Kissing Galileo Page 3

  What? Why would he do that? What would make him do that? I couldn’t think. Especially after his little snobby speech about—

  “Oh yeah”—my boss paused just outside the door, interrupting my thoughts—“and he bought everything you wore, including the kimono.” She gave me an approving head bob. “Great job today, Lavender. Keep up the good work.”

  Chapter 3

  *Emily*

  My research methods class met every Monday and Wednesday evening, from 4:00 PM to 7:00 PM, in the chemistry building’s lecture hall. The hall smelled vaguely of vinegar and baking soda. By all accounts, I should despise both smells. My mother gave me baking soda for indigestion rather than pharmaceuticals. She also used to make me drink a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar every morning before elementary school. She did this to torture me, but also because we didn’t have any medical insurance.

  As much as I hated my daily doses of acetic acid and intermittent servings of sodium bicarbonate, I found the aroma of both comforting, which was only one of the reasons I usually looked forward to my research methods class.

  The others, as I’ve mentioned, were Dr. Hanover’s hilariously cutting sass and the subject matter. There are few subjects more relevant to how society makes choices—and therefore lives their lives—than research methods.

  But before I geek out and make an impassioned case for understanding confidence intervals and sample bias, I need to admit that on this particular day I was emphatically not looking forward to my research methods class.

  I’d read the two chapters we’d be reviewing many times. I’d taken notes. I’d done all the sample problems plus several others online, and yet I felt completely unprepared . . . to see Dr. Hanover.

  What if he recognizes me?

  Imaginary scenarios played over and over in my head, ridiculous ones where he’d stop me in the middle of answering a question about experimental design, point, and yell, “It’s you! Stage three naked girl! HUZZAH!”

  Why I decided he would yell huzzah was a bit of a mystery. I’d never heard him say the word, but in my imaginings it was what he’d say. Or maybe EUREKA! But not DIOS MIO! like those fellas would do in my mother’s Spanish soaps. My mother was not Spanish, but she’d taken the language in high school and loved Spanish soaps.

  I paused just outside of the lecture hall, rubbing my forehead beneath my baseball hat and grimacing.

  What was I even talking about?

  That’s right, acetic acid and Dr. Hanover.

  “Excuse me.”

  I glanced up, meeting the kind brown eyes of another student who motioned to the door, looking at me like, Are you going in or what?

  “Sorry, yes, sorry.” I grabbed the handle and swung open the door, waving my hand for the student to go in front of me.

  He gave me a perplexed little smile, but eventually walked past, entering the lecture hall. He was a big, tall guy, so on the spur of the moment, I decided to walk behind him, hoping to cloak my entrance into the room. You know, just in case my dear professor was staring at the door, inspecting the gait of every female student as they entered.

  “Everything will be fine,” I muttered to myself, peeking around the big guy to see if Dr. Hanover was already at the front of the room.

  He was. Flanked by his two TAs. Standing before the long table at the front. Head bowed over a laptop. Hair flat. Baggy and shapeless brown nerd shirt, dad jeans, and pocket protector in place.

  I exhaled slowly, my nerves calming, because in my weirdo imaginings not only did Dr. Hanover shout HUZZAH! he was also wearing his fancy clothes and looking ten kinds of objectively man-hot.

  He did not look hot today. He looked like a less severe version of Dwight Schrute, just with nicer lips and a more defined jawline, and larger eyes and thicker hair.

  Okay, he still looked hot. It’s like that old saying, “What has been seen can never be unseen.” Pandora’s box had been opened and inside was a hot version of Dr. Hanover. But he was still an asshole and, therefore, I was in no danger of crushing on the man. I had a type and that type was limited to small of stature sweet guys, shy guys, and guys with so much empathy, they were often paralyzed by it.

  I de-peeked, hiding myself more fully behind the tall student, and bided my time until we arrived at my usual row. Breaking away, I hurriedly slipped past the three spots before mine and sat, reached into my bag, pulled out my laptop, and hid myself behind it.

  I made it.

  Good. Good and fine and good.

  Seconds became minutes and I pulled up my notes, my body relaxing, and I chuckled at myself. If he didn’t recognize me up close at the Pinkery, the chances of him recognizing me here—one of a hundred students, dressed in baggy cargo pants, baseball hat, and sweatshirt—were zero.

  . . . Well, 3%, with a 3% margin of error, a 97% confidence interval, and a 2.17 z level.

  “We’re talking about qualitative data today.”

  I flinched, a slight quake in my belly at the sound of Dr. Hanover’s deep voice slicing through the hum of chatter in the lecture hall. Just like that, the room fell silent and he had everyone’s attention.

  “By a show of hands, who among you read and understood the difference between qualitative data and quantitative data?”

  Half of the class lifted an arm and I sensed his gaze sweep over me in a detached cataloging of the room. It was always best to answer this question honestly, because the next thing he did was call on someone with their hand raised and ask she or he to explain the concept in question.

  “Mr. Jeru. Explain the difference to me in three sentences or less.”

  “Uh.” The student’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat, the sound abnormally loud, echoing around the large room. “Quantitative data is, like, numbers? And qualitative is feelings.”

  Dr. Hanover’s brow furrowed, a sure sign that he disliked the answer given. “Ms. Jesuine, same question.”

  “Quantitative data can be measured, and qualitative data is about quality.”

  I peeked around my laptop screen and saw Dr. Hanover’s head was now bent over the class roster. Which was why it made sense when the next name he called also began with a J.

  “Mr. Jibbes, same question.”

  “I-uh-didn’t understand qualitative data.”

  Without looking up, Dr. Hanover asked, “Did you read the chapter?”

  He hesitated and I winced, because hesitation with Professor Hanover was always a mistake.

  Now comes the sass.

  “Did you forget whether you read the chapter? Or did you forget how to read?”

  The student chuckled, it sounded nervous, but said nothing.

  Our professor glanced up from the roster and stared impassively at the student, and it struck me that Dr. Hanover knew exactly where to look for Mr. Jibbes. “Are you feeling okay? Do you require medical attention? Are you suffering from a dissociative fugue? Are you having a stroke?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why are you wasting my time?”

  “I didn’t read the chapter,” Jibbes finally admitted, so low I could barely hear him.

  Dr. Hanover stared at the student, his expression unreadable, and tension became a greasy kind of thickness, coating the room.

  After a long—very, very long—moment, where I began to feel suffocated with anxiety on behalf of my fellow student, Dr. Hanover sighed.

  He then turned his attention to the entire room. “From now on, if you didn’t read the chapter, don’t come to class.”

  “But—” Jesuine started, and then stopped herself.

  It was too late. Her outburst had drawn his attention.

  “Ms. Jesuine, you have something to say. Say it.”

  From where I was sitting, I watched as her hands tightened on a notebook she’d placed on the table in front of her. “It’s just, class participation counts for ten percent of our grade. If we’re not here more than three times, then we lose ten percent.”

  “Class participation, Ms. Jesuine. If you don’t read the materials, you can’t participate,” Dr. Hanover responded, his voice deadpan, his left eyebrow slightly raised.

  “But what if we miss something important in the lecture not covered in the book?”

  I winced on her behalf, because she was paddling upstream with no boat, or paddle, or stream, or legs, or arms.

  “Ms. Jesuine,” he began, his tone as dry as salt, and just as salty, “persistence is only admirable when it isn’t based in ignorance, otherwise it’s called whining.”

  Her back straightened, but she said no more.

  His gaze came up and again he addressed the entire class, “Research design and analysis require conversation and dialogue, and often that dialogue is contentious. Do you think great science occurs in a vacuum? With politeness? With pleases and thank yous? Do you think you are allowed to hold ideas and beliefs without ever having them openly challenged? No.” Dr. Hanover hit his palm against the table. “No. Great science—like all great things—begins with doubt, with questioning, with a fundamental abhorrence for the status quo. If you do not care to inform yourself for the sake of your grade, then at least do so for the sake of your mind. And if you do not care about your mind, then you are not invited to attend my lecture.”

  I had to swallow here, and remind myself that I was in class, because my mouth was suddenly dry, and my heart was fluttering.

  Goodness.

  I’d never gotten hot before from an impassioned speech about the nature of science and its debate. Quite suddenly, my sweater was entirely too warm. Turning his attention back to the roster, he seemed to scan it. The room was so quiet, you could’ve heard a mouse fart.

  Eventually, again without looking up, he said, “Ms. Limones, please explain the difference between qua
litative and quantitative data.”

  I breathed a silent sigh of relief because Ms. Limones always answered correctly. Additionally, she was succinct, intelligent, and had a pleasing voice that always seemed to put Dr. Hanover in a better mood, like she was proof of intelligent life on planet earth. Sitting up and craning my neck, I turned to where she usually sat—on the far end of the third row— and had a shock.

  Ms. Limones was absent.

  A short period of silence followed before Dr. Hanover lifted his head and glanced around the lecture hall, as though searching for his star student. This, also, struck me. He knew where Mr. Jibbes sat—who never knew the answer—but had no idea where Ms. Limones’s seat was located.

  Interesting indeed.

  Someone cleared their throat, drawing his attention to the third row.

  “Sorry, Dr. Hanover. Kara is sick,” came a female voice, scratchy with nerves.

  He blinked at the student, as though he couldn’t understand why she was speaking, before finally asking, “Who is Kara?”

  A beat, and then the same student responded, “Kara Limones.” When he continued to give her a blank stare, she added, “Ms. Limones is Kara.”

  He nodded faintly, the intensity of his frown increasing. “I don’t suppose you could call her on the phone, put her on speaker, and have her answer the question?”

  His suggestion elicited a sparse sprinkling of laughter until people realized he was serious.

  The student who had spoken shook her head. “Uh, she has laryngitis.”

  “I see.” Dr. Hanover sighed sadly, returned his gaze to the class roster, and my stomach dropped.

  My throat tightened.

  I could only stare in horror.

  I’m the backup.

  When Hanover was desperate for an answer in order to move his lecture along, it was Ms. Limones first, Von second (that’s me), Qin third, and Silver fourth.

  “Von,” he said, right on schedule. Mercifully, he didn’t look up, but he did demand, “Answer.”

  Gripping the baggy fabric of my pants, I opened my mouth to respond, took a breath, and . . . forgot the freaking question.

  Dosh garnit!

  Once more, Dr. Hanover looked up, searching the hall. “Don’t tell me Ms. Von also has laryngitis.”

  “No,” I croaked immediately, not wanting to hesitate while also sliding lower in my seat. “I’m here.”

  Aahhh! What the hell are we talking about? Why won’t my brain work?

  I felt his gaze swing up to the back of my laptop as most gazes in the hall followed suit. “Qualitative and quantitative. Answer.”

  Qualitative and quantitative data, that’s right!

  On a burst of breath, I said, “Quantitative data provides information about quantities, data that can be directly counted and measured. Qualitative data provides information about qualities, or data that can’t be measured.”

  He paused for a moment, and I sensed his focus intensify. “Ms. Von . . .”

  I waited, holding my breath. I waited for a long time. I waited so long, a new, whispery hum rose in the lecture hall and my pulse began thrumming under my tongue.

  But then he said, “Give me an example for each.” And his tone held a distracted edge.

  “Um,” I gripped my pants tighter, the thick, stiff fabric bunching beneath my hands as I searched my brain for an appropriate example, settling without thinking on the first one that popped to mind. “An example of quantitative data might be the number of threads in a garment, whereas an example of qualitative data might be the—uh . . . the uh . . .” Oh God. Don’t say it.

  “The what?”

  Dammit!

  “Ms. Von?”

  “The soft—softness of the garment,” I finished, my cheeks aflame, and my eyes closed.

  Softness of the garment?

  What.

  The.

  Hell.

  Was.

  I.

  Thinking.

  ?

  The last thing I should’ve been discussing with Dr. Victor Hanover in the middle of class was the freaking softness of freaking garments! I wanted to hide under the desk, and I might have. I might have slithered from my seat and curled into a ball if I hadn’t—once again—been so entirely frozen.

  Chapter 4

  *Emily*

  You know that feeling? Like you’re falling but you’re holding perfectly still? I had that feeling. Plus a few other feelings. Plus, an inability to open my eyes. Plus, lockjaw.

  Seconds ticked by. Or maybe they didn’t. I couldn’t be sure. All I knew in that moment was I would have given my 3000-piece Millennium Falcon Lego set to disappear from the lecture hall and reappear in my apartment. My earlier worry that I’d be recognized, the one I’d successfully batted away and decided was virtually impossible, suddenly felt not only possible, but probable thanks in huge part to my defunct brain.

  Why, Em, why? Why was the only freaking example I could think of for qualitative data garment softness? I might as well have jumped from my seat, stripped, and asked him if he’d like to touch my granny panties.

  Great job, Emily. Real gold star work.

  The earlier hum caused by my previous stalling sustained. It became a whispering, droning backdrop to the chant in my head, Please don’t recognize me, please don’t recognize me, please don’t—

  “The softness of the garment?” Professor Hanover’s halting, distracted question cut through my mind-chant, making me scrunch my eyes. “That is—uh, correct,” he finally said, obvious confusion in his voice.

  The droning buzz tapered, the sound of Hanover clearing his throat—not once, but twice—bringing silence to the lecture hall. I lifted my eyelids scant millimeters and peeked around my laptop to the front of the room, unable to help myself. There, Dr. Hanover held his fist to his mouth, a stern wrinkle between his eyebrows, his attention affixed to some point on the table, his other hand on his hip as he held perfectly still.

  Abruptly, he lifted the hand on his hip, motioning to the TA at his right. “Take over. I’ll be right back.”

  Stiffening on instinct, and half expecting Hanover to march up to my seat and drag me out of the hall, I was stunned as he instead marched past his TA and out the door at the front of the room. I wasn’t the only one surprised by his abrupt departure. TA Kris also appeared to be astonished, as did the entire class. Neither of the TA’s had taken over a lecture before.

  Eventually, Kris recovered and stood, her stool scraping against the floor. She fidgeted while sauntering to where Dr. Hanover had been peering at the roster and pushed her glasses higher on her nose.

  “Okay. Well. Let’s break down a few more examples of quantitative data.” Kris lifted her chin toward me. “Building on Emily’s description, can anyone else give an example?”

  My eyes darted between Kris and the doorway where Dr. Hanover had disappeared while I demanded that my brain calm the heck down. I needed to think. I needed to consider my next move carefully. Because, right now? My thundering pulse urged me to run, to gather my things and leave as quietly as possible. I needed space, time to ponder away from the threat of my professor’s imminent reappearance.

  Over the weekend, while endeavoring to work out a basic contingency plan for dealing with Hanover, I’d briefly considered not coming to class today. That idea was quickly dismissed. Perfect attendance meant a ten-point curve on the final. I’ve never met an extra credit assignment I didn’t like.

  I therefore convinced myself all would be well, that he’d never recognize me, as long as I was quiet and hid under my hat and baggy clothes. The worst-case scenario was pushed from my mind.

  But now, I was forced to confront the worst-case scenario: what would I do and what would I say if Dr. Hanover recognized me?

  Chewing on my bottom lip, splitting my attention between the TA and the door, I held an imaginary conversation in my head with Victor, one I probably should’ve entertained prior to now.

  “You’re Lavender. Don’t try to deny it!” he’d say, probably with a judgy sneer.

  I would . . . I would nod, cross my arms, and shrug. I’d play it off, try not to incinerate with embarrassment, act like it was no big deal.