Miranda in Retrograde

Miranda in Retrograde

By Lauren Layne

1. April

APRIL

When I decided at the age of nine that I wanted to be an astrophysicist, I’d thought that meant I’d study stars someday.

Not become one.

Now, let’s be clear. I’m not a star in the Aniston, Clooney, Streep sense of the word. Nobody stops me in the streets and asks for my picture.

In nerdy terms:

If the Clooney crowd is part of the blue-white supergiants of the universe, Dr. Miranda Reed (that’s me) is more of a red dwarf–level star.

In less nerdy terms:

It’s unlikely the paparazzi will ever be jumping out from behind a bush to catch a glimpse of me carrying groceries.

I’m not a household name, by any stretch of the imagination. But among brainy social circles?

Well, let me put it this way. I may not be People magazine’s Person of the Year, but I have been Citizen magazine’s Scientist of the Year. And I was a popular fixture on 30 under 30 lists before last year’s birthday put me out of contention.

I’ve been a contestant on Jeopardy! seven times, won four times, and I’ve even guest-hosted the game show twice. And if you’ve ever watched a national morning show on a super blue moon or during a meteor shower, there’s a decent chance you may have seen me.

I’m proud to say that I’m often the major networks’ first call when they need someone to explain something “sciencey” to their viewers.

Here’s the part in this whole not-so-humble-brag where I’m supposed to say that the pseudofame is exhausting, and that I just want to be a regular scientist.

But actually? I like bringing science to the masses. I like making it accessible, especially to girls and women for whom the world of STEM might seem a little historically impenetrable. And most especially, I like that on days like today, being a little bit famous provides a much-needed distraction from the fact that today is the day.

The one that we academics spend our entire career working toward. Waiting for.

The day we get the one tiny yes/no decision that can make or break our career:

Tenure.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Reed,” the blond undergrad student in my office says as she zooms in on the selfie we’ve just taken on her cell phone.

Jennifer Müller, a student from my current Astronomy 101 course with a bright, curious mind as well a propensity for showing up late to every class, squints down at her screen. “You mind if I pop a filter on this before I post it? The lighting in here’s kinda blah.”

“Sure. But no Photoshopping me to make my eyes bigger or my waist smaller, or whatever,” I say. “I hate that crap.”

“Oh my gosh, never . You’re so naturally pretty! I wish I could get away with wearing no makeup.”

I blink.

I actually am wearing makeup. I mean, not a ton of it. Concealer to hide the fact that my schedule doesn’t allow for much sleep, brow gel to keep my thick, trademark eyebrows in place. Mascara, because, well, who doesn’t look a little better with mascara?

But apparently what I thought was subtle is in fact… invisible.

I make a mental note to add some lipstick to the mix.

“Thanks again for the photo,” Jennifer says. “I know it’s kind of lame, but my dad is such a fan of yours. He’s going to freak.”

“It’s my pleasure. And I bet your dad would be even more thrilled to hear that you made it to class on time one of these days.” I soften the rebuke with a smile.

Jennifer winces. “Right. Totally. Sorry. I’m just so not a morning person. I can’t believe the department stuck you with such a crappy 8 a.m. schedule when there’s a waiting list for your class. You should get top pick of time slots!”

Since she’s already heading out the door, I don’t bother to explain that 8 a.m. was my pick of times, and it’s because of the popularity of the class that I’ve asked the department chair for the earliest possible time. The unpopular early morning class time means that those who enroll have to really want to be there, not those who just want to see the “ Jeopardy! professor” in person.

Jennifer leaves my office with a promise to be the first student in class tomorrow morning.

Before I can get back to grading the latest batch of papers on the life cycle of stars, I’m interrupted again, this time by a fellow professor.

“Like, oh my god, it’s Dr. Miranda Reed!” Elijah says in a dramatic whisper before he mimes taking rapid-fire photos, paparazzi style.

He pretends to begin untucking his shirt. “Will you sign my bra?”

I roll my eyes as Elijah Singh, professor of computational physics, flops into the chair across from me. Unlike me, Elijah’s class doesn’t have a waiting list.

But unlike most of my other colleagues, he doesn’t seem to hold this against me.

Elijah is the closest thing I have to a friend in the cutthroat world that is the Nova University Physics Department. He’s also the nearest my age, which is probably why we made the foolish attempt to date back in the day. Luckily we came to the simultaneous conclusion during date three that the most explosive thing between us is our discussions about nuclear fusion processes. He’s now happily married to a lovely geologist named Sadie, and he and I have settled into an easy friendship.

He points at the recently delivered white roses on my desk and gives me an expectant grin. “I’m assuming the very lavish bouquet means I can congratulate you?”

“Hold that thought,” I say, blowing out a nervous breath. “I haven’t heard anything yet.”

I nod at the bouquet. “The flowers are from my family. They jumped the gun a little on the congratulatory thing.”

“Well, it was a pretty safe bet on their part,” Elijah says confidently. “You might be the baby of our department, but you’re also the face of it. No way the board is going to risk losing their golden goose.”

I nibble the inner corner of my lip, trying to ignore the sting at his words. I appreciate the vote of confidence, but it bothers me that even my closest work friend thinks I’ll get tenure because of my celebrity status. That I’m a shoo-in at one of the country’s top institutes of science and technology solely because I’m better than average in front of a camera and completely comfortable before a microphone. And that I’ll be a boon to the department not because I’m an extraordinary scientist, but because I’ve stumbled into the Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson legacy of popularizing science.

It chafes.

I don’t want to become a tenured professor because I’ve been on talk shows.

I want to get it on the same merit as my peers, and for the same reasons. Because I’m an excellent lecturer, because my academic writing and theories are top tier, and because I’m good at the science stuff.

Tenure is the ultimate mark of academic approval. And becoming a full professor at a prestigious Manhattan university like Nova is the ultimate goal. At least it is for the daughter of a Harvard mathematician and an MIT particle physicist, and the sister of a Yale chemistry professor and a Boston College microbiologist.

Academia, even more than science, isn’t just what we Reeds do—it’s who we are , going back generations. I have yet to experience a single Fourth of July on which my dad hasn’t told anyone who would listen that one of his ancestors taught John Adams at Harvard in the 1750s. There’s even a recurring debate at family dinners over which of us Reeds will be the next to teach a future president.

So far, my mother has come closest; a former secretary of state once sat in her classroom and, as she is not shy about sharing, barely passed.

“It can’t be a good sign that they’re holding off until the end of the day to notify me of their decision,” I tell Elijah, unable to keep the nerves out of my voice. “Isn’t that a thing? You promote someone at the start of the day, fire them at the end of it?”

He rolls his eyes. “They’re not going to fire you.”

I give him a look. “In this world, being denied tenured is basically the same as being fired.”

“True,” he admits. “At least if you’re fired, people can speculate about some juicy, scandalous reason. But being denied tenure means—”

“You’re just not good enough,” I say, finishing his sentence.

“Right. But you.” He points a finger at me. “You are good enough. You’re practically—”

“Sorry to interrupt. Dr. Reed. You got a minute?” Both Elijah and I look toward the door where Dr. Brenda Kowalski hovers.

Well, hovers perhaps isn’t quite the right word. It implies a sort of flighty lightness that doesn’t apply at all to Brenda, despite the brilliant professor being five foot two. She may be diminutive in stature, but her intense personality creates a large, looming presence that has most of the students, and at least half the faculty, terrified of her.

I’ve never counted myself among the terrified half.

In fact, I almost count her as a friend. Not the same type of friendship I have with Elijah, but when I joined Nova University as the youngest professor in the history of the Physics Department, Dr. Kowalski took me under her wing. Admittedly, it had felt a bit like a dragon wing at times, but over the years, she’s become a mentor and trusted confidant.

But it’s also because I know her so well that my stomach knots when I see her face. It is most definitely not the expression of someone bearing good tidings.

Elijah doesn’t seem to pick up on Brenda’s subdued energy because he makes some inane excuse to be on his way and gives me an excited thumbs-up behind Dr. Kowalski’s back before she gently shuts the door in his face.

Brenda adjusts her glasses and clears her throat.

And then I know. I know.

The unthinkable is happening.

Oh.

My.

God.

I don’t have much experience with failure, but I can sure as hell recognize it when it’s staring me in the face.

“They’re denying my tenure bid,” I say, my voice somewhere between a whisper and a rasp.

She nods, looking genuinely regretful. “I asked to be allowed to tell you in private, rather than the standard practice of the decision being announced in front of the entire board.”

I manage a tiny nod of acknowledgment for her thoughtfulness, but it’s hard to feel much more than a flicker of appreciation. Private rejection is still rejection.

And it hurts so badly I can’t breathe.

Through a fog of confusion and disbelief, I’m dimly aware that Brenda is talking. Explaining. I know that I should care about the why . So I try to focus as she goes on and on about misplaced priorities and my public persona being a distraction from the department’s pursuit of science. Something about me getting special permission for a sabbatical. But it all sounds like static. Unbelievable, unthinkable bullshit static .

“Miranda?” she says after she finishes her explanation and I say nothing. “Are you alright?”

I’m proud of myself then, because instead of giving in to the urge to cry, I merely lift an eyebrow. What do you think, Brenda?

She clasps her hands in front of her, and I’m slightly gratified to see that for the first time in our acquaintance, she looks uncomfortable. “It goes without saying that we hope you’ll consider our offer to go on academic leave, and then come back as a lecturer. You’re incredibly talented in the classroom, Miranda. That part was never in question.”

I finally find my voice, and I’m relieved that it’s stronger than it was a few minutes ago when I’d uttered the unimaginable They’re denying my tenure bid.

“I appreciate that. I’ll think it over.”

Immediately, something deep inside me rebels at the very thought of considering their tepid offer of lecturer, much less accepting it, but I try to remind myself that good decisions are rarely made in the heat of the moment.

Brenda studies me for a minute, and then, thankfully, seems to sense that I want to be alone, because she nods and leaves, closing my door quietly behind her.

I lose track of how long I just sit, trying to sort through thoughts that refuse to be sorted.

Finally, I reach for the note tucked into the flowers from my family. I pull the card out of its tiny envelope and, using the pen the university gave me on my one-year anniversary of being a professor, scratch out the word Congratulations .

In its place, I write Condolences .

I very carefully, and precisely, tuck the card back into its spot.

And then, in a gesture that feels both petty and deeply satisfying…

I toss the pen in the trash.

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