Dragonfly Girl

by Marti Leimbach

  I arrive downstairs at the expected time feeling wobbly and breathless, as though I’ve just run miles. But I suppose I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be. I make my way through the hotel, head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and step into the Spegelsalen, the Hall of Mirrors. The room, locked except during events such as this, is so richly beautiful, it feels like walking into a fairy tale. Fashioned after the famous Hall of Mirrors in Versailles, its vaulted ceiling is painted richly above a giant chandelier reflected in walls of gilded mirrors. I can’t bear the thought of being the center of attention in such a room. It doesn’t seem right.

  But there is no backing out.

  People are taking their seats already. A buzz runs through the air. I walk up the center aisle amid candles that flicker and reflect all around. I am more than overwhelmed; I am mortified. My lungs feel as though they’ve shrunk inside my chest. I can’t get enough air. And I have to think carefully about each footstep so that I don’t trip. It’s a relief to find Helmi and Carlos in their seats. They smile encouragingly and I give a little flicker of a wave. But then I see something that brings me to a sudden halt.

  There, in front of me, is Will. He stands regally as though the Hall of Mirrors is his very own ballroom and we are all his guests. He isn’t supposed to even be here. The whole point of me giving my talk now was so that he could be out with Elsa. I search wildly for Elsa, hoping she’s nearby and will soon whisk him off to the gala. But Elsa is nowhere to be seen.

  So.

  It’s obvious he has no plans to be at the Royal Palace tonight. The story about Elsa and the gala at the palace was a ruse. I’m not sure exactly what Will is up to, but I’m certain the reason he is standing so prominently in front of me now is so that I will notice him.

  I notice him, all right. And I see his brother in the row just behind Helmi and Carlos. Will is so sure Aiden deserves the prize instead of me. Maybe he does—I don’t know.

  I push myself forward. I tell myself I’ve done many difficult things in the past and this is just one more. But oh, how I pray Will won’t speak to me, at least until after the talk. I continue, walking deliberately. I get almost to the front of the room before I hear his voice. It stops me like a wall.

  “You look as though you’ve been caught in a storm,” he says.

  Drop dead, I want to say. Instead, I smooth my hair, making sure the bubbles of curls are held back, away from my face in a clip. I check my clothes for lint.

  “Have you been caught, Kira?” he says.

  “Pay no attention to him!” Helmi says, and smiles encouragingly.

  “That’s right, pay no attention to me,” Will agrees.

  The talk would have been difficult enough without Will here. Now it seems impossible. I can almost hear my mother’s advice whenever I’d been bullied in school. Walk on by, she’d tell me.

  I walk purposely past him and up a short tower of steps to the stage. I take my place in a chair to the side of the lectern, waiting to be introduced. It’s awkward to sit onstage. I’m suddenly aware of the racks of lights above me, the screen to my right, the entire room spread out in front of me. But at least Will can’t bother me here.

  The lights grow dim in the back and the stage lights beam brighter, shining hard onto the top of Dr. Biruk’s head as he approaches the podium. He seems uneasy as he introduces me. Unlike all the previous winners, who have worked in illustrious laboratories and published numerous papers, there is little to say about me. In fact, nothing at all. He squints at his notes as though he’s missing something before finally giving up and calling my name.

  I’m no good at public speaking. It’s always the same. The teacher calls on me for an answer, one that I know, and I suddenly feel as though my mind has been scrambled. It’s even worse now, standing in front of the audience, hearing their polite applause. Plus, Will is glaring at me, making me feel fraudulent and wrong. But I am going to give this talk. There’s no question about that. It’s part of the requirements for prizewinners.

  So I begin the only way I know: by reeling off a list of facts.

  I say, “Dolphins have a corpus callosum just like we do, so both sides of their brains are connected. But they sleep with one half of their brains at a time, while the other continues as normal.”

  On the screen, I click into place a slide of a coastal bottlenose, the type of dolphin you can see from the beach. “Maybe you already know unihemispheric sleeping isn’t unusual in dolphins or in migrating birds?” There is an awkward pause, and I realize all at once that you can’t ask a question to an audience of over a hundred and expect an answer. “Sorry,” I say, and quickly switch to another image. Where there had been the dolphin is now a close-up of a duck with a glossy green head. “This is a duck,” I say, but I can’t for the life of me remember what else I am meant to say about the duck. That it’s a mallard? I hear an awkward laugh from the back of the room, then stony silence. I move on quickly.

  The next image is of a subarctic darner, a type of dragonfly with a colorful, patterned abdomen and a broad net of wings.

  “Dragonflies hunt prey like mammals do, even though they have no central nervous system. In other words, they can’t actually think. They measure rotation while tracking their prey’s angular displacement, using that information to determine not where their prey is, but where it’s going.”

  There, that sounded almost like a scientist. But I squint out at the audience and see that I haven’t had the effect I’d hoped for. The judges and committee are watching dutifully while others have sunk into their seats or are stealing glimpses at their phones. I’m not telling them anything new or even interesting. It’s the same problem I have in school—call it awkwardness or stage fright or whatever. It always ends in shambles.

  I press the button on my remote several times until at last I come to an image of numbers and equations.

  “I made this mathematical model to explain the steering maneuvers of dragonflies in response to visual cues of their prey. On the left are the numbers that would be required if experts in the field were correct in their current theory about how dragonflies track prey. On the right is what actually happens. At least, I think so. On the face of it, this looks like a whole lot of numbers, but let me take you through it and show you how, if we follow the column on the right, we understand how dragonflies hunt so successfully—”

  I swallow hard, hoping that doesn’t sound too arrogant. After all, I’ve just said that the experts are wrong. I begin explaining the math. And with this comes a kind of calm. I love math; it’s the language of science and the only language I feel truly comfortable in. For a moment I even forget where I am, forget the stage and lights and the audience in their seats. It’s just me and the numbers. I feel happy, floating.

  “My theory is that the reason dragonflies can predict the movement of their prey is that they use motor neurons from their wing systems as predictive sensory apparatus. I show my calculations for those predictions here,” I say, flipping to another slide. “They switch from visual neurons to motor neurons in rapid rotation, shutting one off, then the other, much like the way a toggle switch works.”

  I give the audience a moment to take this in. I can see people studying the slide, others writing notes. One gets out a phone and snaps a picture of the screen.

  I sum up with something not in the paper, but that I’ve been working on. “This ability to shut off part of the brain is also why some animals can sleep with half of their brain. It’s a toggle system that, if properly understood, might be useful in staving off death,” I say.

  I explain that in theory, we could limit the scale of cell death in the brain and encourage neurons to repair themselves even as we are dying. The first step is to stop signals that tell the brain not to repair itself and not to generate new cells. “We need to switch on those repair signals while simultaneously turning off the ‘executioner cells’ that invade our neurons and carve up DNA. I’ll just show you how that works. . . .”

&nbs
p; When I check again I see the audience looking expectantly up at the screen. Almost everyone is taking notes. I get through a lot of slides of different chemical processes and a lot of explanation, but I hold the audience’s attention right to the end of my talk.

  And then I’m done.

  “That’s all I have,” I say. To my astonishment, the audience applauds loudly. I even hear a whistle from the back. For a moment, I think to myself that I’ve completed the mission that was set before me: arriving in Stockholm, sitting among the great and good of scientific experts, delivering a paper—my very first paper—here in this room. Despite all my worries, I’m going to collect the prize money we need.

  I am joined onstage by Dr. Biruk. He leads a second round of applause, this time congratulating all four of the prizewinners. I watch as Helmi, Carlos, and Will rise from their seats, turning to the audience and bowing their heads as they acknowledge the praise being heaped upon them from every corner of the room. Then, in groups of two or three, members of the audience stand, cheering. Helmi glances back at me, her face registering delight, and gives me a quick thumbs-up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this year’s Science for Our Future award winners!” calls Dr. Biruk in his deep, resonating voice.

  It’s almost more than I can take in. The atmosphere is electric, everyone cheering. I catch a glimpse of Rik, who is applauding the most, I think. Beside him is Munn, clapping in a slow, methodical rhythm and looking at all four of us as though trying to decide something.

  The audience settles down into their seats. Rik steps forward, a microphone in hand to record the Q&A. As he readies it to take questions from the audience, I notice people eager to participate. Some are perched upright in their chairs, waiting. Others lean forward, looking for Rik. I’d been worried that nobody would show any interest at all in my presentation and that there would be no questions. But instead, the whole room seems eager to hear more.

  But something is wrong. While the rest of the audience has settled back down into their chairs, Will remains standing. I look at Will as though to ask what he’s doing, and he gives me a smug smile before signaling Rik to bring him the microphone. I feel a cascade of nerves float through my body so that I’m buzzing with them. I look to Dr. Biruk to do something, but he stands motionless, as confused as I am. Meanwhile, Will gestures again to Rik.

  Too late, I realize what’s happening. Will has chosen this moment as his chance to finally speak publicly about me, not just to the committee, but to the whole of the scientific community in attendance. As Rik crosses the room toward Will, I shrink back, feeling a sudden pressure in my solar plexus as though I’ve been hit by a brick. I pray that Rik will stop, that he won’t let Will ruin everything. But he doesn’t know there is any reason to stop. He gives the microphone to Will, who grasps it with both hands. Will now turns, staring at me like prey he’s been hunting for days and has finally cornered.

  “Dr. William Drummond, University of Cambridge,” he says, identifying himself for the record. Then he states flatly, “Kira, early this week you informed me that you received your doctorate from Rimowa University. I have found no record of this university, and my question is, where did you receive your doctoral degree?”

  A murmur runs through the audience. Some are confused, others are impatient with questions of their own that pertain to the talk. I am too shocked to say anything. But when I don’t answer, Will asks the question more forcefully. “The rules of the Science for Our Future prize give a time frame for when the entrant has received a doctorate. So, where and when, exactly, did you receive your doctorate? Because it certainly was not at the nonexistent Rimowa University,” he says.

  The room becomes unsettled. People are embarrassed, whether for me or for Will, I can’t tell. Meanwhile, I say nothing. My only hope is to stall long enough that Will is forced to yield the microphone to one of the others who wait with their own questions.

  “Are you refusing to answer?” he demands finally.

  I can see Carlos sitting in the chair beside Will, his face filled with confusion. And there is Helmi, looking shocked that Will is making everyone so uncomfortable. I don’t dare look at Rik.

  All my life I’ve been worried about not being good enough, and that one day not just the kids at school but the whole world would reflect back to me an image of myself as a loser, a freak, a fake.

  And now it has.

  I force out some words. “Do you want to ask something about the research?” I say.

  “I want to know whether or not you have a PhD. Do you have a doctorate?”

  “I’d be happy to answer any questions about my presentation,” I say. I hear a murmur rise in the room, then Will’s voice again.

  “I repeat: under the rules of this prize your presentation ought to have been associated with your doctoral work, the same as every other candidate. So please, do tell me, Dr. Adams, where did you receive your doctorate?”

  I have no answer. I stand dumbly before the audience. I sense that everyone is taking in what is happening. They’ve figured out that I’ve cheated. I’m humiliated. In the awful quiet of this great room, I am ground to dust. All because Will has an older brother who he wants to receive the prize. And because, of course, he’s right. I have no PhD.

  I look out at the many faces staring back at me. Are they shocked? Angry, even?

  I can’t blame them.

  “I made up Rimowa University in conversation with you,” I say, directing my attention to Will. “But I never stated on my entry form or to the committee that I had a PhD.”

  I look out at the audience again. “I’m very sorry,” I say.

  I unclasp the tiny microphone clipped to my collar, then the transmitter tucked into my back pocket. But my hands are shaking, so I drop the microphone and it hits the stage, making a noise like a firecracker.

  I begin to walk, feeling the room lurch one direction, then another, adrenaline coursing through my veins. It’s as though I’ve taken a drug. My vision tunnels, then expands. My heart is pounding. The muscles in my legs don’t hold me upright. But I fix my sight on the big doors at the end of the room and go for it.

  I have to get away.

  Dr. Biruk is addressing the audience through his microphone. “Please stay seated!” he insists, but he can’t calm the crowd. Meanwhile, I reach the doors, ahead of everyone else, and push through them into the plush lobby.

  I hadn’t expected to see the hotel staff waiting in lines. But they are all assembled just outside the entrance to the Hall of Mirrors, standing like soldiers with trays of cocktails. They were expecting the guests to arrive shortly, and here we are, just a bit ahead of time. Several offer me champagne as I race forward, head down, with an urgency that won’t go unnoticed.

  The grand staircase is too long and too visible, so I aim for the elevator lobby at the end of the corridor, behind which is an emergency staircase. I push through a set of doors, then climb, racing up the stairs, one flight, another. I understand now that Will rearranged the speeches so that Elsa would write an article about his talk and take it to press before the final talk (mine). If I’d given my talk ahead of his and Will had pulled the stunt he did tonight, the main story about the Science for Our Future award would feature me, not him. He’d wanted to have his glory before launching his attack. By rearranging the order of speeches, he’d managed both.

  At last I reach my own floor. I fly through the door, then down the hall to my room with its brass-plated number. Flinging open the door, I see the bedsheets have been carefully folded down, the room made tidy. There’s chocolate on the pillow, two mints in green foil. It’s all beautiful and perfect, and, for some reason, it makes me even more upset. I throw off the bedsheets, launching the chocolates across the room. I bang open the pretty wardrobe with its delicate key and pull out my suitcase. I can’t stand to imagine what will be in print now: how the girl from California was sent home in disgrace, how the prize was awarded to another.

  I wish more than anything
that I’d never entered this stupid contest. It was ridiculous to imagine that I could get away with it, that I could dress up like someone better, someone stylish and urbane, grown-up, valid. I’m a fraud. I’m stupid. I’m also deeper in debt than ever and with no one to blame but myself.

  8

  AT FIRST, I’M too upset even to admit to myself what just happened, but as the hours pass, I eventually text Lauren, revealing every excruciating detail of the night.

  Lauren is nothing if not consistent. She texts back that if all hope of getting the prize is lost, then I should put on the fabulous wool tunic and tall boots she packed and leave loudly and with passion: Act like none of this matters! Let all those cranky scientists think you’ve been thrown out of much better conferences!

  That’s just what Lauren would do. I know she would.

  At dawn, before anyone else is awake, I drag the pink suitcase down to the lobby wearing my own clothes: jeans and sneakers, a gray hoodie, my hair in a ponytail. Outside in the freezing morning, I text as I walk, telling Lauren that I don’t really care what anyone thinks. The first lie. Also, that I am exiting the scene with great style in the wool tunic and tall boots. Another.

  I can no longer wear Lauren’s chic clothes and pretend. It’s not honest and it’s not me. I’m tired of faking everything.

  Nothing is open this early in the morning, so I sit on one of the long black benches in Stortorget square. The city is frozen in snow and ice, a dusting of white filling all the spaces between cobbles. Above me is a sliver of moon. The morning light illuminates the square’s colorful houses, centuries old, painted burnt orange, olive green, mustard, red. It’s like sitting inside a postcard.

  I tell myself I’ve got my suitcase. I’ve got my passport. I’ve got everything I need to go home.

  Except the prize. If I show up without the prize money, what do I say to Biba? I shake my head. It won’t matter what I say. Only money talks.

  I search out a café and sit in the warmth beside a window, watching the sun emerge. Ice melts in pieces and slides downward against the glass as cathedral bells ring out the hour. The air smells of sea and snow and the smoky flames from the fire lit in a tiny hearth set into the café wall. My coffee is thick with cream.