I force a smile. Focus on his eyes, Isadora. Do not look down.
“Logan was just telling me about the sleep study he conducted this week,” Gary says.
Logan. Wolverine. Very different from Clark.
“Yes. Logan. The sleep study.” Not looking at Gary’s peach fuzz is stealing all my focus.
The student researcher raises his hand in a half hello.
I open my office door. Even after all these years, the former janitor’s closet still has a lingering lemony disinfectant scent.
Logan starts talking—I’m pretty sure it’s something about studying the effects of sleep on the brain. Another one of my shortcomings as a leader—I’m not a good listener. Too many overlapping internal monologues to make space for other people.
Maybe I should work on that too.
Students need encouragement, Gary has told me, and I’m not great at giving it. Hasn’t exactly been modeled for me.
Mine were parents who didn’t subscribe to the idea of praising children.
And then, like the rain in Orlando, Logan abruptly stops. He stares, head cocked a little to the side, waiting for . . . what exactly? I feel like I’ve just been caught stealing.
Oh no. Did he ask me a question?
“I think that’s . . . a great direction . . . Logan. Do that.” Smile. Nod. Encouraging, right? I pat his arm for good measure.
Logan glances at Gary, then at me, then slumps his shoulders and walks off, leaving me standing there like an idiot. And because I’m not sure what else to do, I squeeze behind the too-big-for-this-space desk and pray Gary will walk away. He doesn’t.
“You think it’s a ‘great direction’ for him to shelve the last six months of research and start over?”
I look up, mostly to see if his nose breaths are ruffling the hairy bits above his lip.
“We’ve talked about this, Isadora.” He keeps his voice low. “If we . . . if you . . . want to create the next generation of researchers, you have to build them up. Show interest. Train them. Actually care. For crying out loud, fake it if you have to. One of them could discover the cure for cancer, you know? Think of what that would do for the program.”
To say nothing of all the people who would be cured of cancer.
“I know, Gary. I’m trying,” I say. And I was—at least in my own mind. If I’m honest, there’s a chance I’ve talked myself out of trying more times than not.
He sits on the edge of my desk. His butt cheek covers my expense report. “They look up to you so much, Isadora,” he says. “Everyone knows how good you are at analyzing data, at digging up facts other people miss.”
I blush a little under the compliment.
“They’re all trying to win you over.” His smile wants to be encouraging, but my mind trips over his words.
“Oh, are they?” I want to say. Is that why they go out every night after work without me? The thought is ludicrous. It’s not like I want to go get pizza with Logan and the rest of them.
An unexpected wave of sadness washes over me.
It’s been hard to make friends.
Despite that, this little office and the lab across the hall are the places I feel most like myself. Things make sense here. Problems have solutions.
I have this whole conversation in my head while Gary sits and waits for a response, and by this point, I’ve forgotten what he said.
“Anyway.” Gary turns awkward, like he’s not sure what to do with my silence. “Please consider what I’ve said, Isadora.” He stands. “You have a good day.”
After he’s gone, I check the wall behind my desk for small, camera-sized holes, then quietly chastise myself for thinking ugly thoughts about my boss. Mustache or no, Gary is a nice man.
Maybe he could date Roberta from the cafeteria. She has a mustache too.
I lay my bag flat on the floor next to my chair, and the magazine from the grocery store slides out. I kick it under my desk. It would destroy my professional credibility if anyone saw me with that thing.
Thirty minutes pass. Then an hour. I can’t focus.
Now in her natural habitat, we find Isadora Bentley at her most serene, but also at her most vulnerable. Like the wildebeest tenderly reaching down for a drink, unaware of what toothy reptile may be lurking just beneath the surface, Isadora Bentley’s mind is not focused on what it should be.
31 Ways! 31 Ways! It’s thrumming in my brain like the telltale heart beneath the floorboards.
Giving credence to a tabloid fundamentally goes against who I am as a person. I’m surprised when I retrieve the magazine from under the desk and flip it open.
I scan the table of contents and find “31 Ways to Be Happy (Today!)” listed on page 43. I casually thumb past “Dating Dos and Eating Don’ts” and countless ads for miracle weight loss until I find it.
Written by Dr. Grace Monroe. Is this a real person with a real degree? And if yes, are we talking an associate’s in communication or an actual PhD in behavioral psychology?
The article is a numbered list, the way most are these days, meant to be easily digestible for people who are too busy to read. The last time I took advice from a magazine was in the ninth grade when my mother left a copy of Seventeen on my bed with an arrow drawn on a sticky note stuck next to the headline “Make Yourself More Dateable.”
Given how well that worked out for me, I have very low expectations for Dr. Grace.
Okay, Monroe. Let’s see what you’ve got.
I push my glasses up and skim the list:
Smile more. Really? Not a great start.
Get enough sleep. That I could get behind. I have a chart ranking thirteen different kinds of naps.
Exercise regularly. Well, that doesn’t sound fun at all.
I skim the rest of the list and grow irritated. This isn’t rooted in data. Dr. Grace was paid money to write an article that’s basically common sense? Anyone with half a brain would’ve already tried these things. I’m certain I’ve done at least half of them.
Okay, maybe a quarter of the things.
I read the list again.
Okay, a solid three of them. Maybe.
I’ve at least got step two down to a science. I am an excellent sleeper.
A laugh pulls me from the article, and through my open office door, I see Logan and one of the other students—a short, dark-headed girl named Shellie. I can’t believe I remember her name.
All at once I’m fourteen again, sitting in the chemistry lab during my lunch hour because I don’t have anyone to eat with.
Shellie smiles at Logan, and Logan smiles back at Shellie.
And that’s when I get an idea. It’s the kind of idea that comes seemingly from somewhere else, making you question whether you’re the one who actually thought of it.
The idea is simple.
What if I disprove Dr. Grace Monroe and this entire ridiculous article?
Using a single test subject (me), I could put the steps into practice, calculating the effects of each step. I would keep detailed notes and, ultimately, prove that this article is, at best, an oversimplification. At worst, a beacon of false hope.
I’ll treat it like I would any other research project. I’ll observe, ask, hypothesize, predict, test, and iterate my way to happiness. Or not. That is where the mystery lies.
This experiment will determine whether or not Dr. Grace Monroe has any idea what she’s talking about. And if she doesn’t, I’ll promptly send her my findings with a note to practice responsible journalism in the future.