A Work in Progress

“Nine, eight, five, three, three…”

He reads the numbers, and my face burns. I stand at the edge of the hallway, somewhere by the swinging doors, and posters advocating Girls in Science. A group of teenage boys loiter by the pinboard.

The first tests results are out. The scores printed next to the ID numbers. And there’s unrest amongst the troops.

“Is it you, Troy?”

“James?”

“No, he didn’t finish.”

“Cody? Surely, it’s not you?”

The boys mill by the pinboard, accusations flying, suspicions looming, ID cards waving, intent on deciphering the owner of the top score.

I lean against the wall. Invisible. Dismissed.

Introductory physics at university. I heft my bag onto my shoulder and push through the swinging doors. It’s quite the introduction to patriarchy.

I need an algorithm to cope.

#

I swing open the door to the toilet and sit. The final course results will be posted today. An entire semester at university.

Survived. Endured.

I reach for the toilet paper and smile. The triangular piece I left folded yesterday is gone. Someone has used this stall. Someone like me.

A woman.

I pull off the square of toilet paper and tuck it into my pocket, a reminder I am not alone.

I step into the corridor, and the boys are by the pinboard. The scores are out.

“Nine, eight, five, three, three…”

I lean against the wall and smile.

“James?”

“Show me your card, Ben. It has to be you.”

“What about Troy?”

“No, it’s not him. I checked last time.”

The boys scramble, a thronging mass of egos, desperate to know who has bested them.

I push off the wall, and my shoes squeak on the lino. Acne ridden faces turn. Silence falls.

The boys shoot glances at each other, unsure of how to interact with me, even after a semester together. Several of the leaders shuffle closer, and I turn for the door.

“It’s you?” The boldest one asks, his voice a mix of disbelief and self-righteous horror. Beaten by a girl. At Physics. Imagine.

I pause. And shrug.

The boys erupt. Leaping and hollering, talking all at once. Some are thrilled to have found the owner of the ID number.

But some are not.

The boldest one steps forward. “You’ve been getting the top score?” he asks. “You?”

I nod.

“Bloody hell. Who did you sleep with to get that?”

My face burns. No one asked that of Troy when he got the top score in the mid-terms.

I think of the hours I’ve spent in the library, alone with my dogeared table of integrals, scribbling endless proofs, solving equations, finding eigenvectors, calculating eigenvalues. Again. And again. And again.

I want to make a comment about what he can do with his genitalia to further his education. But I don’t.

I touch the folded square of toilet paper in my pocket. I know the first step of the algorithm.

#

“Lena, a word, please.”

Professor Archibald stands at the front of the lecture theatre, his bald head glinting in the artificial light and his bow tie at odds with his socks and roman sandals.

He smiles. He’s harmless.

I walk down the stairs, my boots clomping on the wooden floor and the boys pushing past as they head for the door.

The professor waits until they’re gone before he speaks. “Lena, I have an opportunity I’d like you to consider.”

I wipe my palms on my jeans and nod.

“What are you doing next year?” he asks.

“I’m going to tcol,” I say.

My face feels hot. So far, I’ve managed to avoid this conversation. Largely because no one has asked.

He stares at me, silent, his eyebrows inching closer together.

“Teachers’ training.” I clarify.

His mouth forms a tiny circle and a hiss escapes. Clearly, this is not the answer he’s expecting.

He stutters back into life and coughs. “But, postgrad?”

I shake my head. “No.” 

“Well, if that’s your decision.”

I nod. It is.

“I can’t say I don’t think it’s a great shame, Lena,” he says.

I stifle a smile at the double negative. My classmates hid their emotions behind complicated syntax and inflated vocabulary, too.

“Perhaps you’ll hear me out, anyway.” He pulls a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and mops his brow. “There’s a spot in a research team that would be perfect for you, if you were looking to do your masters.”

My chest tightens, and I run my finger over the tatty square of toilet paper in my pocket.

“What’s the project?” I ask.

“Atom trapping. We’re hoping to make a Bose-Einstein condensate.”

I stare at him. It’s an ambitious project.

“I’d be your supervisor,” he says.

I look at my feet, my face burning. It’s a big compliment. A world away from tcol. He coughs again, and I sense some unpleasant news coming.

“We've split the project into optics and theoretical. You’d be part of the optics team, dealing with the laser.”

His words are so unexpected, I gasp.

He ignores my reaction, or doesn’t notice, and continues. “Obviously, you’d have access to all the data for your thesis.”

I shake my head, finding my voice. “I haven’t done optics since first year.”

He tucks his handkerchief into his pocket. “It’s the nature of funding. We had two places to offer but had to split them this way.”

Two places.

A trickle of sweat runs down my back. “Wouldn’t I be better suited to the theoretical team? The entire focus of my degree is theoretical physics. Quantum mechanics.”

It makes no sense. I’d hardly be able to turn on the laser, let alone add a significant contribution to the research.

“Troy’s accepted a place on the theoretical team with Doctor Austin. We’d really like you on the optics team,” Professor Archibald says.

I stagger backwards, the name assaulting. Troy. On the theoretical team. Troy from my class, who worked hard and was ranked second in our year.

To me.

Why didn’t he get offloaded into optics?

And then it dawns on me. Theoretical has Doctor Austin, the token woman on the team. Obligation fulfilled.

“You need a female on the optics team,” I say, my voice cracking.

Professor Archibald shuffles. The emotional female, a rare creature in the bowels of the physics building.

“We’re offering you a place because your grades are outstanding, Lena.”

“But it's Troy on the theoretical team.”

“Well, yes, having you in optics would balance our numbers, so to speak. In practice, it makes little difference. We’re all part of the same team.”

But I’m not part of the same team, am I?

I’m torn. It’s a great opportunity, and I want to accept. But I also want to be more than a token woman. I take my hand out of my pocket and wipe my forehead. The square of toilet paper falls onto the floor.

I’m doing this for her. For me.

I heft my bag onto my shoulder. “Thank you for the opportunity. But I decline,” I say.

I clomp up the stairs and add another step to the algorithm.

#

“Kia ora, team, books out and sitting down, thanks.”

I stare at my class and try not to sigh with relief when they obey.

My heels click on the lino, ringing with an authority at odds with my churning stomach.

It’s my first day on the job. I hope I survive.

“I’m Miss Waters,” I say, pleased my voice isn’t shaking too audibly. “Your physics teacher this year.”

“What would you know about physics?” A boy in the back row calls out, his lip curling in a smirk.

I fold my arms and look over the sea of faces. They're on the edge of adolescence, about to tumble into adulthood. Mostly boys, but the girls are holding their own.

“What would I know about physics?” I ask.

The class falls silent. Still. The gauntlet thrown. Challenge accepted.

I run through my choices in this moment. Do I prove myself, challenge him to an intellectual duel, whipping out Schrodinger’s time independent equation and painstakingly solving it on the board?

Two girls in the front row sit with their books open and pens poised. No, I’m going to nip this patriarchy in its infancy.

I walk towards the boy in the back, his name is printed on his pencil case. Benny. My heels ring with authority and I lift my chin.

I have endured the solitude of being a woman in a man’s world. And I have developed an algorithm to combat the patriarchy.

It’s a work in progress, I’m still learning, but I apply my algorithm now. I raise my head, look Benny in the eye. And smile.

Warmly.

I’m rising above it. Proving my worth, measuring my intellectual dick, that’s a man’s game. And I’m not playing.

I know my truth. I am worthy.

And so, I’m simply going to shine.

“I know enough, Benny. Now, sit down,” I say. “We’ve both got a lot of learning to do.”