The rest of the abstract is hidden behind a paywall. I run a search on the paper’s author – Professor Pablo Sousa – and the university website comes up with several hits, all relating to his research on the Brazilian Honey Beetle. He’s won several prizes for his work, and is now celebrating ANVISA approval of a drug prototype based on his findings. From what I can gather, ANVISA is the Brazilian equivalent of the FDA.
I’m desperate to read the entirety of the paper, and notice a small login portal beside the paywall, which grants access to those with an existing university ID. A dropdown menu shows they accept IDs from most major institutions, and I notice Vati’s college on the list.
Inspiration strikes. Vati’s desktop computer sits downstairs in sleep mode, with no password protection whatsoever. If his email account is open, I could simply request a password reminder, open and delete the email before he sees it, and use the deets to access this paper. I’m a genius.
As I pass their bedroom, Dad’s earthquake snores rumble through the closed door. I stifle a laugh. He’s such a quiet, restrained man, and yet his sleep apnea turns him into some kind of meteorological emergency. Between enormous snores, I can hear Vati muttering, ‘Verdammt noch mal, Michael!’, which loosely translates as ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He says something else along the lines of removing his throat with a machete, but like I say, my German is not great.
Leapfrogging over Sirius as he lies snoozing at the bottom of the stairs, I make it to the computer in the dining room and load it up. While I’m waiting for it to whir into life, I look at the photos taped to the bottom of the monitor with literal duct tape, because Pinterest-worthy our house is not. There’s the four of us at the Rube Goldberg machine at the Museum of Science Boston; the four of us watching rat basketball at Discovery Place; the four of us playing mini golf at the Science Museum of Minnesota. In every single picture, Leo and I are concentrating intently, and Vati is pranking Dad – pulling pants down, drawing rat whiskers on him in Sharpie, using golf clubs to perform wedgies, etc.
As I open up Vati’s email account, I can’t help but grin. My dads are like my best friends, and my childhood has been so great. It’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing it’ll be over soon. There’s something hollow beneath the bittersweetness, too, but I can’t quite place it.
‘Bärchen ?’
Swiveling around, I see Vati standing in the doorway, fuzzy chest hair poking through the top of his bathrobe.
I leap back from the computer, as though I’ve been caught performing some kind of diamond heist. ‘Vati. I was just, erm . . .’
‘Hacking my emails.’ He says this in a jokey way, i.e. the way he says everything ever.
‘I thought you were asleep,’ I say, as though this is a valid legal defense.
‘Nein, nein. Dad eins, he sleeps like a woodchuck. Me? Well, what is the opposite of a woodchuck?’
I have no idea what a woodchuck is, nor how one might sleep, so I decide not to push the matter.
‘What are you really doing, Bärchen ?’ he asks gently, perching on the edge of the oak dining table. He looks very tired, but also jolly, which shouldn’t be possible.
I decide the truth isn’t exactly incriminating, so I say, ‘I need your institution login to access a research paper.’
‘Ah, wunderbar !’ he exclaims. ‘Which paper?’
Chewing my bottom lip, I admit, ‘It’s about the laws of attraction.’
Vati’s features soften. ‘You like someone, ja ? And you want to seduce them?’
‘Please never say “seduce” again.’
‘Bärchen, you don’t need any papers to make a boy like you. You are the best person in the world, so. You can take poison on that.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Ah, maybe that is a German idiom.’ Vati frowns and strokes his stubbled jaw. ‘I think you say, “You can bet your life on that”?’
I chuckle. ‘That makes more sense.’
He stands up and ruffles my hair, which is brave, considering it hasn’t been washed in days. ‘My password is Bärchen, followed by your birthday. Lower case, no umlaut. Because the university is racist, of course.’
‘Of course.’ I grin and hug him round the waist. ‘Thanks, Vati.’
‘No problem.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘As thanks, you can visit me in prison after I have removed your father’s throat with a machete.’
Maybe my German isn’t as bad as I thought.
A few minutes later, I’m back in bed with the full paper loaded on my laptop. My eyes skim down the five paragraphs over and over, trying to make sense of what I’m reading.
According to Sousa and other leading scientists in this field of study, the Brazilian Honey Beetle – particularly the female of the species – secretes absurdly high concentrations of an incredibly sophisticated sex pheromone, and researchers have now discovered a way to distill these chemicals into pill form, which are supposedly safe for human consumption.
When tested on rats, and later monkeys, the pills artificially increased an organism’s ability to attract a mate tenfold. More relevantly, the report goes on to detail the clinical trials conducted with actual human participants, and while the results were not as potent as they were in rats and monkeys, the pills were found to quadruple the participants’ ability to attract a sexual partner.
It sounds ludicrous. But for some reason, I sit up a little straighter. Because despite my intense cynicism, something about the idea captures my attention. And I’m no idiot when it comes to science. Okay, so pheromones are hardly my field of expertize, but the study and subsequent clinical trials at least sound plausible.
I spend the rest of the movie only half paying attention. Meticulously reading through each and every one of Sousa’s articles, I familiarize myself with the subject as best I can. It sounds pretty interesting. And the best part? There’s a link to buy the pills directly from the researchers. They’re running a special trial price of $99 for your first month’s supply – plus an eye-watering shipping charge to the US.
Despite my natural stance as an unfaltering cynic, I find myself genuinely considering it. Maybe I’m just feeling especially vulnerable after a day of rejection and loneliness, but the idea that there could be an easy fix out there is beyond tempting.
I imagine how good it would feel to walk into my next AP Physics class and have Haruki gaze at me with newfound attraction. I imagine walking the hallways and no longer feeling invisible. I imagine the confidence and self-worth I would feel, and the thought is so powerful that it almost knocks the wind out of me.
I imagine Haruki finally reciprocating my feelings. Bringing me bagels, making me playlists, sharing my hobbies and interests.
Shivering, I pull myself back to reality. It’s a lot of money, and there’s no guarantees the drugs will actually work. Besides, I’m supposed to be saving for college. MIT doesn’t offer merit-based scholarships, because everyone who applies is a veritable genius, and I don’t qualify for needs-based financial aid because my dads are tenured academics. They can help a little with tuition fees, but I still need to have a cushion under me to cover rent and food and all those other inconvenient human necessities. And since the comic-book store which used to employ me closed down, I’ve been out of work and struggling to find a new gig.