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“Oh, of course. I wanted to see if you were ready for your coffee. I made som—”
“June, honestly, I’m in the middle of something here! I do not want a coffee, okay? You don’t have to bring me coffee and cookies every day, okay?”
She blinks, reddens. “Well, sure. I meant well.” She leaves without looking at me, closes the door. I drop my head into my hands. Well, there’s a sign if I ever saw one. I don’t usually snap at and insult my friends, and yet I just did. What the hell am I doing? I sigh, open the browser again, ready to close the window and cancel the whole thing. It was a stupid idea anyway. What’s wrong with submitting it the way it was intended? With both authors? And showing Geoff Alex’s thesis, too? He’ll wonder why I took so long but I’ll say I wanted to put in the finishing touches, make sure it was truly ready. I’ll still be co-author on the paper, we’ll still gain a reputation of excellence. I’ll still be credited. Nothing’s changed.
I actually feel relieved. I will go and see June immediately and apologize. Then I glance at the screen.
Thank you for your submission. We will be in touch as soon as possible.
I blink. It looks like I clicked the mouse anyway. Immediately, part of me wants to reach into the computer and snatch it back from the jaws of the internet. But another part of me whispers in a low voice:It’s done now, Anna. What you gonna do? Get in touch with this prestigious journal and say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to send it because it’s not really mine?” Or are you going to stand up for yourself for once, and take what you deserve?
I unlock my bottom drawer, retrieve Alex’s notebooks, shove them in my bag.
I wish June hadn’t told me about this mysterious friend because instead of feeling triumph that I submitted the proof, I have a knot in my stomach. Why would Ryan come here? It probably wasn’t Ryan. Maybe June got it wrong and it was a student. Or a prospective student. Yes, that makes sense. Well, whoever it was they can come back later.
Poor June. Her face just now, when I snapped at her... I’ll go and apologize immediately, then get on with the rest of my day. What will I do with Alex’s notebooks? Get rid of them, that goes without saying. I was going to find a dumpster for them, somewhere—it seems kind of fitting in a way—then I change my mind. I don’t want to take any risk. Instead I find a secure shredding service online and arrange to drop them off later.
Then I pull out a hairbrush and get myself presentable for the staff meeting. It doesn’t really work. I still look like a porcupine.
Fifteen
At first I spent entire nights awake, my unblinking eyes staring into the dark, wishing I hadn’t done it. After all, I’d had so many other, better choices. I could have gone to Geoff with the notebooks and told him about Alex’s research. We could have published it in his memory. Maybe his family would have let us keep the prize money—they’re wealthy, they don’t need it. We could have started a scholarship in Alex’s name.
Butit’s too late now. That’s what I tell myself when I wake up in the dead of night.It’s too late now, I whisper, my heart hammering, Alex’s ghost hovering over my bed.
It’s too late.
I sleepwalk through my life waiting for some indistinct hammer to fall, for things to go wrong, for Luis to leave me. I picture the recipient of my submission at the journal reading my paper, then squinting with the look of someone whohas heard of this solution before. Because what if Alex had already contacted them without telling me? That would make sense, right? That would be very much in character for Alex. Do I have an explanation for how this could happen? How couldmystudent submit a work of genius, then die, then for theexact samework of genius to be submitted again, except this time authored by me? Do I have an explanation for that? No, Officer, I do not. Not readily.
But as days turn into weeks and nothing happens, I begin to think maybe, just maybe, it’s going to be okay. Instead of dreading the call, I start to resent how long it’s taking before they approve the paper. I feel like I’ve crossed a threshold: I am already on the other side, drumming my fingers, waiting for everyone else to catch up. Then I worry that it’s takingtoolong, even though I know mathematical proofs can take months to be peer-reviewed and validated. But I also know this won’t be the case here because this proof—? Its beauty lies in its simplicity. It’s the kind of proof that someone might review and wonder why no one had thought of it before, because it’s justso obvious.
But I don’t spend these long weeks of waiting idly. Instead, I devote them to the other part of my plan: to f. Turns out there’s no shortage of information on the internet about how to do exactly that, and I’m good at research. Over the next few weeks I become not someoneelseexactly, but someonebetter. More devoted, kinder, more patient. Happy. I make myself look deliriously happy every time he walks into a room. I ask him about his work, I laugh with delight at his success, I nuzzle his neck and tell him he’s handsome, I cook his favorite meals, I rub my nails lightly over his back when he looks stressed. I put candles out on the back deck after the children go to bed and invite him to watch the stars with me over a glass of wine; I buy sexy underwear and make love to him every night.
And I watch him like a hawk, that goes without saying. I haven’t been able to access his texts again, but I pay close attention to his moods and take the occasional peek at his emails.
I make notes of my progress. “I like this dress on you, it’s nice,” he said the other day, with a cheeky smile. Unprompted, he will bring me a glass of wine when I’m preparing dinner. He talks to me. And he listens. He’s become more attentive, more relaxed and flirty. I call all these things successes in their own right. I’m winning. I’m no longer a team player, I’m a winner.
Then, this morning, five weeks after I submitted it, I receive the call from the journal to congratulate me. The solution has been reviewed and accepted and will be published next month. “Its publication will allow you to claim the Pentti-Stone prize from the Leo Forrester Foundation,” they added.
It’s official, I have solved the Pentti-Stone conjecture.
And just like that, everything changes. My doubts, my fears, vanish with that phone call. I don’t care if it’s Alex’s proof—it’s mine too. I put the phone down and stare at my hands, reminding myself that I came up with the final piece of the puzzle. I banish the voices in my head for good and after a few minutes of silence, I go to Geoff’s office with a grin on my face and butterflies in my stomach. June raises an eyebrow at me and I put one finger to my lips and wink at her. Then I walk in, close the door after me and lean against it.
“You’ll never guess what happened,” I say. Then I tell him. He doesn’t believe me at first, understandably. Little old me, minute-taker-gofer-errand-loser with no ambition whatsoever suddenly solves a major math problem out of thin air.
I pull out the chair opposite his desk. “They’re publishing it next month. I just got the call from the journal. Then an email from the Leo Forrester Foundation who want to come here, to the university I mean, and formally present the prize.”
He looks at me sideways, squinting. “Is it the first of April today?”
I smile. “Nope.”
He picks up the phone and speaks to someone at the journal. He actually had to do that, assert that it was true, that I wasn’t just spinning it. Once he’s checked the facts he doesn’t speak for a long time, just stares at me.
I was really expecting more, and I feel a stab of disappointment. “You’re happy?” I ask. “It’ll be good for the university.”
“This is incredible.”
“I know,” I say, relieved. I grin.
