open instructor slots, and so does—”

“No. Listen, I don’t want you to do that. I’ve been thinking about this, and . . . I think I can swing it.” Her earnest, heartfelt look is only slightly undercut by the waving of a caesar crouton. “Kirk is giving me a job. He said he’ll need me at least twice a week, and he wants to pay me like an employee. His team is actually drawing up a contract.”

I frown. Why does Kirk crop up so much in conversation? And above all: “Where does Kirk get the money?”

“He’s a scientist.”

“As a scientist myself, let me ask you once again: Where does Kirk get the money?” A spine-chilling thought occurs to me. “Please tell me he’s not Elon Musk.”

“You monster. Take that back.”

“He’s the only rich scientist I can think of!”

“Kirk is Kirk, I promise! He’d never write petulant tweets about how the world is unfair to poor billionaires. To be honest, I doubt he knows what Twitter is. He’s like . . .” Her eyes shine a little. “A total nerd, Elsie. In grad school he created this material that everyone wants, then he built a company around it with his friend who has an MBA. But the company is huge now, as in, ridiculously big. It has stocks and stuff.” Cece’s getting animated. Croutons fly all over the room. Hedgie has noticed. “So now he has all these functions and meetings he needs to go to, and he hates them, but he says that if I’m there, they’re more bearable, even though I know nothing about science or money—”

“Hang on.” I frown. “What’s the name of the material?”

“I keep forgetting. Some kind of resistant blah synthetic blah fiber blah blah.” She taps her lips with the chopsticks. “Taurus, maybe?”

I wish I were drinking, because this deserves a spit take. “Cece, are you fake-girlfriending the dude who invented Tauron?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s what it’s called.”

“Tauron is literally everywhere.” I blink. “He must be a millionaire.”

“I think he is. And that’s why you don’t have to teach sixty-nine classes next year.”

She gives me an expectant look till I sigh and mutter, “Nice.”

“Thank you. Anyway, I’ll cover rent. So you can work a reasonable amount. One or two classes. And the rest of the time you can stay home and do your research about sparkles.”

“Crystals.”

“Crystals. And we can spend our nights eating Gruyère and ranking Wong Kar-wai’s movies from most to least cinematographically poignant.”

Does she know how much you like Twilight?

I smile, trying to remember one single Wong Kar-wai movie. Pretty sure we did a two-day marathon three years ago, which I spent solving equations on my mind’s blackboard while Cece was in full Stendhal syndrome. “2046 would win.”

She smiles dreamily. “Probably.”

I don’t like Kirk. No—I don’t like the way Cece looks when she talks about him, because I’ve seen her act like that only about foreign movies, or Sapir-Whorf, or hedgehogs. It just doesn’t seem like a good idea to like one’s fake boyfriend that much. But I don’t have a chance to say it, because Cece is standing again, rummaging in the cupboard for wonton strips. And because my phone is buzzing with a text—the first I’ve ever gotten from this number:

Are you free tomorrow night?