Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “An opportunity?”

            He slowly breaks into a smile. “For revenge.”





6


            ANODE AND CATHODE



From: [email protected]

                Subject: thermo paper


omg I forgot to write it can I turn it in late? im sorry i was at wedding last weekend and got soooo high i’ve been out of it for the whole week.





From: [email protected]

                Subject: No fair!


A B- on my Vibrations paper? Offensive. I’m emailing the Dean about this.



            No rest for the adjunct.

            As in, contractually: adjuncts cannot take time off. Since I’ll be busy interviewing, I prerecorded lessons and scrambled to find instructors to cover my classes. But I need to reply to students’ messages—while fantasizing about “accidentally” misspelling my email in next year’s syllabus. When I arrive on the MIT campus, I’m still answering the odd May I have an extension email. The one thing adjuncting has done for me is hone my teaching skills, so I’m not too nervous about today’s demonstration.

            That is, till Monica meets me at the entrance of the physics building and tells me darkly, “You’ll be evaluated by me, Volkov, and Smith-Turner.”

            Instant. Stomach. Knot.

            “I see.” Maybe it’s like figure skating at the Winter Olympics, where the highest and lowest scores get automatically tossed out?

            “But don’t worry.” She darts up the stairs, and I struggle to keep up in my pencil skirt. (The thigh highs are proving surprisingly comfortable, if . . . drafty.) “I’ve seen your student evals—you’re an excellent lecturer.” She takes a right and guides me through a series of doors. “You’ll be teaching a graduate class, and the Ph.D. students will be asked to weigh in and give their impressions of you. Keep that in mind and do the thing where you make them feel important. Stupid questions don’t exist, yada yada.” She stops outside a closed door and bites her lip. “There’s something else.”

            “What is it?” I’m a little winded.

            She clears her throat. “I really tried to get your demonstration to be for another group of students.”

            Oh? “Why?”

            “Because the faculty member who teaches this one—”

            “Dr. Hannaway!” We both turn. Volkov is waddling toward us, grinning like we go way back and he used to babysit me. “Do you know the one about the radio that only works in the morning?”

            I force myself to smile. God, I’m tired. “The AM radio?”

            He laughs, delighted. Monica discreetly rolls her eyes, opens the door, and gestures me inside, our coaching session cut short.

            The first thing I notice is Jack—which is unsurprising. He’s a giant mountain of muscles, after all, and there’s probably a physics equation that explains his annoying habit of becoming the center of mass of every room he burdens with his presence. He’s standing behind the podium, tinkering with the computer, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, as though the world outside is not relapsing into an ice age. The lines of his tattoo curl around a biceps that frankly no one, no one who doesn’t work out for a living should have. I still can’t tell what the ink’s supposed to form.

            In theory, it’s a scene I know well. The few minutes leading up to the start of class: students enjoying the last few seconds with their phones, the instructor scrambling to pull up the PowerPoint against all IT odds (missing cables, incompatibility issues, never-ending Windows 10 updates). In practice, there are about twenty pairs of eyes in the room, and they’re all fixed on Jack with a mix of admiration, respect, and awe, like he’s the dominant turkey of the mating season.

            Okay.

            So the MIT grad body fanboys over Jack.

            Fantastic.

            “—whether it’s true or not,” a young man with faded green hair is saying, “that Christopher Nolan uses you as a consultant on all his movies?”

            Jack shakes his head, and I see the muscles cording his neck. Breaking news: necks have muscles. “I will not be blamed for Tenet, Cole,” he replies, and everyone laughs.