8. Emory
Emory
NEARLY TWO YEARS EARLIER
When Emory Griffin was on the verge of a scientific breakthrough, every single one of his senses leveled up, so even though his nemesis was still halfway down the hall of the austere physiology and pharmacology building at the University College of Medicine he was ahead of the curve.
“My research has been taking priority,” Emory said.
From sunup until well after sundown, he worked tirelessly to achieve something nobody dared to dream possible.
Attending the University College of Medicine & Health Sciences was more about access to resources than getting a degree for him, though he would never have confessed that in an admissions interview.
Before, at least, when Dr. Claude was still around, he’d pretended to care about coursework, but in his third year, within tasting distance of a breakthrough, he could not bring himself to listen to another lecture while sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair surrounded by less passionate, less intelligent people.
Dr. Kemp pursed her thin lips. “The trouble is that this line of study is meant to be about balance and integration. Those who excel handle coursework and lab work. This degree is not for the weak.”
“I’m not weak,” Emory said, almost baring his teeth at the insinuation.
“Of course you’re not, Mr. Griffin, and you’re not stupid, either.
You wouldn’t have been admitted or made it this far if you were, but this is an academic institution, not your own grant-funded laboratory for ridiculous experimentation.
There are checks and balances for a reason,” she said, finally addressing him head-on.
“All of those checks were in balance when Dr. Claude was here.” Secretly, he wondered if she was still mad about the time he corrected her in front of her Principles of Pharmacology class.
He had been raising his hand all semester, and she never called on him, refusing to look beyond the first three rows, so maybe it was bound to happen, and she had been wrong.
“I sympathize with you over the fact that it is difficult switching advisors this far into your studies, but I, for one, am glad it happened the way it did before more of our university resources were misused or wasted on impossible lines of inquiry,” she said, words needle-sharp.
“It’s not an impossible line of inquiry.”
“Mr. Griffin, this is a respected physiology and pharmacology program at a top research university. It is not some science fiction playground. Invisibility is not possible, and if it were possible, why would it be necessary? Who is it going to help? Next, you’re going to be asking for permission to build a time machine in your campus apartment.
” She stepped closer, maybe thinking her words would penetrate more if he heard her more clearly.
“Not only is your line of study impossible, but it’s bordering on unethical. ”
“How?” he asked, disturbed that she would think so low of him.
“I have a hard time seeing how you will find subjects who would willingly consent to this. What social and clinical value is this work bringing? Other than it being ‘cool.’ This is ‘mad’ science you’re doing,” she said, flippantly using air quotes, which he found unprofessional and deeply irritating.
“It is all risk and no reward. You must see that.”
“I don’t.” He closed his lab book and met her gaze. Backing down now would be like qualifying for the Olympics, then deciding you didn’t care about medals. What he was working on was necessary—he knew it in his bones.
Invisibility could give power to the powerless—abuse victims, war captives. It could be used as a therapeutic or a salve.
She pushed her glasses farther up her nose. “Understand me very carefully, Mr. Griffin. If you do not stop this mindless investigation into invisibility, the school will have no choice but to revoke your scholarship.”
The Marvel Scholarship. Named after Steven Marvel—Marvel’s grandfather.
An alumnus of the university and preeminent drug researcher who generously offered one student a full ride plus a stipend through the PhD program every five years.
When Emory received it, he almost didn’t believe it.
He had to read the letter six times for it to soak in.
Good luck didn’t land in the laps of people like Emory Griffin, and yet there it was on a piece of paper with a broken embossed seal.
When assigning graduate student housing, somebody in the residential life office must’ve gotten a good laugh out of pairing the scholarship recipient with the family namesake. As if Emory needed a constant reminder of his place in the institution’s food chain.
“You can’t take my scholarship,” Emory protested, hands balling into fists on the lab table.
Dr. Kemp raised her eyebrows. “There are conditions on the scholarship. Dr. Marvel is a man of traditional methods. He would hate to see his hard-earned money squandered in this fashion. Not to mention your slipping GPA.”
Alongside the missing classes, he had missed assignments, too, but if he could’ve just gotten a week’s worth of uninterrupted lab time, he could’ve cracked this thing. Then nobody would’ve cared a lick about his grades.
Bested, Emory slumped back onto his stool, knowing full well that without that scholarship, he could kiss his PhD goodbye. No respectable lab would hire him, and nobody would fund his independent research. His hands were tied, chained, and bound to the wall of this place.
“I take it I have made myself clear.” Dr. Kemp glared over the tops of her glasses.
He nodded. “Perfectly,” he said. “I’ll stop.”