Below Zero (The STEMinist Novellas #3) by Ali Hazelwood

            I’ve long learned that engaging with basement-dwelling STEMlords who come online looking for a fight is never a good idea—the last thing I want is to provide free entertainment for their fragile egos. If they want to blow off some steam, they can buy a gym membership or play third-person-shooter video games. Like normal people.

            I make to hide @SteveHarrison’s delightful contribution but notice that someone has replied to him.

                             @Shmacademics Yeah, Marie, sometimes you’re just a loser. Steve would know.



            I chuckle.

                             @WhatWouldMarieDo Aw, Steve. Don’t be too hard on yourself.

                @Shmacademics He is just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to do twice as much work as he ever did in order to prove that she’s worthy of becoming a scientist.

                @WhatWouldMarieDo Steve, you old romantic.

                @SteveHarrison Fuck you. This ridiculous push for women in STEM is ruining STEM. People should get jobs because they’re good NOT BECAUSE THEY HAVE VAGINAS. But now people feel like they have to hire women and they get jobs over men who are MORE QUALIFIED. This is the end of STEM AND IT’S WRONG.

                @WhatWouldMarieDo I can see you’re upset about this, Steve.

                @Shmacademics There, there.



            Steve blocks both of us, and I chuckle again, drawing a curious glance from Rocío. @Shmacademics is another hugely popular account on Academic Twitter, and by far my favorite. He mostly tweets about how he should be writing, makes fun of elitism and ivory-tower academics, and points out bad or biased science. I was initially a bit distrustful of him—his bio says “he/him,” and we all know how cis men on the internet can be. But he and I ended up forming an alliance of sorts. When the STEMlords take offense at the sheer idea of women in STEM and start pitchforking in my mentions, he helps me ridicule them a little. I’m not sure when we started direct messaging, when I stopped being afraid that he was secretly a retired Gamergater out to doxx me, or when I began considering him a friend. But a handful of years later, here we are, chatting about half a dozen different things a couple of times a week, without having even exchanged real names. Is it weird, knowing that Shmac had lice three times in second grade but not which time zone he lives in? A bit. But it’s also liberating. Plus, having opinions online can be very dangerous. The internet is a sea full of creepy, cybercriminal fish, and if Mark Zuckerberg can cover his laptop webcam with a piece of tape, I reserve the right to keep things painfully anonymous.

            The flight attendant offers me a glass of water from a tray. I shake my head, smile, and DM Shmac.

            Marie: I think Steve doesn’t want to play with us anymore.

            Shmac: I think Steve wasn’t held enough as a tadpole.

            Marie: Lol!

            Shmac: How’s life?

            Marie: Good! Cool new project starting next week. My ticket away from my gross boss

            Shmac: I hope so. Can’t believe dude’s still around.

            Marie: The power of connections. And inertia. What about you?

            Shmac: Work’s interesting.

            Marie: Good interesting?

            Shmac: Politicky interesting. So, no.

            Marie: I’m afraid to ask. How’s the rest?

            Shmac: Weird.

            Marie: Did your cat poop in your shoe again?

            Shmac: No, but I did find a tomato in my boot the other day.

            Marie: Send pics next time! What’s going on?

            Shmac: Nothing, really.

            Marie: Oh, come on!

            Shmac: How do you even know something’s going on?

            Marie: Your lack of exclamation points!

            Shmac: !!!!!!!11!!1!!!!!