Imperfect Chemistry (2 page)

He’s tall, at least a head taller than my own five feet seven inches, and he has dark hair. I don’t have a chance to make any
more of an assessment on his appearance. His gaze slides over me like I blend in with the wall, and then he’s stalking down the hall and out the main door.

Learning must be experienced.

–William Glasser

“Have you come up with a proposal yet?” Duncan asks me, once we are alone in his office sitting across from each other.

I tense even though I expected this question.

“No,” I shake my head.

He gives me an appraising glance. “You’re supposed to have the hypothesis and proposal by the end of next week.”

“I know.”

He sighs. “That’s not the only reason I called you in here, though.”

“It’s not?”

“Nearly everyone who sees you complains,” he says.

“Nearly? There are some people who don’t complain?” I ask.

“I was being nice. Everyone who sees you complains,” he says.

That can’t be true.

“But I’ve assisted some extremely stressed students. I am very good with time management and handling demanding and substantial workloads.”

“You told one girl to stop speaking to her mother.”

“The mother’s expectations were too high for her daughter’s capabilities, and it was affecting her concentration,” I explain.

“Her mother is Professor McDougall.”

I shrug. “So I was correct.”

He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table and steepling his hands in front of his mouth for a second before removing them. “You have to listen and guide. Not criticize, or solve the problem right away. You have to help students find the solutions on their own. To listen and ask questions and show empathy so they are comfortable opening up. Guide them on the path, don’t throw them down it. And don’t even get me started on today’s client.”

This surprises me. “What do you mean? She seemed genuinely thankful.”

“She was here to discuss a traumatic breakup, and you talked to her about biological urges and STDs.”

“It seemed appropriate at the time.”

He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Maybe I’m too literal,” I concede. “But I don’t see why that’s a bad thing. You’re very direct with me, and I appreciate it.”

“Lucy, I’m blunt with you because that’s how you communicate and I know you understand it. I’ve discovered it’s the best way to share information with you. But I don’t talk like this with other students in the program. I have to treat them all differently because everyone is different and everyone responds differently to constructive criticism. You’re never going to get this project underway if you can’t—at the very least—empathize with other people.”

“I’ve read multiple books on human behavior, personality theories, body language—”

“Reading about people is not the same as understanding them. You have to understand more of life and what makes people tick, the motivation behind the behavior. You have to be able to relate to their experiences by experiencing them yourself.”

I examine the wood-paneled wall and bookshelf behind him while I contemplate his words. I don’t understand the pendulum of passions and angst that people my age seem to experience on a regular basis. It’s difficult to conduct a study on something I can’t even begin to comprehend.

How am I supposed to relate? My childhood was nothing like anyone I know. I’ve been studying at the university since I was thirteen. I’m nearly twenty-one. It’s too late to catch up now. Although I suppose I could try to behave like other college students and see if the behavior will help me intuit the motivation behind it. At this point, I will try nearly anything to get this experiment started.

“You think I should consume illicit substances and engage in unprotected sex?” I ask.

He smiles. It’s hard to see the motion of his mouth behind the graying beard, but his eyes crinkle underneath his wire-rimmed glasses. “No, Lucy, I just want you to experience life. You are a wonderful scientist, but you need to interact more. You need to understand how people tick, which can’t always be explained with logic and quantified by science.”

“I interact with other people. I’ve even been on a date, recently.”

That’s not entirely true. But I did go to dinner with an underclassman named Brad whom I tutored in calculus. Whether the interaction could be defined as a date is open to interpretation. But it doesn’t matter. Duncan doesn’t seem overly impressed.

“You spend most of your time with sixty-year-old scientists who are just like you and derive more joy from test tubes than from others. You need to get out there, open up, and find friends your own age who have diverse backgrounds and interests. You need to do things for fun.”

“I have friends and interests.” I’m still defending myself, but my protests sound weaker and weaker, even to my own ears.

“Archery once a month with your brother is great, but you also need friends that aren’t family. Opening yourself up to new people and new experiences is a good way to start studying your own feelings. And if you start experiencing more emotions, you will find a way to study them.”

I nod slowly.

“Look,” he says, leaning back in his chair. His eyes roam around me, not quite meeting mine for a moment and I know he’s uncomfortable, but he looks me in the eyes when he says, “You
have no proposal for your grant, and working in the clinic isn’t helping like we thought it would. We need to try something else. I’m going to put you on a temporary leave of absence until the end of the semester.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he stops me with a hand. “I know you’re worried about losing your funding. I’ll talk to the board and see if they can extend the due date. This is temporary, Lucy. You need time to figure o
ut what to do here. You can come back in a couple months and we’ll try again. If there’s no progress on the study at that point, you will definitely lose this grant.”

***

I’m failing. I can’t believe it. I’ve never failed anything in my life. Well, that’s not true. I did fail when I was twelve and conducting an experiment on DNA replication in E. coli the first three times, but I completed it on the fourth. I’ve always been able to finish something I’ve started, and this is not over yet. Although it is disconcerting that I’ve been pursuing this particular goal since last semester, nearly a year now, and it’s not coming as easily as I imagined.

I’m walking through the quad
enjoying the crisp fall breeze as I move towards the west end of the school. My duplex is located less than a mile away. It’s an old building, a rare find in this area which has been built up in the last few years with apartments and student housing. I pass a few people heading to their evening classes. I have to step off the walkway to avoid a couple holding hands and taking up the entire path. When I stop, I pull my cell phone out of the side pocket of my bag and try to call Brad. I helped him, therefore he should help me. Besides, we’re friends. Sort of. One date may be singular, but I’m pretty sure it means something.

The call goes straight to voicemail and I’m almost relieved. I hate speaking on the phone, but sometimes it’s a necessary activity.

“Brad. It’s Lucy. Please return my call.”

I hang up and keep walking, pushing aside the self-doubt and uncertainty coursing through me. Surely he will help me. Our last interaction seemed to go okay; he even invited me into his dorm room after we shared a meal, an offer I politely declined.

I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to ask him. I need to feel emotions. Perhaps explore the typical college experience. Maybe I’ll start there, ask questions about what it is, exactly, that college students do besides go to class. Surely that’s a simple enough task.

I hear a loud, rhythmic pounding when I turn down the small alley that leads to my duplex. Someone is banging on the door. I quicken my steps, wondering if it’s one of my brothers. When I get closer, I can see that it’s not my door being pummeled into submission, it’s my neighbor’s. The same one I saw leaving the clinic not long ago.

I don’t know very much about the student who lives on the other side of the duplex even though we’ve shared a wall for at least six months now, and our doors face each other. I’ve seen him a handful of times in the last few months coming and going, and I’ve seen quite a few other people coming and going, but I haven’t paid much attention. Other than that and what I overheard today…I don’t even know his name.

“Jensen! Come on, man, open up!” the stranger banging on the door yells.

Well, now I know his name.

“This is ridiculous! I love you man!”

And now I know his sexual preference as well.

Bang, bang, bang. “You’re going to be really pissed at yourself if I die while I’m gone and you didn’t even listen to me!”

I approach cautiously. He isn’t necessarily psychotic, but this whole situation is odd. He has a slight accent that sounds Western European, Scottish or Irish or something. It’s hard to tell when he’s yelling, and I haven’t heard enough words to be able to precisely determine the cadence.

Whoever he is, he’s now resting his head against the door, his arms up on either side of him against the door frame. All I can see from the bottom of the steps that lead up to the porch is the back of a dark blond head, hair cut short, a
gray pullover sweater and jeans. He’s not very tall, only a few inches taller than me, but he looks fairly muscular under the sweater. I’m not sure I could defend myself if he turns violent.

He lightly thumps his head against the door a few times and says quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. I fucking love her, you know, and if I have to choose, I will choose her every time.”

I feel like an intruder. The emotion in his voice is raw and real, and it makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. I try to tiptoe up the stairs so he won’t notice me, but the old wooden steps creak like they’re being stabbed with each footstep and forced to remonstrate the torture being inflicted on them.

The guy at the door spins around and I hasten to my door, pulling my keys out to get inside as quickly as possible and to use as a weapon if necessary.

“Hello,” he says.

I nod and keep moving, not making eye contact, instead focusing on putting the key in the lock. First the dead bolt, then the round door knob.

“I’m sorry about the theatrics,” he calls to my retreating back, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

And then I’m inside with the door shut and locked behind me. Scottish. He is definitely Scottish.

Once I’m alone, I relax. What is going on with my neighbor?

A failure is not always a mistake, it may simply be the best one can do under the circumstances. The real mistake is to stop trying.

–B.F. Skinner

By early afternoon the next day, I still haven’t heard back from Brad. I tried calling him a few more times the night before and then sent him texts all morning at various intervals when I knew he would be out of class, but there has been no response. I start to worry that something is wrong with him. The one time we went to dinner, his phone was out on the table or in his hand at all times. I can’t imagine what could be preventing him from responding since he appears to be inordinately attached to the piece of technology.

Luckily, I remembered most of his schedule from various conversations. Having a near perfect memory is useful at times.

He normally eats lunch a little later on Wednesdays, due to a lab class from eleven to one thirty, so at two I head to the cafeteria. I find him there, sitting in a booth with three other males that appear vaguely familiar.

“Good afternoon, Brad,” I say, stopping next to their booth.

He’s drinking a soda and chokes when I materialize next to him. “Lucy?”

“I apologize for startling you. I would like to speak with you privately.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks after he stops coughing.

There is such a thing as a stupid question, but I didn’t realize it until I tutored Brad. That’s okay, though. He’s not excessively smart when it comes to logic and math, but he does have a lot of friends and his social experience is superior to mine and that’s all I care about at the moment.

“I would like to speak with you privately,” I say again, a little bit slower this time.

“Listen, Lucy.” Fully recovered from his choking fit, he leans back in the booth and places one arm along the back of the seat behind his friend. “You’re a nice girl and I really appreciate you helping me with calculus, but I’m not your boyfriend.”

“I never said—”

“You called me ten times last night,” he interrupts. He doesn’t look at me while he speaks; instead, he concentrates a majority of his focus on his friends who seem to be enjoying the conversation immensely.

“I only called—”

“And you’ve texted me all morning. This has to stop,” he says firmly.

“It’s only because—”

“We went on one date. And all you wanted to talk about were things I don’t really understand. You gave me statistics on how drinking alcohol affects movement and brain activity or whatever.”

“Gross motor skills and neural synapses.” I finally get a sentence completed.

“Yeah,” he says. “Whatever.” He rolls his eyes and looks over at his friends again who are laughing behind their hands and shoving food in their mouths, pretending like they don’t know what’s happening right in front of them even though it would be impossible to ignore.

Brad runs a hand through his messy light brown hair, but the motion doesn’t disturb the stylish disarray. “Look, it’s just not going to work out. I’m sorry.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a clear use of body language signaling the conversation is over, at least in his mind.

I could defend my actions. I could tell him of my intentions and that I did not believe him to be anything more than an acquaintance, but suddenly I don’t want to waste my breath or my limited time.

Instead I nod. “Okay,” I say. “Thank you for your honesty. I’m sorry I disturbed your lunch,” I tell him and the rest of the table.

He looks a little surprised at my easy acquiescence and that’s the last thing I see before I walk away. Unfortunately, I don’t walk quickly enough to avoid hearing the chuckles and laughs that accompany my departure.

***

I head straight home from the cafeteria. I don’t have anything else left to do for the afternoon since the only thing I have to work on is my pathogen study. Or non-study, as it seems to have evolved into.

Fortunately, for now, the grant will cover my rent and food stipend. I also receive a small monthly allotment due to royalties from articles I’ve published in science magazines. I don’t have a car, so I don’t have to worry about gas or insurance. My family usually takes me anywhere I need to go, but I don’t go many places that aren’t walking distance from campus other than my parents’ house. They live about thirty minutes away, a little bit outside town, and one of my brothers usually picks me up and drops me off if necessary.

As I’m nearing home, my neighbor is parking his
car—it’s a classic car of some kind, black and shiny—in the one and only narrow parking spot next to our duplex. We end up in front of the building at the same time.

“Hello,” he says, and motions for me to precede him up the stairs.

After yesterday, I find that I wish to know more about my neighbor. This is a new sensation for me. Not the being curious part—I always want to know everything about everything—but I tend to avoid social contact with anyone unless absolutely necessary and therefore make only polite overtures to ensure my mostly solitary existence. But now, I find myself genuinely interested.

“How are you?” I ask while walking up the steps.  The words feel strange in my mouth. I’m not used to engaging in conversation without someone else holding the reins.

I glance back at him. There are slight gray smudges under his eyes and he’s frowning at the ground in front of him. His face is covered in fine dark stubble, blurring the edges of his jaw and chin.

“Great,” he says although he doesn’t sound as if he means it. “Thanks.” He doesn’t sound as if he means that, either. His voice is deeper than I remember, but then, I’ve only spoken with him a couple of times and I was likely in a hurry and not paying attention to something as frivolous as the sound of his voice.

His response is interesting to me. Under normal social conventions he should return the question, but chooses not to. He’s not interested in reciprocal conversation. The notion stings slightly. From what I’ve observed, my neighbor has an abundance of friends and his social skills exceed my own by a wide margin. And yet…Perhaps it’s not me. Perhaps he’s experiencing momentary depression or he’s ill.

I don’t say anything else because there’s nothing more to say, and I’m back in my side of the duplex with the door locked behind me in seconds.

Once it’s just me with my thoughts in the sparsely furnished space, I hang my backpack on the hook by the door and head to the computer. I’ve got to figure out how to get my experiment going and my life on track. I need to study emotions and now that Brad’s out of the equation, I need a new plan.

There’s only one person left whose emotions I can study.

Mine.

First, I need to narrow down my focus and figure out precisely which emotions are the most prevalent and important.

A few hours and one microwavable meal later, I’ve confirmed all my previous suspicions.

I went through all of the patient files at the clinic. I put all of the information into a spreadsheet that tracked the data and isolated the subjects to show the most commonly reported items.

There were a shocking number of eating disorders, and more than a few suicide threats, but all that took up only twenty percent of the data. The rest of the students, regardless of gender, visited the clinic to vent about their relationships.  Every kind of association, from family to friendships to romance and sex. And sex seemed to be the winner. Premarital sex, sex before marriage, significant others cheating—I had experience with that yesterday—significant others being possessive and controlling, breakups, makeups, and nearly everything in between.

So this is it. I know more specifically what I need to learn about. I need to gain experience. I need to find friends and be more social. Experience lust…The thought makes me cringe a little. Was my suggestion to Duncan not too far off? Should I sleep around? The thought is less than appealing. Experience. I need experience with relationships. The words run around and around in my head.

I can find friends. That should be easy enough. Go to a social function, engage in conversation. How hard can it be?

As for sexual relations, maybe I can find someone to teach me about attraction, the chemistry that’s not performed in a lab, along with all of the other factors that accompany serious relationships. I frown. That won’t work either. Being taught would be just as effective as reading about it. I can’t expect someone to explain it to me, I need to live it. But the thought of living it makes me feel queasy.

I’ll just have to talk to people about their experiences. Maybe set up interviews and develop a questionnaire with the information I want. I can’t go farther than that. Not yet.

I turn in my office chair around and around and finally stop it to face my front door.

Jensen. My neighbor.

I find him interesting. With the exception of our interaction today, he’s a social creature. He understands people, better than me, and he’s one of those males who oozes easy confidence and grace. From what I overheard in the clinic, he’s recently experienced a breakup and he’s having troubles with his family. All things I would like to know about. Maybe I can somehow get him to agree to an interview, or an experiment. Maybe both. It would be purely scientific and it would allow me to study him in social situations and perhaps learn through observation.

I shake my head. I don’t know if that will work. I don’t even know if he’s in a relationship already or anything about him. As a matter of fact he might be homosexual, if the guy yelling how much he loved him the other day is any indication. Except, the stranger also murmured something about loving
her
, in which case…well, I’ll never know unless I ask.

A quick glance at the clock above the stove reveals it’s only eight o’clock. Surely early enough for a social call.

It’s only ten quick steps from my door to his. I give the wood a brisk knock. I don’t see any lights on from where I stand, but his car is still in the driveway. I’m sure he’s home.

I knock again after waiting the customary minute or so, but still, no answer.

I return to my side of the duplex, only a little put out. Until I can run into my neighbor again, I need to do something else. Waiting is not a suitable option and it’s not something I’m comfortable with, especially in this situation. The faster I can gain information, the more comfortable I will be.

One of the first steps to understanding a different culture is observation. I need to find an adequate place to observe humanity at its most basic level, in addition to widening my own socialization and experience.

I make a quick decision. A college party. That’s where I’ll start.