The three hours of that week’s lab class felt like a goodbye. I stacked each petri dish as if it were the last time I’d be allowed to handle those delicate circles of glass. I swished saline solution for longer than was needed, looked at the agar coating the bottom of plates as if its nutrients were intended for me and were about to be withheld. When a question popped into my head, I kept my hand down and didn’t even bother to write it in my notebook.
I watched Professor Kaufmann for clues all class but saw nothing, though she’d already proven herself good at masking frustration with kindness. You could drop an entire tray of beakers, and she would smile and in a too-high voice say, That’s OK! I sometimes thought I was the only one in the class who saw through her, could tell how very upset she was at all that shattered glass on the floor: I knew it from the way she’d say Hmmm as she accosted the student culprit with a broom and stood over them, pointing out a missed shard here, a tiny speck there. She’d wait until they put the broom away before noticing another piece, then instruct them to go back to the closet and bring the broom again.
I approached her lab bench once everyone had left. She was scribbling something on some graph paper, and I glanced at what she wrote once I was closer. Whatever it was, it was in German—probably not a good sign—and it was underneath a series of equations that meant nothing to me and which were in no way related to our class.
—Liz! she said. Oh, super! Come here, please!
She stood and let me have her seat. I sat there for a good minute, watched her keep working as if she hadn’t just asked me to sit down. Her pen dug into the paper and I wondered if she had two brains—wondered if there were a way I could split my own mind like that, be in one place but let my mind hang out wherever it wanted.
She slapped the pen down on her notebook, and without even apologizing for the awkward three or so minutes we’d been right next to each other but not speaking, she said, Thank you for staying after class. I see you’re eager to know what this is about.
—Yes, I said. I tried to keep my back straight; I found trying to maintain good posture more painful than just slouching. Even seated on her high stool, I was still looking up at her. I said, Is everything okay?
—Yes, of course. Thank you for asking.
I figured then that I should stop talking lest I incriminate myself, but she smiled at me and nodded as if I’d kept speaking, as if I was saying something at that very moment.
—Yes, so, she said. You are enjoying the lab so far?
—I love it, I blurted out. It’s my favorite class this semester.
—Super! she said. That’s super.
She nodded some more. After a few additional seconds of painful silence and sustained eye contact she asked, Are you interested in becoming a research scientist?
I thought I wanted to be a doctor, but that didn’t seem like the right answer.
—Yes, I said. I am.
—Good, super. Because there is something you should do then, a program.
She slipped a hand beneath her pad of graph paper and slid out a glossy folder. I closed my eyes, not wanting to look at it: here it was, the remedial program for students needing extra help, forced in front of me like that list of campus resources I’d printed out last semester as my only hope. The folder was white with a crimson stripe down the front of it, a gold logo embossed at its center.
—This is connected to my research group. It’s a summer position at our field laboratory off the coast of Santa Barbara, in California. You would be perfect for it.
—A summer position? Like an internship?
—Yes, yes. You are perfect for it. I would like you to apply. I will nominate you.
She said this louder, as if the problem were not that I didn’t believe her, but that I couldn’t hear her.
—But it’s your lab, you run it?
—Weeeeell, she said. She laughed in a sweet way. I do run it, yes, she said. So perhaps let’s say you have a very strong chance of getting it since I’m nominating you and I also choose the students. You do have to apply, technically, but there is always a Rawlings student. Each year I bring the strongest freshman from among the various lab sections.
—Oh, I said.
I couldn’t believe she meant me, that I’d been doing that well. My write-ups were getting good scores, but they were twice as long as anyone else’s for all the missteps and questions they contained. I put my hand on the folder and pulled it toward me by the corner. I said, So is this for like minority students or something?
—No, it’s for my lab in California, she said. I’m sorry if I’m not being clear. Your work in class is fantastic. I think you will be great. You should do it!