“Oh.” I suddenly felt very small. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do. And it’s what I was trying to tell you, so you could have waited before jumping down my throat.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry. But—if they knew Gibson was wrong, wouldn’t they want to acknowledge it? It’d be the right thing to do.”
Ethan scoffed. “Because adults have such a great record of doing the right thing. Like cleaning up the environment. And the ocean. And space.”
My stomach sank. Given the choice between the right thing and the easy thing, society had made it very clear what it’d choose. But—“I shouldn’t have to choose between my dad getting a grant and a woman getting credit for her discovery. That’s ridiculous.”
“No,” Ethan said, softening. “We need more proof. Proof they can’t dismiss out of hand.”
“Okay.” I felt a little reassured. “Makes sense. But—Ethan, at some point, we have to tell people. Even if we don’t have proof. We have to at least say what we know.”
“Agreed,” Ethan said. “But maybe we wait until after the conference? I have papers the foundation let me read for my research. We can look though those, see what we turn up. And obviously tell your dad if you want, I just meant you shouldn’t charge up to the Gibson Foundation and accuse them of fraud.”
“Yeah.” I thought about it. “Maybe I won’t even tell Dad until we have a few more facts. I don’t want him to feel like…” I smiled wryly. “I don’t know, like I’m making mountains out of molehills. Like I’m being messy.”
Ethan nodded. Then he closed his laptop, put it aside, andturned to me. “You can trust me, you know. I’m not going to defend a guy who stole work from another scientist.”
“I know.” I bowed my head and stared at my feet.
“And—I know you’re nervous about the two of us. Being together. But I’m on your side. Always.”
I nodded, feeling sick. Why had I yelled at him? Had I ruined things between us immediately? “I’m sorry. I’m bad at this. I guess—I should go now. Give you some space.”
“Jordan.” His voice was gentle. “Do you want to stay?”
I looked back at him.
“It’s your call. But you can. If you want.”
I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “Yeah,” I said. “That sounds nice.”
Twenty-One
The Gibson Foundation held their conference at a seaside hotel. The weather was exceptional—mideighties but not too humid, giant puffy clouds in the sky. Ethan and my dad’s talk would be at four, two hours before the dinner and keynote speech by the foundation’s chairman, Mr. Charles Gibson. It would be a full day of talks devoted to the sciences. Nantucket’s status as a summer destination made the foundation lean into Frederick Gibson’s tenuous connection with the island, and people from all over had come.
I’d asked my dad about the grant the day before, when we were watching TV in his tiny apartment over dumplings. “Is this grant important? The one from the Gibson Foundation.”
“It would certainly help.”
“What do you think about the foundation itself?”
He smiled wryly, paused, then said, “They’re very generous with their grants.”
Sounded a lot likeIf you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. “What about the chairman? Do you know him? He’s the one looking at your grant?”
“There’s a whole committee,” Dad said. “But yes, he has final say. He…Well, he’s very proud of his foundation. It’s very well-respected. And I think for some people, it’s fun, to get to make a big speech and give out awards.”
I narrowed my eyes. Dad was being very circumspect. “Do you hate him? Is he the worst?”
Dad laughed. “No. No, he’s fine. I think he’s perhaps—less interested in knowledge for knowledge’s sake, and more interested in the foundation for prestige. Which is—differently than I think.”
Cool. So we hated him.
But it also sounded like Dad wanted this grant, and like Mr. Charles Gibson might not be an altruistic science dude who would immediately be on my side if I brought up Andrea Darrel. If I wanted to be a good daughter—if I wanted Dad to be able to focus on writing instead of taking tutoring gigs and teaching summer school—I shouldn’t make it difficult for Dad to get this grant. Maybe I let this go. It was a hundred years ago, and Andrea and Frederick were both dead. Was bringing this up worth ticking off Charles Gibson and ruining Dad’s chance at this grant or future ones? Was righting a wrong in the past worth taking away something real and tangible in the present?
But thinking about letting go of this made the walls of my stomach squeeze toward my midline. It made a difference to everyone ever who hadn’t received the credit they deserved. It wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have to choose.
