Love on the Brain
: Chapter 12

SHMAC: That GRE tweet is becoming a bit of a thing, huh?

It sure is.

If by “bit” he means “a lot.” And if by “thing” he means “shitstorm.”

I have no idea how it even happened. The day I sent the tweet I went to bed after reading comments of people talking about their negative experiences with the test. When I woke up, there was a hashtag (#FairGraduateAdmissions), and dozens of associations of women and minorities in STEM had announced a GRE strike, encouraging students to turn in their grad school applications without the GRE.

@OliviaWeiBio If everyone does it, grad programs will have no choice but to evaluate us based on our experiences, CV, previous efforts, and skills. Basically, what they should already be doing.

Have I mentioned how much I love women in STEM? Because I loooove women in STEM.

Two hours later, a journalist from The Atlantic messaged me, asking for an interview. Then CNN. Then Chronicle of Higher Ed. Then Fox News (as if!). I paired up with Shmac to reach an even wider audience, and together we issued a thousand-word essay summarizing the lack of scientific evidence supporting the use of the GRE as an admission tool. I encouraged news outlets to interview the women who started the hashtag (except for Fox News, which I left on read). Several people came forward and talked to the media about the number of minimum-wage hours necessary to afford the test, about their frustration when wealthier classmates with access to private tutoring performed better, about the crushing disappointment of being rejected by dream institutions despite perfect GPAs and research experience because their scores didn’t meet some arbitrary cutoff by a few percentage points. They’re still doing the rounds, with more people opening up.

#FairGraduateAdmissions is a movement, and it has a real chance at getting rid of this stupid, unfair test. I’ve been all aflutter.

You know who else has been aflutter? Rocío. Who barged into the office declaring: “I won’t be preparing for the GRE anymore, in solidarity with my brethren. Johns Hopkins will have to acknowledge how badass I am from my other application materials.”

I looked up from my laptop and nodded. “I support that.”

“You know why this is happening, right?” She leaned conspiratorially over my desk. “The other day we talked about how shitty the GRE is, and now people are rallying against it because Marie started the conversation. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Oh,” I stammered, “well, it probably is just a coincidence—”

“There are no coincidences,” she said, beautiful dark eyes staring into mine. “Bee, we both know who I owe this to.”

“Oh—I’m sure—”

“La Llorona.” She took her phone out of her pocket and showed me pictures of beautiful creeks. Her eyes shone. “I’ve been visiting nearby places where she was sighted, leaving little tokens of appreciation.”

“Tokens?”

“Yes. Tarots, poems I wrote extolling the beauty of the macabre, pentagrams made of twigs. The usual.”

“The . . . usual.”

“I think it’s her way of saying, ‘Rocío, I recognize a kindred spirit, perhaps even a successor in you.’ ” She smiled at me, setting her bag on her desk. “I am so happy, Bee.”

I smiled back and went back to work, relieved that Rocío doesn’t suspect who’s behind WWMD. Sometimes I wonder if Dr. Curie, too, had a secret identity she couldn’t reveal. Period-wise, she could have been Jack the Ripper. Never say never, right?

MARIE: Do you think we’re actually going to get rid of the GRE?

SHMAC: We’re closer than ever, for sure.

MARIE: Agreed. Thank you for helping out, by the way.

Shmac and I have the same number of followers but completely different reaches. I hate thanking dudes for Sausage Referencing™, but truth is, there are plenty of male academics who’d rather guzzle curdled milk than engage with WWMD. Which is fine, because I’d love nothing more than pouring gallons of curdled milk down their throats. Still, #FairGraduateAdmissions can use all the support it can get.

MARIE: How’s The Girl?

SHMAC: How’s Camel Dick?

MARIE: Astonishingly, we’re almost getting along. If we haven’t come to blows yet, are we even collaborating? Also, nice deflection. Tell me about The Girl.

SHMAC: Everything’s fine.

MARIE: Fine has variable definitions. Narrow it down.

SHMAC: How narrow?

MARIE: Very.

SHMAC: Okay. Narrowingly: things are great, in the worst possible way. We’ve been working together a lot because that’s what the project demands. Which might be why I’m on my fourth beer on a Thursday night.

MARIE: Why is working together bad?

SHMAC: It’s just . . . I know things about her.

MARIE: Things?

SHMAC: I know what she loves to eat, what shows she watches, what makes her laugh, her opinions on pets. I know her dislikes (aside from me). I’ve been cataloging a million little quirks of hers in my head, and they are enchanting. She is enchanting. Smart, funny, an incredible scientist. And . . . there are things. Things I think about. But I’m drunk, and this is inappropriate.

MARIE: I love inappropriate.

SHMAC: Do you?

MARIE: Sometimes. Hit me.

SHMAC: I need you to know that I’d never do anything to make her uncomfortable.

MARIE: Shmac, I know that. And if you ever did, I’d cut your dick off with a rusty scalpel.

SHMAC: Fair.

MARIE: Tell me.

The clock in the kitchen ticks on. Late-night cars make soft noises past the window, and the screen of my phone goes black. I don’t think Shmac will continue. I don’t think he’ll open up, and it makes me sad. Even though I don’t know anything about his life, I get the impression that if he doesn’t do it with me, he won’t with anyone else. My eyes drift closed, accustomed to the dark, and that’s when my screen lights up again.

The air rushes out of my lungs.

SHMAC: I know what she smells like. This little freckle on her neck when she pulls up her hair. Her upper lip is a little plumper than the lower. The curve of her wrist, when she holds a pen. It’s wrong, really wrong, but I know the shape of her. I go to sleep thinking about it, and then I wake up, go to work, and she is there, and it’s impossible. I tell her stuff I know she’ll agree to, just to hear her hum back at me. It’s like hot water down my fucking spine. She’s married. She’s brilliant. She trusts me, and all I think about is taking her to my office, stripping her, doing unspeakable things to her. And I want to tell her. I want to tell her that she’s luminous, she’s so bright in my mind, sometimes I can’t focus. Sometimes I forget why I came into the room. I’m distracted. I want to push her against a wall, and I want her to push back. I want to go back in time and punch her stupid husband on the day I met him and then travel back to the future and punch him again. I want to buy her flowers, food, books. I want to hold her hand, and I want to lock her in my bedroom. She’s everything I ever wanted and I want to inject her into my veins and also to never see her again. There’s nothing like her and these feelings, they are fucking intolerable. They were half-asleep while she was gone, but now she’s here and my body thinks it’s a fucking teenager and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. There is nothing I can do, so I’ll just . . . not.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t even swallow the knot in my throat. I might actually cry. For him. For this girl, who’ll never know that someone holds these mountains of want inside. And maybe for me, because I’ve made the choice to never feel this, never again. Never ever, and I realize now, now for the first time, what a terrible price I will pay. What a loss it will be.

MARIE: Oh, Shmac.

What else is there to say? He’s in love with someone who doesn’t love him back. Who is married. This story has no happy ending. And I think he knows, because he only replies with,

SHMAC: Yeah.

• • •

“HEY, BEE.”

I set aside my article and smile at Lamar. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Just wanted to tell you that I’ve updated the log system on the server.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Nothing is changing on your end, but now users removing, replacing, or modifying files are automatically tracked. If something’s iffy, we’ll know who’s responsible.”

“Great.” I frown. “Why did you do that?”

“Because of the issues.”

“The issues?”

“Yeah. Missing files and all that. Levi called an engineering meeting to tear us a new one and asked me to change the server code.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry about the mess.” He slips out of my office, leaving me to stare at my article. I am still staring three minutes later when someone else knocks on the doorframe.

“What’s with your return air vent?” Levi’s in the entrance, filling it like Lamar couldn’t quite manage. “It’s missing the grille. I’ll call maintenance—”

“No!” I swivel around. “It’s how Félicette gets inside at night. To eat the treats I leave for her!”

He lifts one eyebrow. “You want an uncovered vent because your imaginary cat—”

“She’s not imaginary. I found a paw print next to my computer the other day. I texted it to you.” And he replied, Looks like a splotch of Lean Cuisine. I hate him.

“Right. About tomorrow, we should head out early since New Orleans is over five hours away. I don’t mind picking up the rental and driving. You can sleep in the car, but I’d like to leave around six—”

“You called the meeting.”

He cocks his head. A wisp of black hair falls on his brow. “Excuse me?”

“You told the engineers about the missing files.”

“Ah.” He presses his lips together. “I did.”

I stand without knowing why. Put my hands on my hips, still not knowing why. “I asked you not to.”

“Bee. It needed to be done.”

“We agreed that we wouldn’t until we had proof.”

He folds his arms on his chest, a stubborn line to his shoulders. “We didn’t agree. You told me you didn’t want to call a full meeting about it, and I didn’t. But I’m head of the engineering division, and I decided to tell my team about the issue.”

I snort. “Your team is everyone but me and Rocío. Nice loophole.”

“Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more articulate than that.”

“Because you did it behind my back.” I bristle. “Just like a month ago, when you didn’t tell me about NASA trying to get BLINK canceled.”

“It’s not the same at all.”

“It is in theory. And it’s a matter of principle.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “If we’re co-leaders, we need to agree before taking disciplinary measures.”

“No disciplinary measure was taken. It was a five-minute meeting in which I asked my team to stop messing around with important files. I run a tight ship, and my team knows it—no one made a big deal about this except for you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me you were going to do it?”

His eyes harden, hot and dark and frustrated. He scans my face, silent, and I feel the tension rise in the room. This is about to escalate. To a full-blown fight. He’ll yell at me to mind my business. I’ll throw my Lean Cuisine at him. We’ll pummel each other, people will rush to separate us, we will cause a spectacle.

But he just says, “I’ll pick you up at six.” His tone is steely. Inflexible. Cold. So different from the one he’s used with me for the past five weeks.

I wonder why that is. I wonder if he hates me. I wonder if I hate him. I wonder so much that I forget to answer him, but it doesn’t matter. Because he’s already gone.