“The congratulations go to you.” He’s clearing his throat, shifting his eyes downward.
Shit, I think, anticipating what’s coming. This is the worst part about academic publishing, that you’re going to get asked to change your work so much that it won’t even resemble what you’d originally done, that you’d have to sell out your work to get the publication credit. For me, this isn’t such a big deal—I’m not faculty, and it doesn’t really matter to me or my bosses whether I get publications, so I can tell journals to stuff it if I want. I’d be disappointed, but I’d try again with another journal. Dr. Singh, though, is going up for promotion next year, and his case will be a slam dunk if he gets this publication in this particular journal—going somewhere else could take months.“What kind of changes do they want?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.
“Very minor,” he says, and then repeats it with emphasis, as if to convince me.“It’s actually more that—thatI’dwant to make a change.”
“Oh?” I’m confused. Dr. Singh has been happy with every draft of the paper I’ve given him. On the last draft, he’d not made a single change, a fact that had filled me with giddy pride.
“I want to make you primary author on the paper.”
My face goes immediately hot, the same feeling you get when you’ve narrowly missed some kind of disaster, a car wreck or a nasty fall. I’ve never been first author on a publication, and it’s rare for someone in my position to have that kind of professional credit. I say the first thing that comes to mind.“No. No, that’s—that’s really okay.”
Dr. Singh leans forward, tapping his hand on my desk.“Ekaterina,” he says, and now I reallydofeel like his student again—the way he says my name is an admonishment.“You cannot turn this down. Aside from it being short-sighted for you do so, in professional terms, I am actually insisting that the change be made.”
“But I’ve explained,” I say, and I hear that my voice has gone a little high, a little desperate.“I’m not looking for other professional opportunities. I’m very happy to be where I am. This position suits me. This is what I want.” I look away from his skeptical expression.“The first author thing—it doesn’t matter to me. At all.”
“Everything in this paper is your work. All of the data. You’ve written it. Yes, I provided the equipment, and yes, the funding came from my group, but this is your work. It may not matter to you, but it matters to me that I not overstate my contribution.”
The hands that I had clasped in celebration before—I’m wringing them now, and I make a conscious effort to stop, setting them in my lap. I want to seem in control here, but I feel panicky and startled, unprepared for this confrontation.
He seems to recognize my discomfort, and takes a deep breath before continuing.“You know very well, Ekaterina, that your work is more sophisticated than every postdoc we have here. It’s more sophisticated than some of our faculty’s. I know you have your own reasons for staying in this position when you could be doing more, and I certainly benefit from whatever keeps you here. But you were my student, and perhaps you are too comfortable standing behind me, rather than out front, on your own.”
“That’s not it…” I begin, but he holds up a hand to stop me.
“Maybe not. What keeps you from doing more is not my business. But what is my business is how this article sees the light of day. I’m not comfortable being lead author on a paper that I’m not responsible for.”
Someone else might hear this from Dr. Singh and wonder whether there’s some kind of embarrassment about the work, some concern that it’s not good enough to have his name attached to it. But this isn’t it, and I know it—my work is solid, the data precise, the writing strong. I may be doing a job that I’m overqualified for, but that doesn’t mean I underestimate my own talent or capability.
“If you have my permission, though,” I say, quietly, not sure how I want to finish the thought.
“We have a week,” he says, standing from his chair,“to reply to their acceptance letter. You let me know if you accept my terms. If not, I’ll decline their offer to publish the article.”
He gives a nod, almost a slight little bow, one of many gentlemanly relics Dr. Singh has, before leaving my office, his soft steps fading down the hall.
Lunch seems entirely unappetizing at this point, even the small piece of cake I packed as a treat for myself. I hate that Dr. Singh has changed the rules on me, that he tells me now—when the paper is only a step or two away from publication in such a prestigious journal—about stepping down as lead author.
I feel duped, angry.
But as I move through the rest of my workday, setting up scans for two grad students in Harroway’s group, ordering a part for the SEM, running a diagnostic on one of the older scopes we’re trying to keep online, I realize I’m less angry at Dr. Singh than I am at the very idea that he brought up, that I couldbe doing so much more. This is what Ben has said to me almost every time he’s tried to sell me on Beaumont, that I’m wasting my talent, that I have no vision. And this is basically what Alex said to me too—staying in one place, everything easy.
By the time I’m ready to call it a day, I’m doing that thing where you too aggressively pack your bag, too thunderously go up the stairs, too forcefully open the door. I’m fuckingpissed, actually. Who are these men, anyways, to tell me what I should be doing, what my talent is good for, what’s easy? Who are these men to say that I have to live a life where work takes over, where I’m always worried about the next thing? Who are these men who think having vision means making money, makingthings? And who are these fucking men to tell me what’s easy? What’s easy about becoming a part of a community, about reading the local paper every week, making sure you try something new, even if it’s scary and you have to go by yourself? What’s easy about making best friends, about forming relationships that are going to last, when someone has your back and you have theirs? What’s easy about trying to make a home for yourself, when you’ve never had one before?
I don’t notice anything on my walk home, don’t feel the oppressive heat of the early evening, don’t even bother to wipe the sweat that I feel trace down my jaw. I don’t do anything but march toward my house, feeling righteous and defensive and ready to unleash all my anger on the next person who does me wrong.
And lucky for me, there’s Ben sitting on my front stoop, waiting.
* * * *
I’m a nightmare when I’m in this kind of mood, and I know it. I’m alternatively quiet and remote, making everyone around me feel responsible for some unspoken error, or I’m quick to lash out, touchy and argumentative. But as soon as I draw close to Ben, as soon as I see the way his big, rangy body takes up space, the way his hands are loosely clasped between his spread knees, the evening stubble on his jaw—some of the fight goes out of me, so I stop in front of him, managing a grudging,“Hi.” Even if the things Ben has said to me over the past few weeks are part of why I’m mad, I know it has nothing to do with what happened today with Dr. Singh.
“Hi,” he says back, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looks—I don’t know. Relieved, I guess. Relieved to see me.“Couldn’t get a hold of you today, and I had some news, so I thought I’d come by.”
I dig into my bag, pulling out my phone. Shit, hedidcall twice. I just forgot to turn on my ringer after my meeting with Harroway. Now I have exactly zero things to be annoyed with him about, which is really ruining my righteous indignation mojo.
“How’s your dad?” I ask.
“He’s all right. He had PT this morning, and they loosened him up a bit. He’s feeling good.”
“Good.”
