Mother was different. Aloof, quiet, and withdrawn. If Papà was warmth and sunshine, Mother was the cold chill of Princeton winters.
My love for him and our shared love for chemistry pushed her out. Having been second to his passion originally, when I came along, equally dazzled by it, there was no place left for her.
“Isabella?”
I shake away the memories from yesteryear.
“I’m ready, I think.”
A nervous laugh bubbles up from my chest as my gaze sweeps around the stark classroom I’ve barely begun to personalize. “It’s a big step, teaching the highest level of chemistry they offer. A far cry from community college.”
“That’s perfectly normal, Isabella. I felt the same way on my first day at Princeton. Every great venture begins with a bit of nerves. They keep you sharp.”
“I just want to make a good impression, Papà. Follow in your footsteps. Be the amazing Professor you were.”
“You will, Isabella. All those afternoons spent in my lab. You were always so curious. Asking a thousand questions, never satisfied until you understood every detail. You have the same passion for chemistry I had, maybe even more.”
He was always the encouraging parent, always asking me what I see and what I think, and challenging me to formulate my theories apart from those learned in his textbooks.
“Let’s hope. I’ve prepared my lecture on synthesizing complex organic molecules. Groundbreaking research could change how we develop pharmaceuticals. But I worry about connecting with the students, getting them as excited about chemistry as I am.”
There have been tremendous breakthroughs in the field during my father’s lifetime. I assume there will be equal, if not more, in my lifetime. Something I eagerly study and look to deliver to my students, beyond the politicization of Big Pharma and the controversy of artificial intelligence taking over scientific research.
“Passion is contagious, cara,” he reassures me before clearing his throat loudly. His emphysema acts up with the changing of the seasons. “Show them your love for chemistry. Involve and challenge them. They will see your enthusiasm and knowledge, and they will respond.”
“I’ll do my best. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if I can do this. If I’m ready to lead my lab and inspire these young minds as you did.”
“Ah, doubt and reservations are the companions of every great scientist. It pushes us to prove ourselves and to break new ground. You are more than ready. Whether you knew it or not, you’ve been preparing for this all your life. Look at your school prior. That success begets this success until one day, a colleague from an Ivy League school drops into the lab, and the rest will be history. I’m convinced of it.”
The conviction in his career path for me is like a comforting embrace.
“I needed to hear that today. Needed the pep talk.”
“It’s. . . how you say . . . old-fashioned, but let the science guide you. Chemistry is not just about molecules and reactions. It’s about discovery and exploring the unknown. Share that wonder with them. And Isabella?” he adds with a note of seriousness.
“Yes?”
“Hope your first day goes off without a reaction, but if it does, may it be exothermic.”
I laugh at his silly chemistry joke.
“Thanks, Papà. I love you.”
“Ti amo, Isabella.”
Ending the call, I glance at the clock mounted at the front of the classroom, counting down the time before my first class starts. When the doors swing open, I stand, going to the podium to organize my notes for the zillionth time and greet the students as they file in.
My sweaty hands curl around the edges of the papers, drawing needed confidence from the preparation I put into them and the numerous rounds of practiced lectures I did at home. I’m well prepared. As the clock hits the top of the hour and a few stragglers file in, I take a deep breath and begin.
“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Advanced Organic Chemistry. I’m Professor Rossi, and I look forward to teaching the fascinating intricacies of molecules and the reactions that define our world this semester.”
Twenty minutes into outlining the syllabus, I’m discussing the expectations for the semester. Punctuality, participation, and respect for the learning environment when the classroom door swings open with careless ease. The sudden interruption pulls every eye in the direction of the newcomer.
He saunters in with a swagger that seems almost calculated to maximize disruption. As the whispers start, I feel a tight knot of annoyance form in my stomach, and my carefully constructed atmosphere of focused attention frays around the edges.
He’s tall, dark, and obviously handsome by the shared looks among the young women in the front row, already drooling over him. There’s a nonchalant grace in his demeanor that doesn’t quite mask the audacity of arriving so late. His dark hair is tousled as if he’s come straight from his bed to my class without a care about the time. As he scans the room for an empty seat, our eyes meet. There’s a flicker of amusement in his. He doesn’t seem perturbed by the situation at all.
“Mr . . . ?”
