Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Nikolas
Nine Years Earlier UC San Diego
I guess I could chalk this up as my one and only college story of puking my guts out, even though it wasn’t alcohol-induced. Marvin made himself scarce this morning after hearing me moan and retch in the bathroom all night.
I’d never missed a class. Ever. Knowing I missed one that Leyla was in just made it all the worse.
When I got up this morning, my dry mouth felt like I’d licked all of Marvin’s Cheetos (shudder).
I checked my phone and saw I’d missed an email alert from Leyla that I answered, telling her I thought I had a stomach bug, too embarrassed to tell her about the dreaded burrito.
Moaning, I walked (aka crawled) to my tiny refrigerator and slugged down a whole bottle of water.
When the phone rang, I lunged for it, hoping it was her. Smiling when I saw my mother’s name, I answered it.
“Hey, Mom.” I tried to hide the pain I was in.
“It still surprises me after all this time when you say that instead of ‘anne’ and ‘baba’,” she said lovingly. She accepted that I stopped calling them the Turkish version of mom and dad when I was in high school, as another way to fit in, and it just stuck.
“I can go back to calling you anne whenever you want.”
“Hmm, no, I like it now,” she teased. “Dad’s here, too, somewhere. He had the day off.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out like a grunt. “How are you guys?”
She paused, and I knew what was going to happen.
“I think I should be asking you that, Niko. What’s wrong?
Need me to bring you some tavuk suyu? Is it a cold or something else?
I know you’re sick.” I never could get anything past her.
She always told me God had given her a strong mother’s intuition.
And eyes in the back of her head. Dad just chuckled in the background.
“You seem to forget that you live eight hours from me now,” I chuckled. “But I wish you were near enough to make your famous chicken broth soup. If you were, I’d have you make the spiciest cig kofte to feed to my dorm mate who gave me bad food last night. But I’ll feel better soon. Don’t worry.”
She laughed. “Do you think he would actually eat meatballs shaped like a football?”
“If it’s free, he wouldn’t even hesitate. I’m going to go see what I get down. My stomach is growling, but I’m not sure if I want to risk it.”
“I don’t like being this far from you, son, but your father is doing so well at his new sales job. Please take care of yourself. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom. Love you, Dad. So proud of you.”
“Love you too, son. Feel better soon,” he called out.
I was still contemplating putting something in my stomach when my phone pinged with another school email alert.
Frowning, I read the email twice. It was from Professor Logan’s TA, Garrett, asking me for more documentation on something Leyla had submitted during a lab audit that morning. I had no idea what he was talking about until I opened the attachment.
My stomach was still threatening to empty whatever contents were left from my childhood, so I wouldn’t make it to the lab anytime soon to find out.
I quickly emailed Leyla, asking about the notes, but after an hour with no answer, I slid to the floor and pulled out my laptop, forcing down a few crackers.
As I looked over the notes the TA emailed me, it seemed like Leyla had found a possible solution to the serum instability.
Different pH window. Stabilizer failed. Tested Acrylates/C10-30. Change order of additions. Serum stable. Found possible solution.
Her disjointed notes were dated yesterday, but that made no sense.
We’d worked together until almost 8:00 last night.
Did she find this before we met or after I left for work?
I scratched my head, wondering why she hadn’t mentioned it.
It didn’t seem like her to turn in a possible solution without me, even though we were in direct competition in our other classes.
Our time together recently had been exactly what I’d hoped for. An opportunity for us to get to know one another, our rivalry set aside, to do something as a team. Maybe it was this surprise audit?
I was compelled to do some research on my own while I waited. Once my mind started connecting the dots with her mishmash of notes, there was no stopping. Luckily, Professor Logan’s class and one other were all I’d need to miss, and I’d called out for work.
I spent the next several hours poring over industry reports, science journals, and technical bulletins, trying to find where Leyla would have come up with this exact solution, but to no avail.
Checking my phone for the hundredth time for her email reply, I growled, “Come on, Leyla. Answer me.” Every time I tried to get up, my head spun, and the nausea returned. I was subsisting on Gatorade and crackers.
Then an idea came to me, and I shot off an email to the TA, asking for any example reports from the professor’s previous classes and for more time.
He had mentioned that early in the semester, and I had written it down in case I’d need it for anything.
He was known for archiving key model reports.
That tidbit turned out to be both a curse and a blessing.
Dread filled my mind when I received an email from the TA saying, “Here is an archive. Use it only for formatting. Professor Logan will know if you copied it.”
After reading it over and over again, the conclusion was the same. Leyla had unwittingly copied a resolution word-for-word from a previous student’s findings, and universities were unwavering in their punishment for plagiarism, and that’s what this would look like.
I had to talk to Professor Logan before Garrett submitted the audit results.
I sent Professor Logan an email begging for a meeting, and a half hour later, he accepted, but I had to come right then.
Checking my phone one last time for an answer from Leyla and finding none, I thought about just giving up and calling her, but there was no time.
I didn’t have the strength to change clothes, so I left in the pair of sweatpants and T-shirt I’d slept in. My body groaned in protest, but I had one singular goal.
Protect Leyla at all costs from being branded a plagiarist, even if it meant damaging my own standing in the class if we were both blamed for what she had done.