Dr. Harding’s eyes soften, just a fraction.
Dr. Leroi’s cursor blinks by his name as he types notes.
“Do you have any concerns that your… perception of threat… may be heightened due to past experiences in academia?” he asks.
I swallow. Hard.
“Even if my sensitivity were heightened, the pattern of appropriation remains the same,” I say. “I’m bringing you evidence, not interpretation.”
They ask about power.
We talk about recommendation letters, fellowships, the way junior researchers’ careers hinge on the goodwill of people who can quietly eviscerate them behind closed doors.
They ask if I fear retaliation.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
“And yet you proceeded,” Dr. Harding says.
“Yes,” I say again. “Because if I don’t, she will do it to the next person. My silence would make it easier.”
There’s a beat of silence on the call that feels… important.
They ask if I’m open to “informal resolution.” I ask what that actually means, in plain language, and listen carefully when they explain—no admission of wrongdoing, maybe some negotiated “shared authorship,” a quiet sweep.
My stomach turns.
“I’m not interested in a solution that erases the harm,” I say. “I’m interested in accountability.”
Dr. Fenster looks down, a weary, almost-smile crossing her face before she hides it.
We go for another forty minutes.
By the time they say, “Thank you, Dr. Vitale. We’ll be in touch with our findings,” my throat feels raw and my shoulders ache from holding the same position too long.
When the Zoom window finally blips into nothing, the room goes too quiet.
For a heartbeat, I just sit.
My brain replays every answer, searching for flaws.
I should have said that differently. I shouldn’t have sounded so sharp on that last question. Did I sound angry? Did I sound hysterical? Did I sound too sure? Not sure enough?
Four in. Hold. Six out.
My hands are shaking. I close the laptop with more force than necessary and stand. My legs feel like noodles boiled past al dente.
It’s over,I tell myself.
My nervous system respectfully disagrees.
The corridor outside the conference room is dimmer. Cooler.
My shoes make soft thuds on the tile as I walk.
I don’t have a destination in mind. Just away.
Around the corner. Past the soda machine, then out the side door into the breezeway between admin and the main hall where the air is at least honest.
