Page 98 of Written in Scent

I stay behind, alone with my specimens and the rows of wooden drawers. The earlier joy from the cookout, the laughter and easy belonging I felt last night, suddenly feels painfully fragile. I sit down and pick up another pin, but my hands feel heavier than they did before.

This is exactly what I was afraid of from the beginning. That once the pack became public, my identity as a scientist would disappear beneath the label.

I finally let myself belong, and the world is already trying to shrink me back down to just an omega.

The morning after, the archives still sit heavy in my chest as I walk into the Behavioral Entomology lecture hall. The ache from Dean Reynolds’s words hasn’t disappeared, but I refuse to let it dim the one place where I have always felt most like myself. I square my shoulders and step through the familiar doorway.

The tiered room hums with its usual low energy, the scrape of chairs and the faint rustle of notebooks opening around me. The sharp, chemical bite of dry-erase markers mixes with the comforting scent of old paper and the distant aroma of coffee someone has brought in with them. I breathe it in slowly, letting the familiar smells settle over me like a second skin.

I make my way to my usual seat in the front row and slide into it, notebook already open on the narrow desk in front of me. The blank page waits, ready for whatever Dr. Okonkwo is about to share.

This is still mine. The work, the focus, the learnings waiting inside every lecture. No matter what the rest of campus sees when they look at me now, this room still belongs to me alone.

Dr. Okonkwo sweeps into the lecture hall like a sudden storm, her colorful patterned scarf fluttering behind her and her voice already filling the room before she even reaches the podium.

She launches straight into a story about firefly mating signals, hands moving in wide arcs as she describes the precise flashes of light that males use to court females across dark rainforest canopies. Her Nigerian accent curls around every word, vibrant and lively, and the entire room leans forward without meaning to.

“Imagine,” she says, eyes sparkling, “one wrong flicker of light and the lady firefly simply turns away. Precision, my dears. That is what wins the mate.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the seats. I smile despite the lingering weight in my chest, my pen already moving across the page as I try to capture every detail.

Then Dr. Okonkwo pauses. She sets her notes down with deliberate care and lets the silence stretch just long enough to make everyone sit up straighter.

“And speaking of precision,” she continues, voice dropping into something almost reverent, “I have the final selections for our mid-term Amazon rainforest field expedition. These slots are limited, and they were awarded on pure academic merit.”

My heart gives a single hard thud against my ribs before it feels like it stops entirely. I grip my pen tighter as she lifts the sheet of paper and begins reading the names in order.

Each one lands like a small stone in still water. Upperclassmen mostly. A sophomore here, a junior there. Our class of freshmen shifts restlessly, already preparing for disappointment.

Then she reaches the last name on the list.

“Elodie Maddison,” she says clearly, “our only freshman selected.”

A polite applause carries through our class, mixed with surprised whispers. Heads turn toward me so fast I feel the collective shift of air. My cheeks burn hot as Dr. Okonkwo beams straight at me, her smile wide and proud.

“That is right,” she calls over the noise, pointing one elegant finger in my direction. “The rest of you should be taking notes.”

The moment feels huge, bigger than anything I expected. I’m the only freshman going. The only one. My notebook blurs for a second, and for the first time since Dean Reynolds’ words yesterday, something pleased and tingling blooms in my chest.

I did this. On my own.

Dr. Okonkwo’s proud smile finds me again, wide and genuine, and for the rest of the lecture I sit there wrapped in it, barely hearing the rest of her words.

When class finally ends and students begin to file out, she calls my name from the front of the room.

“Elodie, a moment please.”

I gather my notebook and walk down to her desk on legs that feel a little shaky. She waits until the last student is gone before she turns to me fully, her dark eyes sparkling with real delight.

“That paper you submitted on pheromone trails and colony hierarchy was exceptional,” she says, voice direct. “The way you connected insect chemical ecology to broader social systems showed real insight. I knew the moment I read it that you belonged on this trip. Congratulations, my dear. You earned every single bit of this spot.”

Her praise lands like a maternal hand on my shoulder.

I feel brilliant all on my own. Despite what anyone thinks, academia still belongs to me completely, untouched and alive.

I head outside and sit on a bench for a moment, my poetry notebook opening in front of me before I can think twice about it.

Rainforest canopy dripping gold,