Chapter 1
1
Like any other animal that’s hardwired with survival instincts, I avoid pain at all costs. Until I can’t.
Now is obviously one of those unavoidable times. For so many valid yet illogical reasons.
I furiously rub my proverbial security blanket—a tiny stone—in my hand. Mostly, out of frustration with myself. For acting so illogically for far too long.
It seems I’m not quite out of the woods yet, judging by the narrowed eyes that are trained on me.
“Are you…okay?” The HR representative sitting across her inefficiently cluttered desk from me hesitates to voice her question. Likely an attempt to maintain a socially acceptable mode of polite behavior. She hasn’t asked why I’m holding a tiny stone in the shape of a heart after all. People tend to be uncomfortable with my strange coping mechanisms, so they ignore them altogether.
Human resources staff are the psychologists of the corporate world. They receive years of specialized training. Unfortunately, said training is based upon dealing with employees at the center of the bell curve .
I skew so far to the right that it should be criminal.
This is one of those situations when being me feels like a prison sentence rather than something to aspire to. I’m a terrible liar, and I don’t really want to be here.
“I am well. Thank you for asking,” I respond in a similar, socially appropriate way in spite of rubbing my fingers harder against the little heart of pretty pink malachite.
It’s not totally a lie. Officially, I’m physically well. My doctor noted nothing of concern at my last visit.
The director of HR for the R&D branch of Chester Biotech narrows her eyes at me. She can’t possibly detect the way my actual heart hammers inside the cage of my chest, but she looks like she’s trying her best.
“It’s just…” She waves a perfectly manicured hand at me. “Most new hires are beyond excited to land a position at Chester Biotech. You seem so…unsure.”
“I am exceedingly sure.” I nod to physically prove my words.
The nodding is, sadly, me attempting to sell myself on positive emotions about today’s intake paperwork.
The truth is that I would rather still be holed up in my childhood bedroom, earning a decent living by tutoring high school students in STEM classes via Zoom.
Unfortunately, a decent living is not nearly enough to chip away at the mounds of student debt I’ve accumulated in the past decade of hoarding advanced degrees like a dragon protecting treasure.
Even more unfortunately, my parents would much rather enjoy their retirement without worrying that their only child may overdose on ice cream and Twizzlers while they’re on their next international cruise. I’m genuinely surprised that pre-diabetes didn’t turn up during my last physical.
When this admittedly amazing employment opportunity fell into my lap, they literally pushed me out of the nest.
So, I here I sit. Still nodding past what is considered socially appropriate.
Carly, as she introduced herself, continues to study me. She frowns then glances quickly toward her open doorway before leaning forward. “Listen. You don’t particularly seem like you want to be here. If someone’s blackmailing you or waiting in your car to force you into something you don’t want to do, blink once. We’ll figure it out.”
I bark out a laugh that’s highly inappropriate but can in no way be contained.
Carly smiles at my reaction. “Okay. So, you’re not here because an imaginary gun is being held to your head. We can work with that. I know we just met, but you can trust me. What’s got you acting like you’d rather be anywhere but here?”
“What makes you think I’d rather be anywhere but here?” I’m not about to admit that despite having just met, I have zero reason to trust her.
Her assessment of my behaviors isn’t wrong, but I need more specific feedback. I may have the acting skills of a garden slug, but I also would appreciate detailed notes on exactly how I’m giving myself away. Is it the continued nodding? Eyes that are too wide? Have I abused the rock in my hand one too many times?
She gestures toward where I’m sitting in the leather club chair on the other side of her desk. “Most of the men who’ve been in your shoes are overly confident and eager to complete the paperwork, so they can be introduced to the rest of the team. They’re here to make their mark on the world of scientific research, and they have egos that don’t necessarily correspond to their resumes. Your qualifications blow theirs out of the water, but you seem like you’d rather chew your arm off than leave this office. I’ve already spoken with Mr. Goulding about you. You’re a genius, Dr. Fowler. An actual genius. Yet, you’re behaving as though you don’t feel you belong here among these ranks of the scientific elite.”
I blow out a sigh of frustration. Mr. Chet Goulding—the owner of this company and one of the few people I consider an actual friend—means well, but he’s already cut me off at the knees before I even get started.
Now Carly is looking at me as though I’m a species of flower that actually smells like a corpse when it blooms only once in roughly a decade. Rare, but ultimately, detestable.
Sadly, I’m also familiar with the fact that her interest will be followed by the eventual disappointment.
Psychologists intellectually masturbate by attempting to define people. One of their favorite ways to mentally orgasm is through the use of numbers that actually have very little to do with measuring potential success. In theory, the higher the IQ, the greater the capacity. Geniuses are celebrated.
Genius is not unequivocally a gift. It can also be a curse.
Sadly, I have been diagnosed with an IQ of one hundred and sixty-three.
An accurate numerical representation of my ability to think quickly, learn new information, and find solutions to seemingly impossible problems.
A horrid, horrid numerical representation of my social skills. My emotional quotient—EQ—would surely score on the negative side of the scale. Alas, psychologists do not measure EQ, nor do they consider it when attempting to define a person’s behavior. The fact that I’m blowing this first impression more on my own merit than on what Mr. Goulding has unfortunately disclosed about my person provides sufficient proof.
I forcibly stop my incessant nodding and stretch my lips into a smile. “I am very excited to be here and exceptionally grateful for the opportunity. I’m certain I have the skill set to advance Chester Biotech to the next level of competitiveness in today’s modern marketplace.”
I rehearsed those lines for weeks. YouTube is a surprisingly excellent source of social skills training.
Carly also nods and smiles, mirroring my forced, positive physical behaviors. “You’re nervous about working with mostly guys, huh?” She clucks her tongue as though she doesn’t believe a word of my carefully rehearsed spiel. “I can empathize with that.” She cuts her gaze toward the doorway again before whispering, “I wouldn’t normally condone this kind of unprofessional observation, but I feel compelled to give you a sense of power in your new role.” She points in my direction. “I absolutely love your blouse. It screams genius in the streets, dominant in the sheets. Great choice for meeting your coworkers today.”
I frown at her then look down at my blouse.
Nothing about this blouse screams anything, much less about being dominant in the sheets. Whatever that means.
“Is it the neckline?” I question as I continue to study the emerald-green silk. “Is it too low cut to be considered professional?”
Historically, other women have been an invaluable source of social feedback. With the exception of a few notable bad memories, they’re mostly eager to help a clueless wallflower achieve greatness. At the very least, they enjoy the time-honored traditions of makeovers and glow-ups.
“Not at all,” Carly assures me. “That’s what’s so great about the choice. It’s classy yet feminine. You’re proud of being a woman without making it look like you’re desperate for the wrong kind of attention. A power outfit like that shows a woman who takes what she wants, but only when she wants it.”
I appreciate her detailed feedback and mentally file it away for inevitable future clothes shopping. This is yet another qualitative example of how women are excellent at modeling appropriate social behavior. Their explanations tend to be vastly more detailed than those from men.
Women—that shade of sea foam eyeshadow really makes your aquamarine eyes pop. Let’s add some deep brown cat eyeliner to take it to the next level.
Men—What are eyes? Me see big titties. Me want to lick.
My body shape is another unfortunate circumstance of my life. When most people think of geniuses, they imagine the stereotypes of Mozart or Einstein or Da Vinci. In short, they think of men. Further, they think of men with bad hair.
Genius is a curse. Meeting the standards for modern western beauty is also a curse.
At five foot six inches with DD bra cups, brown hair that’s anything but mousy, and aforementioned aquamarine eyes, I’ve managed to snag more than a few men’s gazes. Their interest tends to evaporate the moment I open my mouth.
In my experience, I’m more like genius in the lab, socially inept freak everywhere else.
I tug my blouse higher to hide my unhideable breasts. I once attempted wearing a binder in college to lessen my breast size. It only resulted in the inability to breathe. As it turns out, I’m particularly attached to ease of breathing.
“I assure you that I am not seeking any attention other than the professional sort.”
Carly chuckles. “Girl, you are going to knock their mismatched socks right off. They’ll have no choice but to pay attention to your professionalism.”
I follow her lead and stand when she does. My frown doesn’t lessen even when she leads me toward the door. “I sincerely hope professionalism isn’t a euphemism for physical assets that I have no control over.”
I shudder behind her back as a montage of painful lessons plays on the blooper reel in my overactive mind.
Carly smiles over her shoulder at me. A little softer than her initial grin. “Mr. Goulding wouldn’t have hired you if you didn’t meet his standards. You have the skillset to run with the big boys, so don’t let your justifiable nerves get the better of you.” She raises her eyebrows. “If any of them ever makes you uncomfortable or acts anything less than professional toward you, then you let me know. I’ll take care of it.”
Where was this lovely woman during my traumatizing time in graduate school? If I’d had her on my side during one of the worst moments of my life, then maybe I wouldn’t have missed my PhD graduation ceremony. Or spent a year in my bedroom, licking invisible wounds that nonetheless cut me to the bone.
I smile in return. Genuinely. “Thank you.”
That’s all I say. If I had more adept social skills, I might try to lie. To assuage her obvious concern that her coworkers might be anything other than welcoming and respectful.
I might say something like, “I have every confidence that this position will be an opportunity to engage with like-minded individuals rather than an inadvertent-yet-unavoidable circumstance of natural selection.”
She would blink at me.
I would remind myself to speak in ways that anyone can easily understand.
“These guys are my tribe,” I would tell her with a beguiling smile. “Chester isn’t a meat market like a public gym. Professionals at this level are more likely to wear glasses and use pocket protectors instead of spending all their time pumping iron and ingesting questionable supplements.”
That would just be a different lie. Nerds are not exempt from the behavioral horrors of society. A fact I know all too well.
I offer something much truer. For me. “I’m not here to find the love of my life or even to land a date. I’m here to do my job. I can’t control how my coworkers think of me. I can assure you, however, that I will not think of them as anything other than androgynous meat suits who occasionally use their brains for forces of good rather than evil.”
Carly blinks at me.
I sigh. This is why my social awkwardness creeps into my imagination. Because there’s no escaping it in reality.
“Even if my coworkers are as attractive as underwear models who pull out all the stops to charm me, I won’t notice,” I explain. “I will interact with them as fellow research nerds and nothing more.”
“Do I have a surprise for you, Dr. Elise Fowler.” She snickers as she leads me into the hallway. “Some of these nerds are seriously hot. Muscles for days.”
Behind her back, I roll my eyes.
Categorically, I fit the definition of a nerd. According to many male observations in my nearly thirty years of existence, I am also seriously hot. No muscles for days required.
This theory is further proved during subsequent introductions to my new coworkers. Their responses fall into three categories—immediate dismissal by administrative types because they are focused on a particular task and won’t interact with me much, obvious sneers from jealous females (because not all women are nice in the same way that not all geniuses are successful), and more obvious leers from men who rake their gazes over my body in ways that suggest they are imagining physical interactions that will never happen in reality.
Carly grins as she strides toward yet another destination on the grand tour. “Are you ready to see your new office?”
I give yet another nod.
This one is steady and true. I’m exceedingly happy to have my own office. That’s one perk I absolutely demanded before accepting my employment offer .
Luckily, the man who extended the offer knows me well enough to know a private office isn’t a frivolous request.
“Behold,” Carly exclaims with an exuberant wave of her arm before she pushes open a non-descript oak door. “Your new kingdom!”
I step inside the doorway and glance around at the space. It’s a decent-sized office, already furnished with a standard-sized desk and nondescript rolling chair. Built-in shelves line the wall behind the desk, but they don’t fit the building’s otherwise generic feel. On closer inspection, there are still wisps of wood shavings strewn about. These shelves were installed very recently.
I step closer to the black bookcases, swiping my finger through a remnant pile of sawdust. The institutionalized science nerd in me needs a variety of substantive proof to be certain my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. Said eagle eyes land on another curious object—a small seashell so worn by the ocean’s waves over time that the edges have been filed into a shape that resembles a heart.
Despite the rapid jackhammering inside my chest, I quickly swipe the errant object and add it to the collection in my skirt pocket. Instead of listening to the little voice in my head that insists this is a bad omen, I prefer to think of it as a good sign.
The main research objective of my new job is to design a functioning artificial heart after all.
Carly abruptly announces, “Feel free to make the space as homey as you want. We don’t have any rules about personal offices other than the obvious.”
“What would be obvious?”
She shrugs. “Nothing that would be considered derogatory or offensive.”
“What could I possibly put in my office that would be any of those things? ”
“No artwork that glorifies anti-Semitism or pedophilia, for example,” she offers.
I gape at her, horror surely painted all over my face. “Has that been a problem in the office so far?”
The R&D Division of Chester Biotech isn’t even that old. Mr. Goulding opened it on a trial basis less than year ago. If the research arm of his already profitable company makes him more money, then he’ll keep it. If it loses him money, it’ll get the axe.
Nothing personal. Just business.
Carly waves her arms in front of her as if she’s trying to erase the palpable tension radiating off my body. “No, no! That’s why I said those are obvious rules. No one would even think to do something so vile.”
I disagree with that statement, but it’s time to move on from the bitter past.
“Would a few plants be acceptable? Or a couch?” I point to the considerable expanse of empty wall that’s painted the same bland, eggshell color as the rest of the building. “Am I permitted to bring a stationary pedal machine to keep beneath my desk?”
In the past, I’ve often thrown myself into work to the point of eating, sleeping, and basically living near the lab.
While my new job description as an AI engineer won’t involve much lab time at Chester, I fully anticipate needing the steady, soothing monotony of brain power to climb this hurdle of reorienting myself in the social world once more. At least I’m already calculating ways to make it slightly more physically healthy than my typical work binges of a steady diet of sugar, zero exercise, and irregular sleeping.
“Of course.” Carly’s expression brightens considerably. “Feel free to make your office your home away from home.”
I narrow my eyes at her. It’s like she’s reading my mind. A completely foreign experience.
She sighs then clasps her hands in front of her. So much for carefree playtime. “Normally, this would be the point that I would introduce you to the rest of the team, but Mr. Goulding clearly stated you’d require a day or two to acclimate before making those introductions.”
As much as I cursed Chet for ratting me out about the whole genius thing, I’m grateful that he knows me so well all of a sudden. “Thank you. That would be most helpful.”
A typical awkward pause ensues before I clear my throat. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to meet my direct report at least. I’m well aware that Mr. Goulding’s main offices are in New York City. Who will be my primary overlord at the Paramus office?”
Carly squints at my word choices, but I snicker to myself.
At least I think I’m funny even if other people don’t get my sense of humor.
She bites her lower lip as she furrows her brow. “You’ll report to the director of the R&D lab here at Chester Biotech Paramus. Unfortunately, he’s out of town this week for a conference.”
I sit at my desk, testing the ergonomics of the chair. Spoiler alert—they’re non-existent. I pull out my phone to make a note to buy a new chair. I also peck out a note about my new boss. Even if it’s likely that my IQ is higher than his, I’m acutely aware of the pecking order in the academic world. I imagine the corporate world runs on a similar hierarchy. “What is the name of this mysteriously missing director of R&D? Would you be able to provide me with his email address, so I can schedule a meeting with him upon his return?”
Carly shakes her head then unceremoniously strides to my open door. “He’s already scheduled a meeting with you. Next Monday at eight in the morning.”
She closes the door softly behind her, leaving me to contemplate the odd end to our day together.
I shake off the sense of impending doom in my brain.
I’ve already hit rock bottom. There’s nowhere to go but up.