Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

When I was eight years old, I decided my goal in life was to become a mad scientist. Not just any scientist but a mad one. My grandmother had a delightful collection of classic movies on VHS, and I remember playing the tapes of both the classic Boris Karloff Frankenstein and Mel Brooks Young Frankenstein over and over again until the tape ran thin. It didn't matter that one was horror and one was a comedy, both made me realize that becoming Dr. Frankenstein was a worthy goal for myself. I wanted to create life—I wanted to revel in it, in the magic of scientific creation that pushed the boundaries and bordered on insanity. I wanted to become so singularly obsessed with something that nothing else around me mattered. I wanted to leave my mark on the world, no matter what it took, even if it took my own mind.

My grandmother did what she could to encourage this obsession at a young age. Perhaps not my secret desires to succumb to madness, but at least the science part. We lived on a very modest budget comprised of her meager retirement savings and my father's job as a fisherman (okay, so we were poor ). He was never home, so she was in charge of me most of the time. She'd often tell me that she wanted to be a botanist when she was younger but that her parents insisted her purpose was to be a housewife, so I became the girl who did what she never could.

She bought me cheap "scientific" kits from the dollar store, ones that were good for collecting and observing bugs or flowers. Sometimes she'd make them herself, and I'd sit around the beige linoleum table of our mobile home watching her hands, gnarled like the cedar roots outside the home, fasten a magnifying glass onto the end of pliers, telling me it was how scientists did their in-field extractions. Then I'd run out into the woods behind the trailer park in Crescent City and wouldn't come back until the sky was the color of bruised fruit and my bare legs were scratched pink by blackberry bushes and slicked with mud.

I'd like to say my findings were boring and benign, but they weren't. Oh, I wasn't pulling the legs off butterflies or frying ants under the microscope accompanied by a villainous laugh, just for the hell of it. My efforts were methodical and calculated. I sliced up the fungi that grew along rotted tree stumps, burning their edges with a match to see if they contracted or showed any signs of pain (they didn't, obviously, but I was curious). When my grandmother needed to defend her garden, I did the job of sprinkling salt on slugs, but really just to see how they would die. I didn't go into trying to torture things; everything was entirely in the name of curiosity and science.

And the pure fucking boredom of poverty.

But I also knew better than to tell my grandmother this when she asked me how my science experiments were going. As much as I coveted the term "mad scientist," I knew that telling her what I actually did would get me into trouble. Sure, a little boy can be excused for callous cruelty, but a girl doing the same thing, even in the name of research, would get me into deeper trouble.

See, boys are allowed to be mad scientists. But when women do it? We're simply labeled crazy. And even at eight years old, I knew there was a difference.

Which is probably why the idea of mandatory psych sessions grates on me, because of how many times I've been told I need to "go see a shrink." Not because I'm a woman, per se (though I've noticed they never tell the men to get their head checked), but because I dealt with undiagnosed ADHD for so long. I hated how short my temper was, how the slightest criticism or rejection would feel like the world was ending, how some days, especially around my period, the smallest thing would set me off in a downward spiral. I'd been labeled "mad" and "crazy" and "fucking psycho" by more than a few ex-boyfriends (and one ex-girlfriend, who should have known better) just because I lacked emotional regulation.

When I was finally diagnosed, it was like a switch went off in my head. An explanation as to why I am the way I am. But even though more and more people are getting diagnosed as neurodiverse in some capacity, the stigma hasn't gone away. Many neurotypicals think most of us are faking it; they don't understand how we're not actually lazy but that there are brick walls that slide down, preventing us from doing things, even things we want to do. When they tell us not to worry about something or not to take something personally, they don't realize we often can't . And in the end, they shun us and side-eye us and make pithy comments about how "mentally unstable" we are, especially if we happen to present as feminine.

I don't want Everly to think I'm mentally unstable. I don't want Professor/Dr. Kincaid to think that either. And yet, if they find out the truth, that's exactly what they're going to think. If I'm below Stanford's moral standards, I sure as hell won't measure up here.

Thankfully, at no point has David appeared, demanding I be sent back on the next seaplane. Everly continued the tour, leading me to a short cliff overlooking the inlet with a cedar-shingled gazebo at the end, a place to hide from the rain and hunker down at the picnic table that had been scratched with hundreds of initials and doodles, and Madrona Beach, a strand of light sand so aptly named because of the lone madrona tree growing near the edge.

"We call them arbutus trees here," Everly said as she ran her hands over the papery and peeling red bark. "But my father thought the American name, madrona, had a better ring to it. The foundation was called the Johnstone Institute before he bought up the fishing lodge, and this tree sparked the change. Normally these trees aren't found this far north on Vancouver Island—they are concentrated more around Victoria and the Gulf Islands, where it's drier—but my father said there was something special about this tree, therefore something special about this place. And he was right."

One thing I've done on the tour is manage to keep a million questions to myself. I want to ask her about their fungus, the one that's only found here, the component that really makes this place special. The foundation is so secretive about it that I don't even know what the fungus looks like. I might have already walked past it and not known (I doubt it, though I did spot some rainbow chanterelle under a Sitka spruce).

After Everly takes me past the Panabode cabins, built for temporary researchers, and the north dorm, where the administrative offices are and miscellaneous visitors stay, we stop outside two buildings with a path connecting them.

"And here we are at the end of our tour and the two most important places," she says. She nods to the building on the left. "That's the lab. You'll find yourself in there once a week when Dr. Janet Wu is teaching. She's our genomics lab manager."

"Only once a week?" I ask. "I thought I would be spending day and night in there."

Everly studies me for a moment. "For most students, the introduction to the lab is gradual," she says carefully. "We have a lot of real work going on in there around the clock and our own way of doing things. I know you have plenty of lab experience, especially with eDNA and your project with Archaeorhizomycetes , which were fantastic findings, by the way. I can't wait to discuss that in detail with you. But even so, we do things differently at the lodge. I have no doubt by the end of summer, you'll be in there as often as I am."

Though she punctuates her speech with a bright smile, I can't help but feel a little disappointed. I needed this internship to lift me to the next level. The idea of working in the actual lab with this foundation, making a real difference, rubbing elbows with the technicians and doctors who were certified geniuses, would have meant I made it. It wasn't enough for me to just earn my degree; I wanted to become something more than just another grad student.

This place was supposed to make me into something more .

And now that it looks like I won't end up with a degree anytime soon, I need this more than ever.

"So then, what will I be doing here?" I ask, trying to hide the petulance from my voice. My Adderall is working overtime to keep my emotions in check.

"Plenty, don't you worry," she says, pointing at the other building. "That's the learning center. You'll have your morning class in there with Professor Kincaid or Professor Tilden. Your afternoons will be spent out on foraging expeditions."

"Foraging expeditions? To find more of your fungi?"

"Well, yes, that's part of it," she says reproachfully, and I realize I'm being too brash. "We have tried to grow the specimen in the propagation lab, but it doesn't seem to thrive. But you're not glorified mushroom foragers, if that's what you're worried about. You're searching for the next big thing, whatever that might be. The Brooks Peninsula is just at our doorstep, a piece of land as wild and untamed and unexplored as anything on this earth. The peaks there are untouched by the last ice age, with flora and fauna and fungi that don't exist anywhere else and have yet to be discovered."

"Is that how you discovered your fungus?"

" Amanita excandesco ," she says.

It takes me a moment. "Is that the official name?"

She nods, and I do a quick Latin translation in my head. " Excandesco . So it glows? Is it luminescent?"

Her smile is coy now. "You will find out in time. How about we introduce you to the rest of the students." She puts a light hand on my shoulder and gestures to the door of the learning center.

I dig my heels in. The last thing I want is to be introduced to the rest of the students like it's the first fucking day of kindergarten. I was already a late arrival to begin with; surely they're done with class by now.

"It's alright, Sydney," Everly says. She presses a little harder in an effort to move me forward. "They're just your fellow grad students. They don't bite. Although there is one bad apple every season, isn't there?"

Just as long as it's not me , I think. I take in a deep breath. My social anxiety may be at an all-time high, my palms clammy, my heart thudding in my throat, but I can't let that hold me back in front of her. I just have to suck in the embarrassment.

She guides me to the door and opens it for me, ushering me inside.

The room is far more casual than I thought it would be. I was expecting to step into a lecture hall, but this has more of a meditation retreat vibe. There's a desk and a whiteboard, with a man dressed in a red flannel, holding a marker, standing in front of it, longish blond hair tucked behind his ears. I take it he's the professor, but he looks more like a thirty-something surfer. The ultimate guru.

In front of him are the students, some sitting at a couple of long tables, others sitting on giant pillows on the hardwood floor that's been piled high with various rugs. At the back, logs burn and crackle on the hearth, warmth filling the room. I quickly count ten students and notice Amani isn't among them. I guess I'm not the last after all.

"Ah, you must be Sydney," the teacher says to me in a gregarious voice, clapping his hands together. "Better late than never. I'm Professor Tilden, but you can call me Nick."

I raise my hand shyly, giving him an awkward smile.

Kill me now.

"Don't worry," he goes on, "I won't make you stand up here and tell the class three interesting things about yourself."

Thank fuck.

"I'll do it instead," he adds.

Cripes.

My face immediately heats up. "Everyone, this is Sydney Denik," he speaks slowly, saying my name like I'm hard of hearing. "Sydney is from Stanford University. She likes to play the tuba. And her favorite fungus is the ghost mushroom."

I snort, shaking my head.

"What?" he asks. "Not true?"

"I've never played the tuba in my life," I tell him, giving the class a bewildered look. I expect them to laugh, because of course they know he's joking, but they all stare at me with a strange look on their faces, as if they're concerned. They're probably just embarrassed for me.

"Oh, I see I got my wires crossed," Nick says. "Sydney here classified the phylum for a previously unknown dark fungus." He looks at me, brows raised. "Right?"

I nod, giving him a look that says will you please shut the fuck up ?

"Alright, I'll stop torturing you," Nick says with a laugh.

Everly squeezes my arm. "I'm going to go, but it was lovely to show you around. I'll see you later, Syd."

Then she leaves, and suddenly, I feel completely unmoored. I wish Amani was here so there was at least another familiar face.

Luckily, a girl sitting near the end of the table pulls out the empty chair beside her, giving me a welcoming nod.

I scurry over there and sit down beside her.

"Thanks," I say, trying to keep my voice low as Nick starts talking about the generator output of the solar farm. Something about how the power to the lodges gets turned off from time to time to ensure electricity is always flowing to the labs, which is apparently why we have an arsenal of flashlights and candles in our rooms.

"I'm Lauren," the girl says. She's pretty and long-limbed with chin-length blonde hair a couple shades lighter than my own.

"Sydney," I say, even though she already knows that.

"Yes, the tuba player," she says seriously, then grins, her smile wide.

"Yeah," I say slowly. "That was hella embarrassing."

"Oh, don't worry. He made us all do that," she says. "One by one. Like the first day of camp. Which I suppose it is."

"That does make me feel a little better," I admit. Already, Lauren seems easy to be around. "What else did I miss?"

"Just a tour of the grounds," she says. "We then came back here, and he's just explaining how the lodge works in more detail."

"Oh, okay. Everly showed me around," I say.

She gives me an impressed look, and I realize I may have come off as bragging. But Lauren smiles. "Well, if there was a private tour, I would have opted for that one. But I guess you don't know three things about every person in this room now, do you? For instance." She points at a white guy with close-cropped brown hair at the front. "That's Albert. He's obsessed with sea urchins. And see that Japanese guy over there? That's Toshio, and he designed a video game with his friend that got bought out by Microsoft or something. That girl with the long dark hair sitting on the pillow? That's Natasha, and she has three pugs back at home, and she already misses them. And the guy at the end of this table? His name is Munawar, and he said he's only packed shirts with fungi puns on them."

"Hello, I'm Munawar Khatun from Bangladesh," the man says with a wave, leaning forward at the end of the table. "I'm wearing such a shirt today. It says ‘I'm a real fungi.' Get it?"

He points to his shirt.

"Also, Munawar has really good hearing," Lauren whispers, leaning in close.

I can't help but laugh at that before I turn my attention back to the teacher. Nick goes on about how the system here runs, how our garbage is thrown into an incinerator every morning by their handyman, Keith, who must be addressed only as Handyman Keith, and that we'll have weekends to ourselves within designated areas.

"Does this mean we can party on the weekends?" Munawar asks. His voice is solemn, but his eyes are twinkling.

"It means you're free to do what you want within reason," Nick says. "You're all adults here, but this is still private property. We don't want you straying too far, not only because it's dangerous without an official chaperone but because the local tribe borders our land. It's unlawful to step onto their property, and we don't want to be disrespectful, now do we?"

Lauren puts up her hand. "Isn't this all of their property, technically?"

Another point for Lauren.

"We lease the land from the Quatsino Nation," Nick says. "But yes, you're right, Lauren. We reside on their traditional territory."

"I want to know why it's dangerous without an official chaperone," a dude at the table in front of me says, his voice growing deeper as he talks, as if he's trying to be intimidating, while he leans back casually in his chair. "You just said we'll be spending a lot of time out in the bush, foraging and camping."

"Do you have experience with bears? Wolves? The Roosevelt elk that become so territorial they'll spear your guts out?" Nick asks, the first time I've ever seen him look remotely stern.

Lauren's been writing on a piece of paper and passes it to me: That's Clayton. He's a dick. That's all you need to know.

"Sure do," Clayton says, leaning back even further in his chair. "I'm from Montana. I probably killed a dozen bears before you were even born."

I exchange a dry look with Lauren. Dick is right.

Nick frowns. He's at least ten years older than Clayton. "That doesn't even make sense."

"What about drinking?" Clayton goes on. "I didn't see a bar in the mess hall."

Nick sighs. "Once a week, we go by boat to Port Alice for extra provisions. You give us the money, we'll pick up whatever you want. Cigarettes, alcohol, Archie Comics, you name it."

I exhale internally. At least alcohol won't be so easy to come by here.

And at that, class is dismissed. Nick tells us that dinner is at six every day, which is in an hour, and that there will be a few speeches at dinner, so we shouldn't miss out. I wouldn't anyway; my stomach is already growling. I'd only grabbed a bite to eat before my flight. Feels like a lifetime ago.

Everyone gets up and starts chatting with each other, albeit a little awkwardly, which I guess is normal when you have a bunch of science students in forced cohabitation.

But that Clayton dick comes straight for me.

"So you're Sydney," he says. He reminds me of my jock boyfriend I had in high school, who also had curly brown hair and a permanently smug smile (and was also an asshole), though he wouldn't have been caught dead studying anything remotely scientific (or really anything at all…why did I go out with him again?).

"That I am," I say, conscious of how the rest of the students are watching us, as if they expect a fight to break out.

"You think you're special, huh?" he says.

"Clayton," a short Asian guy warns as he puts his hand on his shoulder. "Don't."

I shake my head, so confused. "I never said I was special."

Clayton squints at me. "Nah. You're right. I can see you're not."

Then he turns and walks away, the Asian guy following him as they exit the building.

"He is not a fungi," Munawar says, using air quotes around "fun-guy."

I glance at Lauren. "What was that about?"

She rolls her eyes. "Who cares? Don't pay him any attention."

Guess we found the bad apple , I think. I wonder if Everly knew about Clayton ahead of time. I'd hoped they only accepted students who aren't bad news.

Then again, I'm here.

Now that the altercation is over, the rest of us leave the building. The drama has made me feel like I've been sucked back into high school, which is annoying because we're all probably in our twenties. I guess that's bound to happen when you're stuck with your cohorts in forced proximity. I just hope it gets better over time, not worse.

Just as I was the last to arrive, I'm the last to leave the learning center. I follow behind Lauren as she exits, lagging a little to peer at a painting of a red-and-white Amanita on the wall, wondering if it's, in fact, their Amanita excandesco.

The door almost closes on me, but I push it open with my forearm before it does, stepping outside just as someone on the other side tries to pull the door open.

I run right into my future psychologist.