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Guybeing the operative word. Because when you’re a woman talking about your research, there are anywhere between one and a million STEMlords ready to exploit every little weakness—every little sign that you’re not a lean, mean science machine. Theyoupeople want is sharp, impeccable, perfect enough to justify your intrusion in a field that for centuries has been “rightfully” male. Butnottooperfect, because apparently only “stone-cold bitches” are like that, and they do not make for congenial, affable colleagues. STEM culture has been a boys’ club for so long, I often feel like I can be allowed to play only if I follow the rules men made. And those rules? They downright suck.
Like I said, a tightrope. With a bunch of crocodiles throwing their maws open in wait for fresh meat.
Well. Here goes. I make my smile a combination of warm and self-assured that doesn’t exist in nature, and say, “Since this class deals with current topics in physics, I’ve prepared a lecture on Wigner crystals, a highly discussed—”
A groan.
Did someone groan?
I look around, puzzled. Students stare at me expectantly.
I imagined it.
“Wigner crystallization occurs when electron gases that live in a periodic lattice—”
“Excuse me?” Cole. Of the green hair. “Dr. Hannaway, are you going to talk about the topic of Wigner crystals from a theoretical perspective?”
“Great question. Mostly theory, but I’ll give an overview of the experimental evidence, too.” Next slide—and perfect segue. “Once we achieved the ability to create large inter-electronic distances, Wigner crystallization—”
“Excuse me.” Cole.Again.“A question.”
I smile patiently. I’m used to this. The last time I presented at a conference, some dudewell, actually’d me before I even pulled up my PowerPoint. “Of course, go ahead.”
“My question is... what’s the point of this?”
Several people laugh. I sigh internally. “Excuse me?”
“Isn’t it a bit useless, talking about theories for hours?” He talks slowly but earnestly. Like he’s Steve Jobs unveiling a new phone. “Shouldn’t we focus on theactualapplications?”
I open my mouth to ask who hurt him—Did Michio Kaku bully you, Cole? Did Feynman steal your lunch money?—but my eyes fall on Volkov. He’s giving me an interested look, like he’s curious to see how I’ll deal with this shitgibbon. Next to him, Monica’s lips are flat and resigned. And behind her...
Jack.
Who never bothered to sit. He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest in a casualYeah, I work outway, staring at me like a brown recluse spider on steroids. His sharp, unyielding eyes miss nothing, but whatever emotion I managed to squeeze from him last night is gone, and I’m back to having no clue what he’s thinking. He’s like a closed book.
No, he’s like a book on fire.Fahrenheit 451—no words to read, just ashes and the abyss.
Everything clicks together. I fill in the blanks of my interrupted conversation with Monica: it’s Jack who teaches this class. Jack, who has lots of opinions about theorists. Jack, who indoctrinated his students into believing that people like me are the enemy. Jack, whose sexual fantasies likely involve me failing to defend my discipline to two dozen hostile dudes. I bet he gets off to recordings of me mispronouncingsyzygyat the eleventh-grade science fair.
This is a setup. The teaching demonstration was always going to be myTitanic—the ship, not the high-grossing motion picture.
Except that, no.
I hold Jack’s eyes and give him my sweetest, most feral smile.You underestimated me, it says, and he knows it. Because he half smiles back and nods minutely—devious, ready, coiled.Have I, Elsie?
It’s on.
“You make a really good point, Cole.” I set down my clicker and wander from behind the podium. “Theoretical physicscanbe a waste of time.” I take off my suit jacket, even though it’s cold. I glance down at my abdomen to make sure the bump of my pod is not visible.I’m basically one of you. Two, three years older? Look, I’m sitting on the table. Let’s be friends.“Who would agree? Show of hands.” It takes a few seconds of exchangedIs this a trap?looks, but 80 percent of the hands are up in no time.
That’s when I raise my own, too.
They laugh. “Aren’t you a theorist, Dr. Hannaway?” someone asks.
“Yes, but I get it. And please, call me Elsie.”I’m not like a regular theorist. I’m a cool theorist.Yikes. Erwin Schrödinger, avert your eyes. “Itisunfair that most of the physicists who win Nobel Prizes or become household names are theorists. Newton. Einstein. Feynman. Kaku. Sheldon Cooper got the seven-season spin-off show, but Leonard? Nothing.” People chuckle—including Volkov. Jack’s slim smile doesn’t waver. “The advantage of theory is that we trade in ideas, and ideas are cheap and fast. Experimental physicists need expensive equipment to troubleshoot every step, but theorists can just sit there and write”—I add a calculated shrug—“science fan fiction.” It’s an actual insult I got when I went to a Harvard social as Cece’s plus-one. From a philosophy grad who, after three beers, decided to mansplain to the entire bar why my publications didn’t really count.
The things I do for free food.
“Theoristshidebehind fancy math,” Cole says.Sweet summer STEMlord. I promise you’re not as edgy as you think.
