Chapter Two

 

 

 

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 out 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?