Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            No, he’s like a book on fire. Fahrenheit 451—no words to read, just ashes and the abyss.

            Everything clicks together. I fill in the blanks of my interrupted conversation with Monica: it’s Jack who teaches this class. Jack, who has lots of opinions about theorists. Jack, who indoctrinated his students into believing that people like me are the enemy. Jack, whose sexual fantasies likely involve me failing to defend my discipline to two dozen hostile dudes. I bet he gets off to recordings of me mispronouncing syzygy at the eleventh-grade science fair.

            This is a setup. The teaching demonstration was always going to be my Titanic—the ship, not the high-grossing motion picture.

            Except that, no.

            I hold Jack’s eyes and give him my sweetest, most feral smile. You underestimated me, it says, and he knows it. Because he half smiles back and nods minutely—devious, ready, coiled. Have I, Elsie?

            It’s on.

            “You make a really good point, Cole.” I set down my clicker and wander from behind the podium. “Theoretical physics can be a waste of time.” I take off my suit jacket, even though it’s cold. I glance down at my abdomen to make sure the bump of my pod is not visible. I’m basically one of you. Two, three years older? Look, I’m sitting on the table. Let’s be friends. “Who would agree? Show of hands.” It takes a few seconds of exchanged Is this a trap? looks, but 80 percent of the hands are up in no time.

            That’s when I raise my own, too.

            They laugh. “Aren’t you a theorist, Dr. Hannaway?” someone asks.

            “Yes, but I get it. And please, call me Elsie.” I’m not like a regular theorist. I’m a cool theorist. Yikes. Erwin Schrödinger, avert your eyes. “It is unfair that most of the physicists who win Nobel Prizes or become household names are theorists. Newton. Einstein. Feynman. Kaku. Sheldon Cooper got the seven-season spin-off show, but Leonard? Nothing.” People chuckle—including Volkov. Jack’s slim smile doesn’t waver. “The advantage of theory is that we trade in ideas, and ideas are cheap and fast. Experimental physicists need expensive equipment to troubleshoot every step, but theorists can just sit there and write”—I add a calculated shrug—“science fan fiction.” It’s an actual insult I got when I went to a Harvard social as Cece’s plus-one. From a philosophy grad who, after three beers, decided to mansplain to the entire bar why my publications didn’t really count.

            The things I do for free food.

            “Theorists hide behind fancy math,” Cole says. Sweet summer STEMlord. I promise you’re not as edgy as you think.

            “What I don’t get is . . . what’s the point of building abstract theories that are not even bound by the laws of nature?” says the guy next to Cole. He’s wearing a long-sleeved tee that reads “Physics and Chill” in the Shrek font. I kinda love it.

            “Experiments are way more useful.” Another dude. In the first row.

            “You only care about what might be, but not what actually is.” Dude, of course. This time from the third row. “The possible applications are always an afterthought.”

            Many students nod. So do I, because I can read them like a large-print edition. I know the exact Elsie they want.

            Time to bring this home.

            “What you guys are saying is that theoretical physics doesn’t always end in a product. And to that, all I can say is . . . I agree. Physics is like sex: it may yield practical results, but often that’s not why we do it.” At least that’s what Feynman once said. He’s also on record as calling women worthless bitches, but we’ll let it slide since his quote made you laugh. “How many of you are experimentalists?” Almost all hands shoot up, and Cole’s the highest. I’m depressingly unsurprised. “The truth is, you guys are right. Theorists do focus on mathematical models and abstract concepts. But they do it hoping that experimentalists like you will come across our theories and decide to prove us right.” Ugh. I want a shower and a bar of industrial-strength soap. “And that’s why I want to talk with you guys about my theories on Wigner crystallization. So that I can hear your opinions and improve through your feedback. I don’t know when theorists and experimentalists became rivals, but physics is not about competition—it’s about collaboration. You’re free to make up your mind, and I’m not going to try and convince you that you need my theories. I will acknowledge, however, that I need your experiments.” Am I laying it on too thick? Nope. Well, yes. But the grads love it. They nod. They murmur. A couple of them grin smugly.