The Love Hypothesis (Love Hypothesis #1)(60)

A panel with faculty.

It was just not possible. Graduate students were rarely selected for oral presentations. Most of the time they just made posters with their findings. Talks were for scholars whose careers were already advanced—except that when Olive logged into the conference website and downloaded the program, her name was there. And out of all the speakers’ names, hers was the only one not followed by any letters. No MD. No Ph.D. No MD-Ph.D.

Crap.

She ran out of the lab clutching her laptop to her chest. Greg gave her a dirty look when she almost crashed into him in the hallway, but she ignored him and stormed inside Dr. Aslan’s office out of breath, her knees suddenly made of jelly.

“Can we talk?” She closed the door without waiting for an answer.

Her adviser looked up from behind her desk with an alarmed expression. “Olive, what is—”

“I don’t want to give a talk. I can’t give a talk.” She shook her head, trying to sound reasonable but only managing panic-stricken and frantic. “I can’t.”

Dr. Aslan cocked her head and steepled her hands. The veneer of calm her adviser projected was usually comforting, but now it made Olive want to flip the nearest piece of furniture.

Calm down. Deep breaths. Use your mindfulness and all that stuff Malcolm’s always yapping his mouth about. “Dr. Aslan, my SBD abstract was accepted as a talk. Not as a poster, a talk. Out loud. On a panel. Standing. In front of people.” Olive’s voice had made its way to a shriek. And yet, for reasons beyond understanding, Dr. Aslan’s face split into a grin.

“This is wonderful news!”

Olive blinked. And then blinked again. “It’s . . . not?”

“Nonsense.” Dr. Aslan stood and walked around her desk, running her hand up and down Olive’s arm in what she clearly intended as a congratulatory gesture. “This is fantastic. A talk will give you much more visibility than a poster. You might be able to network for a postdoctoral position. I am so, so happy for you.”

Olive’s jaw dropped. “But . . .”

“But?”

“I cannot give a talk. I can’t talk.”

“You’re talking right now, Olive.”

“Not in front of people.”

“I am people.”

“You’re not many people. Dr. Aslan, I can’t talk in front of a lot of people. Not about science.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Because my throat will dry up and my brain will shut down and I will be so bad that someone from the audience will take out a crossbow and shoot me in the kneecap. “I’m not ready. To speak. In public.”

“Of course you are. You’re a good public speaker.”

“I’m not. I stammer. I blush. I meander. A lot. Especially in front of large crowds, and—”

“Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. “What do I always tell you?”

“Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel pipette’?”

“The other thing.”

She sighed. “?‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.’?”

“More than that, if possible. Since there is absolutely nothing mediocre about you.”

Olive closed her eyes and took enough deep breaths to pull back from the verge of a panic attack. When she opened them, her adviser was smiling encouragingly.

“Dr. Aslan.” Olive grimaced. “I really don’t think I can do this.”

“I know you don’t.” There was some sadness in her expression. “But you can. And we’ll work together until you feel up to the task.” This time, she put both her hands on Olive’s shoulders. Olive was still hugging her laptop to her chest, like she would a life buoy in the open sea, but the touch was oddly comforting. “Don’t worry. We have a couple of weeks to get you ready.”

You say that. You say “we,” but I’ll be the one to speak in front of hundreds of people, and when someone asks a three-minute-long question meant to get me to admit that deep down my work is poorly structured and useless, I’ll be the one to crap her pants. “Right.” Olive had to force her head into an up-and-down motion and take a deep breath. She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you put together a draft? You could practice during the next lab meeting.” Another reassuring smile, and Olive was nodding again, not feeling reassured in the least. “And if you have any questions, I’m always here. Oh, I am so disappointed that I won’t get to see your talk. You must promise to record it for me. It will be just as if I was there.”

Except that you won’t be there, and I’ll be alone, she thought bitterly while closing the door of Dr. Aslan’s office behind her. She slumped against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to quiet the agitated mess of thoughts fluttering inside her head. And then she opened them again when she heard her name in Malcolm’s voice. He was standing in front of her with Anh, studying her with a half-amused, half-worried expression. They were holding Starbucks cups. The smell of caramel and peppermint wafted over, making her stomach churn.

“Hey.”

Anh took a sip of her drink. “Why are you taking a standing nap next to your adviser’s office?”

“I . . .” Olive pushed away from the wall and walked a few steps away from Dr. Aslan’s door, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “My abstract got accepted. The SBD one.”