Page 184 - The Love Hypothesis

And yet, for reasons beyond understanding, Dr. Aslan’s face split into a

grin.
“This is wonderful news!”
Olive blinked. And then blinked again. “It’s . . . not?”

“Nonsense.” Dr. Aslan stood and walked around her desk, running her
hand up and down Olive’s arm in what she clearly intended as a

congratulatory gesture. “This is fantastic. A talk will give you much more
visibility than a poster. You might be able to network for a postdoctoral

position. I am so, so happy for you.”
Olive’s jaw dropped. “But . . .”

“But?”
“I cannot give a talk. I can’t talk.”
“You’re talking right now, Olive.”

“Not in front of people.”
“I am people.”

“You’re not many people. Dr. Aslan, I can’t talk in front of a lot of
people. Not about science.”

“Why?”
“Because.” Because my throat will dry up and my brain will shut down

and I will be so bad that someone from the audience will take out a
crossbow and shoot me in the kneecap. “I’m not ready. To speak. In public.”
“Of course you are. You’re a good public speaker.”

“I’m not. I stammer. I blush. I meander. A lot. Especially in front of
large crowds, and—”

“Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. “What do I always
tell you?”

“Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel pipette’?”
“The other thing.”

She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white
man.’ ”
“More than that, if possible. Since there is absolutely nothing mediocre

about you.”