Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
At the risk of sounding dramatic, that article changed my life. I’d won a medley of awards for it and had been invited to speak at Harvard, MIT, Stanford, Cornell, and…Smithton; where Finkwell was dean of the physics department. As you might imagine, it was thrilling to garner the attention of a giant in my field, and Finkwell had made me feel like a rising star with boundless potential.
“The world desperately needs young brilliant minds like yours, Malcolm. People who can explain applied physics to a generation whose natural curiosity has been dulled by social media algorithms. We need you. Smithton needs you.”
Gosh, it had been a persuasive speech. The idea that I, Malcolm Maloney, of Pine Ridge, New York could inspire a new legion of scientists was an honor, a privilege, a feather in my cap. Grad school scholarships and grants from prestigious universities followed, but Finkwell had made an impression. At the end of the day, the full ride to Smithton, located a mere ninety minutes away from home, was the only offer I truly considered.
What wasn’t to love? Smithton was small, elite, well-respected, and utterly charming.
The two-hundred-year-old private college was located on a hill overlooking Lake Ontario. Panoramic vistas of the lake could be enjoyed from the quad and almost every westerly-facing window of the physics department. I’d instantly fallen in love with the ivy-covered brick buildings and small-town feel. It felt like a beautiful safe space in a turbulent world and for the past two years, it had been my oasis.
I shared a spacious apartment with Layla, an interesting and sometimes downright intimidating artist and humanities teaching assistant. Layla had big opinions about everything from the endangered wild bonobos population in Africa to her favorite influencer’s sudden affiliation with a sports drink.
“If she had to sell out, couldn’t she at least have done it with something that actually tasted good? Give me pizza, give me chocolate, give me cheese and a How-to-Build-a-Killer-Charcuterie-Board cookbook written by a haggard-looking rock star from the ’80s any freaking day. But do not sell me craptastic blue sludge while giving eyeliner tips!”
That was Layla. A large woman with short raven hair, colorful tattoos, and strong opinions who had a penchant for Jane Austen, online makeup tutorials, and black jelly beans.
Our roommate situation was supposed to have been a temporary fix until I found a more compatible candidate, but no one in my physics department was as fun, fierce, or loyal as Layla.
Two years later, I was still here and extremely grateful to my steadfast friend for reminding me that life existed outside the hallowed halls of Smithton.
This hockey mishap was partially her fault, though. She was the one who’d suggested this particular sport. Everything about it intimidated me—the speed, aggressive nature, and gigantic athletes. I was stuck with it now. And yes, I’d figure out how to salvage my thesis, but in the meantime, I was ding-dang annoyed. And nervous. Very nervous. What if my best days were already behind me? What if I’d peaked in college and was destined to repeat Newton’s Laws ad nauseam to bored students for the rest of my life? What if—
“I’m gonna body-slam you if you don’t quit pacing, Mal,” Layla singsonged, glancing up from the kitchen table, where she was busy painting her nails.
“I’m in a mood,” I reported, continuing my loop from the kitchen through the living room. “An existential crisis is looming on my horizon. Who am I? What am I doing? I need a plan B and C…something to share with Finkwell before our meeting next week.”
Layla recapped the polish and blew on her red nails. “Take a seat. Let’s brainstorm.”
I flopped onto the chair opposite her and nodded. “Good idea.”
“Change sports. It’s football season too, you know. Our team sucks donkey balls, but…does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters. I’m supposed to document excellence in action, not mediocrity. And while I don’t know squat about either sport, according to my research, hockey’s quick pace is the better fit for the experiment. You said so yourself.”
“I did,” she conceded.
I rubbed my hands together. “Unfortunately, my eggs are all in one basket. I need that big, scary man to cooperate.”
She pursed her lips as if biting back a smile. “Big and scary?”
“He’s huge, Layla. Huge. Muscles out to here.” I flexed my puny biceps and gestured five inches higher. “And his face looks like this.”
I scrunched my nose and furrowed my brow till my head ached.
Layla snickered at my antics, using the heels of her palms to slide her laptop toward her. “Will you open this, please? My nails are still wet.”
I obeyed, unthinking, but frowned when she asked me to type his name. “Why the heck would I do that?”
“Because we’re stalking.”
“We can’t do that again,” I gasped.
“Why not? It worked last time.”
“Yes, but—”