Dark Academia
Pooja Joshi
__________
In March, I receive a letter from the dean, congratulating me on being the first woman admitted to the university’s coveted Biosonic Fragradation Cephalomechanics PhD program. Anyone would be lucky to start their academic career under the tutelage of Dr. Marsh. Like a diamond in the rough, you will be carved to perfection in his lab, so your brilliance will shine through. Welcome!
In July, I pack up my apartment in Boulder and wave goodbye to my roommate Casey and her three-legged beagle. One of the post-docs is sent to pick me up from the airport. “Hey, I’m Vincent,” he says. He doesn’t offer to help with my bags. He drops me off at the studio apartment on Gray Street and speeds off without another word.
In August, I spend my first day hopelessly lost looking for Dr. Marsh’s office. When I finally find it, he’s nowhere to be seen. I wait around for almost two hours, and when I’m about to give up, he struts in and gives me a withering glance. “Why didn’t you come down to the lab?” he asks. “Your email said to meet you in your office,” I point out. “We prefer students who take initiative here,” he replies. I nod, my face burning red. In October, my parents call after their shift at the Walmart ends. They’re so excited. The first woman in the department. In Biosonic Fragradation Cephalomechanics, no less! They have no idea what I study. I don’t bother to explain. I put on a smile as I rip open another packet of instant ramen. I tell them not to worry, the stipend is more than enough, and I’ve made a lot of friends. My lip twitches as I watch the water boil.
In December, Dr. Marsh asks me for the results of the Hellentech sponsored trial. “What?” I ask stupidly. He’s frustrated. He yells a lot. I remain silent, because I’m grateful to be working under him. But I don’t know what trial he’s talking about. Smirks await me when I leave the office.
In January, I show up to work exhausted on New Year’s Day. I’ve been working through the holidays. I found the Hellentech papers on Vincent’s desk. The manila folder was unopened. No one had bothered to tell me it was my job to run the experiments. The experimental design is far beyond anything I’ve ever done independently. But I spend two weeks of solitude in the lab. I have always been able to figure it out.
In February, Dr. Marsh screams at me in front of the whole lab. I can hear Roberto snickering as I hold back tears. I try to explain that the Hellentech experiments aren’t working because the design is wrong. The variables we’re testing aren’t explanatory. Nothing is happening because the literature already tells us nothing will happen. “This is what happens when you let the DEI people run the show,” Dr. Marsh says scathingly before storming off. Vincent tells me I need to get my act together and work harder. The Hellentech sponsorship is important to the university. There are big donors involved. He says I can’t afford to get hysterical. I go to the bathroom and silently scream into my own fist. I’m not worried anyone will find me here. There are no other women on this floor.
In March, I deliver the experiment report to Dr. Marsh. For the first time since I’ve been here, he looks pleased. “And the results are statistically significant?” he asks, beaming as he reviews the tables. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. “How many samples did you run?” he continues, thumbing through the pages. “I ran–,” I start to explain. He holds up a hand. “This is fantastic – just what the Hellentech folks want to see.”
In April, things have calmed down. I go to work, I come home. My parents ask if I can come visit them in the summer. I tell them I’ll have to see. The flights are almost six hundred dollars. I eat more ramen.
In May, Dr. Marsh calls me into his office again. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. The Hellentech people are thrilled with the report. They want to fund the rest of my PhD. My mouth drops open when he shows me the check. It’s more zeroes than I ever imagined I’d see in my bank account. “We’re planning to publish the report soon,” he says, patting me on the back. I call my parents and tell them I’ll visit for Baba’s birthday.
In June, I fly home for a weekend. Baba is thrilled to see me. I buy him a red velvet cake. He’s so happy. The three of us eat the cake together, just out of the box with spoons around the kitchen table. I miss them so much. But I head back to the university on Monday.
In August, the Hellentech report is published in Biosonics Quarterly. It’s the most prestigious journal it could have possibly landed in. My name shines in silver lettering. I spend almost a hundred dollars on getting ten copies shipped to my apartment. The cover is matte. It feels so soft under the pads of my thumbs. As I trace the raised letters of my name, it feels like they belong to someone else.
In September, the dean nominates me for a research award. Dr. Marsh tells me a second-year PhD student has never received the award. I tell him I’m honored to be nominated. He takes the lab out for drinks to celebrate. Vincent spills a beer on me and somehow, he ends up in my bed that night. He’s twitchy and rough. But I bite my lip and let him finish. When he drunkenly flops down beside me, spent, he tells me he wishes he were a woman. Maybe he’d get awards then. I stare at the ceiling listening to him snore.
In November, Vincent starts dating a pharmacist. I haven’t harbored too many hopes since the night we hooked up, but it might have been nice to settle down with someone. I spend the next weekend in the lab.
In December, Dr. Marsh tells me I’ve won the university research award. I attend a fancy gala, wearing a dress from TJ Maxx. The dean gives me a trophy. The undergraduates from the Women in STEM club interview me. The young women look at me the way I used to look at…well, I’m not sure. I’ve never looked at anyone that way.
In January, I get a weird email. It’s not from an account I recognize. But they say there are inconsistencies in the Hellentech report. I stare at the wall until sleep overcomes me.
In March, Dr. Marsh calls me into his office. His skin has gone purple with anger. He points at a binder on his desk. “Why are there only sixty-two samples in the Hellentech report?” he asks. My face blanches, and I know he can see it. “That’s what I tried to tell you back in–,” I answer, but my voice quivers. He doesn’t even hear me. Perhaps he doesn’t want to. “You ran eighty-nine samples,” he growls, his voice a dead whisper. There’s another printed page on the desk beside the binder. The raw data from our sonicoseptafortameter. Sure enough, the top of the page has the dates from over a year ago. And it says quite clearly that I ran eighty-nine samples. “If you keep in all the samples, the results are completely different, and not statistically significant at all,” he says. I look at the ground. I want to explain, but we both know it doesn’t matter.
In April, an integrity commission is convened by the dean to investigate what happened with the Hellentech report. The conclusion they come to is that I deleted the samples to p-hack the data. And the true results of my work were inconclusive at best. I ask the commission representative if I’m allowed a defense. He sneers at me and calls me a disgrace. I learn that Hellentech used my experiments to build a cephalosilicate mining plant outside of Cleveland. Six workers have died from unexpectedly progressive lung disease. The experiments had nothing to do with lung disease, but Hellentech is threatening to sue the university anyway.
In May, I try to call Vincent, but he’s just gotten engaged to the pharmacist. He ignores all my messages. I call my parents, and they ask me why scary white people have been calling them. Their English isn’t so good. I tell them everything is fine.
In June, I’m dismissed from the PhD program. Hellentech tells me I owe them all the money they’ve spent on my fellowship back with interest. The amount they quote me is eighty-two thousand dollars. I don’t have anything. I tell them I’ll try to figure it out. When I’m packing my bag in the lab, Roberto loudly declares that women have poor judgment. I say nothing. Neither do any of the other guys.
In July, I declare bankruptcy. My landlord tells me I’ll be evicted at the end of the month for failure to pay rent. I text Casey, but she tells me she already has a new roommate. “You didn’t text me even once for two years,” she says. I think about calling my parents again. I decide not to do that. When I’m buying ramen at the gas station down the street, I hear a gasp behind me as I drop my crumpled dollar bills onto the counter. I turn around, deflated. It’s one of the Women in STEM girls who’d interviewed me in December. We stare at each other for a moment. She looks at the packets of ramen in my arms, her lip curling with disgust. “You used to be my hero,” she says. And then she walks away.
Pooja Joshi is a Desi writer from North Carolina. She is currently based in Boston, where she is pursuing an MBA and MPP at the Harvard Business School and Harvard Kennedy School of Government. Previously, she has worked in health tech strategy and management consulting. Her work has been published in numerous outlets and was selected for the Best Microfiction 2024 anthology.
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Posted in Blooms in Dusk and tagged in #fiction, Fiction