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“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, “Iknowhow 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 wordsinstitutional fitfour 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 thedean 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. Alsoalso, 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!
