Gwen knows better than this. She’s worked with me for three years. She’s never made this kind of mistake before. But if that scent of lemon means what I think it means, Gwen better have a backup plan that doesn’t involve a PhD in microbiology.
I snap one last picture on the digital microscope, hit save, and turn around.
Sure—fucking—enough.
The person who entered my clean room is not Gwen.
Oh, she’s wearing slippers over her feet, a clean lab coat, gloves, and a cap, just like Gwen would. But she’s not Gwen. Not even a little bit. The person who enters is a bundle of lemon-scented energy here to wreak havoc on my life.
“What are you doing here?”
Above her face mask, her eyes narrow. “The next time you schedule an appointment with me, I expect to meet with you. Not your lab assistant.”
“Gwen is a perfectly competent—”
“Gwen isn’t you. Gwen isn’t up for the McPherson grant. I need to talk to you. Not Gwen. And I need you to take this seriously.”
“I do! Thorndyke wanted me to reach out to the committee to tell them I want to be on the short list. So I did it. I emailed them. I agreed to do whatever stupid shit they want me to. But not if it interferes with my work. My work has to come first.”
“No one is saying your work isn’t important. Clearly it is. But this is important too. Not just for you. For the university.”
“I know it’s important. I assume that’s why Clive hired you. He said you’re the best.”
She seems to be gritting her teeth. “Clive assured me you were going to cooperate.”
“I am cooperating. That’s why I told Gwen to give you the information you need. I told her she can set aside all of her work until this is done. You have full access to her.”
“That’s not good enough. I don’t need full access to Gwen. I need full access to you. You have to do this.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
“Think about how it will look if you don’t.”
I snatch my cane in my hand and take a step forward. She does too. Suddenly, the clean room, which isn’t that big to begin with, feels even smaller than normal.
“I don’t care how it looks to the university. I don’t even care how it looks to the McPherson committee. Either they respect the work I do or they don’t.”
“Fine. But if you don’t care how it looks to the McPherson committee, think about how it looks to the tenure committee.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The look she gives me implies I’m being dense. “You’re up for tenure soon, right?”
“Yes.” I’ve been at the university for five years. Next year, I’ll be up for tenure.
Sure, I dabbled with the idea of getting a job in the private sector. But that isn’t where my interests lie. I want to be at a university. This university in particular, since it has the advantage of being close enough to my sister that I can visit her occasionally. Moreover, I want the security that comes with a tenured position. I want to know the university isn’t going to fire me just because my class numbers are low. Tenure means freedom from socializing and awkward faculty parties or worrying what my students think. Not that I actually care what they think, but I do care about things like funding, staffing—the kind of resources I need to get my work done. All things that come with tenure.
“What’s your point?” I demand, because there’s no way she’s implying what I think she is.
“Come on, Max. You may not care about getting this fellowship.” She jabs a finger in my face, her eyes narrowing. “Which, by the way, I don’t actually believe, because no one goes to all the hard work of getting two PhDs if they don’t care about getting recognition for their work.”
“I—”
“My point is, even if you don’t care about the fellowship, the tenure committee will care.”
Suddenly it feels like I can’t breathe. There’s a tight pressure in my chest like someone has reached into my lungs, grabbed them in a fist, and started slowly twisting them. I clutch the handle of my cane more tightly, focusing on the feel of the wood against my palm, hoping it will ground me. It doesn’t.
I had never once considered the possibility that I might not get tenure, not since my mom got tenure when I was eight, when I first learned what tenure was.
