“Are you done?” His eyes find mine—brown, unreadable—and his mouth presses into a line.
A mortifying lump forms in my throat. I nod.
He pivots toward the lab and is gone in three deliberate strides. The door hushes shut, and I stare at the space he vacated, then at my shoes, then at the nearest exit as though it might offer a tutorial on how fast one can transfer departments without looking obvious.
Maya halts whatever she was typing as I shove the door open. I groan and face-plant onto my bed, dropping my bag with all the flair of someone who should not be allowed to interact with fellow academics—especially if they’re hot. And tall. And clearly uninterested in anything I have to say.
“What has you in an existential crisis?”
“The fact that my brain has only two modes and doesn’t know when to use either.”
“Explain, please.”
“It’s either ‘I’m a brilliant, unstoppable academic,’ or ‘I have forgotten every piece of scientific knowledge I’ve ever absorbed, including my own name.’”
“And I assume today you forgot how to pronounce Coralie?” she says, smirking.
“Close.” I groan into my pillow and recount the full extent of the humiliation that was BIOL 403. She nods while scrolling on her phone which, I learn a minute later, was to add “The Sporting Life” by The Decemberists to my playlist.
“Hilarious,” I deadpan.
She giggles, flops back beside me, and turns her head. “Listen, it’s not that bad. I’ve heard of Holden Wilkes and the guy is a freak of nature. I think he published his first paper before he could drive.”
I hardly think that’s true… is it?
“So if anything, he’s the weird one here,” she continues. “He probably has no social skills and made you feel bad for it. And he didn’t know it’s octopuses, so maybe youaresmarter than him.”
“Allow me to doubt that.”
“Hey, now. Don’t let one dickhead make you question why you’re here. Least of all Wilkes.”
I answer with a groan into my pillow.
“What’s your plan, then?”
“To avoid all human interaction until further notice.”
“Cool, so business as usual.”
I can’t help a laugh. She lets my increasingly unhinged playlist roll and gives me a too-bright smile that unclenches something in my chest—an efficient reminder that the world does not revolve around one lecture hall, and even less around one PhD student.
And there’s a kind of magic in not knowing how to handle something and wanting to learn anyway. That’s the whole reason I’m here. That, and a deeply unhealthy obsession with mollusks.
CHAPTER THREE
There’s something comforting about octopuses—soft and strange and smarter than they have any right to be. I like things that refuse to make sense at first and then, slowly, unfold their genius.
Genius isn’t hyperbole with them; they feel, they learn from people and places, and they plan around both. Which is why their protocol for newness is my favorite rule of thumb: don’t thrash—test.
Faced with change, one arm slips out like a question—touch, taste, retreat, try again. If the verdict is yes, they drag the new object home and redecorate; if it bristles, they rise dark and tall and issue a precisenot today. They broadcast their moods in real time, skin speaking for them, which is frankly considerate.
If we, as humans, took notes, half our misunderstandings would disappear. But we have to make do with the brains we evolved, and mine works best on routine and clean expectations. We’re nearly a month into the semester, and the rocky reboot has settled into my default settings: show up, log data, out-stare doubt. It feels good to feel the outline of the old Coralie again. To know exactly what I’mhere for. I am—have been—a person intent on decoding cephalopod neuroplasticity.
Most of my classes consist of neuroethology, scientific writing, and a few electives, but I’ve secured a lab bench in the marine science building to refine short-term husbandry for a Day octopus (Octopus cyanea). My thesis proposal isn’t due for a few months; so for now I get the quiet luxury of academia—clear protocols, steady timers, and work that actually moves the needle.
The minor downside of logging this many lab hours is repeated contact with Holden’s more-than-obvious dislike. BIOL 403 is mostly Dr. Kymbert’s show, but he supervises more lab blocks than any other TA, materializing exactly when I don’t need him to.
Our exchanges are brisk and civilized. He answers every question; I, in turn, do Olympic-level contortions to never have one—scouring protocols, cross-checking manuals, basically performing a solo literature review before I risk entering his gravitational field.
