3. Lila
LILA
I hate crowds almost as much as I hate PowerPoint presentations. Yet here I stand, staring down a sea of eager faces in this overheated lecture hall, feeling like I'm wearing someone else's skin.
“And as we can see from the data collected during the Woodward County event…” I gesture to the slide behind me, trying not to wince at the sound of my own words echoing through the speakers.
The projector hums like an angry bee, casting my carefully compiled graphs in washed-out blues that don’t do justice to the elegant violence they represent.
This is the part of storm chasing nobody warns you about—the afterward, when you have to put on business casual clothes and explain yourself to rooms full of people who've never felt a barometric pressure drop in their bones.
I click to the next slide, a time-lapse of the supercell formation that I risked my neck to capture. The audience makes appreciative noises, but they don't really get it. They can't. They weren't there, feeling the earth and sky having a conversation in a language only a few of us understand.
Dad never enjoyed this part either. “Talking about storms is like dancing about architecture,” he used to say. But he did it because it was necessary, just like I'm doing it now.
Another click, another slide. I spot a man in the third row furiously taking notes.
“There were smaller spinning funnels twisting inside the main tornado, something scientists say may happen more often as the climate gets warmer,” I say, the explanation sounding practiced and automatic even to me.
God, I hate this. Standing here like some trained monkey in slacks and a blouse that feels too tight around my collar.
But this is the game I have to play. The necessary evil that keeps my research alive.
If I want to keep chasing on my own terms, I need funding that doesn't come with corporate logos plastered across my equipment or my findings buried in proprietary databases.
I could get a corporate sponsorship tomorrow. The Weather Channel, AccuWeather, even those energy drink companies that love to slap their logos on anything “extreme.” They'd pay me well to drive their branded trucks into storms, wearing their jackets, spouting their simplified explanations.
But then the data wouldn't be mine anymore.
It would belong to shareholders and marketing departments.
So instead, I stand here sweating under these fluorescent lights, explaining tornado dynamics to meteorology enthusiasts and academics who've never had to calculate wind speed by how hard it's trying to peel the skin off their faces.
“Questions?” I ask, clicking to my final slide—a simple black screen with my contact information.
A forest of hands shoots up. Of course. There are always questions, usually from people who want to hear war stories rather than discuss pressure differentials. I point to a woman near the front.
“Have you ever feared for your life?” she asks, eyes wide with the kind of fascination people have for natural disasters, as if I'm a storm-riding cowgirl rather than a scientist who happens to work in dangerous environments.
“Absolutely. Tornadoes are unpredictable, and data has to be collected. Fear is a part of it,” I answer, giving the same response I've given a hundred times.
I can practically hear Dad's voice in my head. Give them enough to satisfy their curiosity without feeding the sensationalism. He'd mastered the art of redirecting these conversations back to the science. I'm working on it.
A boy who can't be older than fifteen leans forward from the edge of the crowd. “What does EF-3 mean?”
“It’s basically a tornado rating system,” I explain. “EF-0 is the weakest—mostly broken branches and shingles. EF-1 can damage roofs and push cars around. EF-2 tears roofs off houses and snaps big trees.”
“And EF-3?” he asks.
“Bad,” I say simply. “Whole walls ripped off houses. Trains overturned. Serious destruction.”
His eyes widen.
“EF-4 and EF-5 are the nightmare ones,” I continue. “Homes flattened. Cars thrown. Entire neighborhoods erased.”
The woman beside him looks horrified.
I shrug lightly. “Most tornadoes never get that strong, but they happen.”
I point to another raised hand, this one belonging to an older man with a university lanyard.
“Have you published any papers on your observations?”
The question hits a nerve. “I’ve submitted my findings to several journals,” I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my tone. “The peer review process tends to move slowly for independent researchers without university affiliations.”
What I don't say is how many times I've seen my data cited in papers by professors who've never set foot in a real storm, who requested my footage and then barely acknowledged my contribution.
How many rejection letters include phrases like “lacks institutional backing” or “would benefit from a university co-author.” The unspoken rule of academia, your data only matters if you have the right letters after your name.
I see it in their faces sometimes—that flicker of surprise when they realize I don’t have a doctorate, like my observations carry less weight because I didn’t spend eight years in a classroom and accumulating hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loans.
Like the atmosphere cares about credentials when it’s tearing itself apart above my head.
Dad ran into the same barriers, but he had his PhD. He played their game long enough to earn a seat at the table. I chose a different path and I pay for it every time I submit findings, only to have them shelved or picked apart by people who don’t have an ounce of the experience that I do.
“I focus primarily on data collection rather than publication,” I add, easing the edge in my tone. “My website makes all my findings publicly available for researchers to access.”
For free, I don’t add. Because while institutions charge thousands for access to their journals, I think weather data should belong to everyone. Another reason I’ll never be rich or fully accepted in these circles.
Another hand goes up, this one attached to a young woman with bright, eager focus and a notebook covered in weather symbols. “What advice would you give to aspiring storm chasers?”
I almost smile at her enthusiasm. “Learn the science first. Storm chasing isn't an extreme sport.
It's long hours of waiting, studying radar data, and making judgment calls that could cost lives if you get them wrong.” I pause, looking at her eager face.
“You spend most of your time watching storms that don't do anything interesting.”
The young woman nods earnestly, scribbling in her notebook. I hope she's writing down the warnings and not just the parts that sound adventurous.
“One last question,” says the moderator, checking his watch.
I scan the room, ready to wrap this up and escape to the solitude of my truck, when I spot a face I recognize.
Lucas Bennett sits in the middle row with his hand raised high like an eager schoolboy.
Great. Just what I need. My stomach tightens as I notice the man sitting next to him—tall, serious looking, with a posture that screams science nerd.
“Yes, the gentleman in the blue shirt,” I say, pointing to Lucas with a forced smile.
Lucas stands, flashing that camera-ready grin that probably works wonders on his viewers. “Lucas Bennett, Channel 8 Weather. First, I want to say your footage is absolutely spectacular.”
“Thank you,” I say cautiously, waiting for the real question. There's always a “but” with media types.
“I'm curious about your perspective on something,” he continues, his tone shifting to something more serious.
“How do you respond to critics who say storm chasers like yourself profit from the destruction of property and lives for social media views?
That you're essentially disaster tourists capitalizing on other people's worst days?”
The room goes quiet. Heat climbs into my cheeks—not embarrassment, but anger, sharp and fast. The guy next to Lucas finally looks up from his notes, surprise flickering across his face.
“Profit?” I repeat, my tone going dangerously steady. “Let me clarify something, Mr. Bennett. My earnings last year from this work put me well below the poverty line. I’m in this for the science. Not the money.”
This isn’t a glamorous life. I made less than twenty thousand dollars last year after expenses.
That barely covered equipment, gas, vehicle maintenance, and about half my rent.
Meanwhile, guys like Lucas stand in front of a green screen in a climate-controlled studio making six figures to point at radar images someone else created. Tell me how that’s fair?
I take a breath, forcing myself to rein it in. Don’t make a scene.
“To answer your question, I document storms to understand them better. The data I collect helps improve warning systems that save lives. When I drove into that tornado path last week, it wasn’t for footage. It was because I saw people in danger.”
Lucas at least has the decency to look a little abashed, though there is still a trace of satisfaction there. He got what he wanted—an emotional reaction, something he can use.
“And just to be clear,” I add, unable to stop myself, “I've never monetized destruction footage. Not once. Every clip on my site shows the storm itself, not the aftermath. I don't do disaster porn.”
The moderator steps forward quickly. “Thank you, Ms. Brooks, for that...passionate response. And thank you all for coming tonight. Please join us for refreshments in the reception hall.”
I grab my laptop and papers before anyone else can corner me with questions. The last thing I need is a post-lecture debate with a TV weatherman about ethics in storm documentation. My hands are shaking with anger as I stuff my notes into my bag.
I need a drink.