Do I want to be seen as a congenial, affable colleague? Yes, and thanks to a lifetime of APE, I know the exact combination to achieve that: charming self-deprecation, modesty, humorous tangents, admitting to doubt and fallibility. It’s not rocket science (incidentally, a branch of experimental physics I’m obliged to scoff at). Using jokes and simple examples to be a charismatic, engaging speaker is a pretty textbook way to come across as a likable guy.

Guy being the operative word. Because when you’re a woman talking about your research, there are anywhere between one and a million STEMlords ready to exploit every little weakness—every little sign that you’re not a lean, mean science machine. The you people want is sharp, impeccable, perfect enough to justify your intrusion in a field that for centuries has been “rightfully” male. But not too perfect, because apparently only “stone-cold bitches” are like that, and they do not make for congenial, affable colleagues. STEM culture has been a boys’ club for so long, I often feel like I can be allowed to play only if I follow the rules men made. And those rules? They downright suck.

Like I said, a tightrope. With a bunch of crocodiles throwing their maws open in wait for fresh meat.

Well. Here goes. I make my smile a combination of warm and self-assured that doesn’t exist in nature, and say, “Since this class deals with current topics in physics, I’ve prepared a lecture on Wigner crystals, a highly discussed—”

A groan.

Did someone groan?

I look around, puzzled. Students stare at me expectantly.

I imagined it.

“Wigner crystallization occurs when electron gases that live in a periodic lattice—”

“Excuse me?” Cole. Of the green hair. “Dr. Hannaway, are you going to talk about the topic of Wigner crystals from a theoretical perspective?”

“Great question. Mostly theory, but I’ll give an overview of the experimental evidence, too.” Next slide—and perfect segue. “Once we achieved the ability to create large inter-electronic distances, Wigner crystallization—”

“Excuse me.” Cole. Again. “A question.”

I smile patiently. I’m used to this. The last time I presented at a conference, some dude well, actually’d me before I even pulled up my PowerPoint. “Of course, go ahead.”

“My question is . . . what’s the point of this?”

Several people laugh. I sigh internally. “Excuse me?”

“Isn’t it a bit useless, talking about theories for hours?” He talks slowly but earnestly. Like he’s Steve Jobs unveiling a new phone. “Shouldn’t we focus on the actual applications?”

I open my mouth to ask who hurt him—Did Michio Kaku bully you, Cole? Did Feynman steal your lunch money?—but my eyes fall on Volkov. He’s giving me an interested look, like he’s curious to see how I’ll deal with this shitgibbon. Next to him, Monica’s lips are flat and resigned. And behind her . . .

Jack.

Who never bothered to sit. He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest in a casual Yeah, I work out way, staring at me like a brown recluse spider on steroids. His sharp, unyielding eyes miss nothing, but whatever emotion I managed to squeeze from him last night is gone, and I’m back to having no clue what he’s thinking. He’s like a closed book.

No, he’s like a book on fire. Fahrenheit 451—no words to read, just ashes and the abyss.

Everything clicks together. I fill in the blanks of my interrupted conversation with Monica: it’s Jack who teaches this class. Jack, who has lots of opinions about theorists. Jack, who indoctrinated his students into believing that people like me are the enemy. Jack, whose sexual fantasies likely involve me failing to defend my discipline to two dozen hostile dudes. I bet he gets off to recordings of me mispronouncing syzygy at the eleventh-grade science fair.

This is a setup. The teaching demonstration was always going to be my Titanic—the ship, not the high-grossing motion picture.

Except that, no.

I hold Jack’s eyes and give him my sweetest, most feral smile. You underestimated me, it says, and he knows it. Because he half smiles back and nods minutely—devious, ready, coiled. Have I, Elsie?

It’s on.

“You make a really good point, Cole.” I set down my clicker and wander from behind the podium. “Theoretical physics can be a waste of time.” I take off my suit jacket, even though it’s cold. I glance down at my abdomen to make sure the bump of my pod is not visible. I’m basically one of you. Two, three years older? Look, I’m sitting on the table. Let’s be friends. “Who would agree? Show of hands.” It takes a few seconds of exchanged Is this a trap? looks, but 80 percent of the hands are up in no time.

That’s when I raise my own, too.

They laugh. “Aren’t you a theorist, Dr. Hannaway?” someone asks.

“Yes, but I get it. And please, call me Elsie.” I’m not like a regular theorist. I’m a cool theorist. Yikes. Erwin Schrödinger, avert your eyes. “It is unfair that most of the physicists who win Nobel Prizes or become household names are theorists. Newton. Einstein. Feynman. Kaku. Sheldon Cooper got the seven-season spin-off show, but Leonard? Nothing.” People chuckle—including Volkov. Jack’s slim smile doesn’t waver. “The advantage of theory is that we trade in ideas, and ideas are cheap and fast. Experimental physicists need expensive equipment to troubleshoot every step, but theorists can just sit there and write”—I add a calculated shrug—“science fan fiction.” It’s an actual insult I got when I went to a Harvard social as Cece’s plus-one. From a philosophy grad who, after three beers, decided to mansplain to the entire bar why my publications didn’t really count.

The things I do for free food.

“Theorists hide behind fancy math,” Cole says. Sweet summer STEMlord. I promise you’re not as edgy as you think.

“What I don’t get is . . . what’s the point of building abstract theories that are not even bound by the laws of nature?” says the guy next to Cole. He’s wearing a long-sleeved tee that reads “Physics and Chill” in the Shrek font. I kinda love it.

“Experiments are way more useful.” Another dude. In the first row.

“You only care about what might be, but not what actually is.” Dude, of course. This time from the third row. “The possible applications are always an afterthought.”

Many students nod. So do I, because I can read them like a large-print edition. I know the exact Elsie they want.

Time to bring this home.

“What you guys are saying is that theoretical physics doesn’t always end in a product. And to that, all I can say is . . . I agree. Physics is like sex: it may yield practical results, but often that’s not why we do it.” At least that’s what Feynman once said. He’s also on record as calling women worthless bitches, but we’ll let it slide since his quote made you laugh. “How many of you are experimentalists?” Almost all hands shoot up, and Cole’s the highest. I’m depressingly unsurprised. “The truth is, you guys are right. Theorists do focus on mathematical models and abstract concepts. But they do it hoping that experimentalists like you will come across our theories and decide to prove us right.” Ugh. I want a shower and a bar of industrial-strength soap. “And that’s why I want to talk with you guys about my theories on Wigner crystallization. So that I can hear your opinions and improve through your feedback. I don’t know when theorists and experimentalists became rivals, but physics is not about competition—it’s about collaboration. You’re free to make up your mind, and I’m not going to try and convince you that you need my theories. I will acknowledge, however, that I need your experiments.” Am I laying it on too thick? Nope. Well, yes. But the grads love it. They nod. They murmur. A couple of them grin smugly.