The Valeditztorian

by Alli Curran

“Where are all the plants?” I ask.

  “Oh, there aren’t any plants in here,” Grace says.

  “But you said this is a greenhouse, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what are you growing?” I ask.

  “The melanoma drug,” says Grace.

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “When I first came to Salvador,” Grace explains, “Alvin’s lab was studying a few potential melanoma treatments and not making much progress. Then I noticed that the mice in one cage were doing better than the others.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “While the others were getting sick, or dying, these particular mice seemed completely healthy.”

  “Was their cancer less aggressive?”

  “No. Genetically speaking, all of the mice have the same type of melanoma. Their tumors originated from one cell line with a particular genetic mutation—Mts745.”

  “Mts? What’s that?” I ask.

  “Mts is a gene that stands for ‘melanoma tumor suppressor.’ Normally Mts prevents uncontrolled cell division in skin cells—melanocytes specifically—but if the gene is mutated, the cells become immortal.”

  “Immortal?”

  “Yes,” says Grace. “The cells keep on dividing, indefinitely. In other words, they never die. That’s what makes them cancerous. Capiche?”

  “I suppose so. But if their tumors were all identical, why did some of the mice do better than the others?”

  “Because there was something different about their environment,” she says.

  Grace picks up a twig and hands it to me. On close inspection, something brown, akin to a flat mushroom, is growing all over the bark. If Grace hadn’t pointed it out, I might’ve missed it altogether, particularly because the plaques are nearly the same color as the branch.

  “I happened to notice this fungus covering the wood shavings in the cage with the healthy mice,” says Grace. “I think they inadvertently ingested it when they gnawed on the wood.”

  “’Shrooms…cool. What’s in them?”

  “Nothing hallucinogenic,” Grace replies.

  “How would you even know?” I ask. “Maybe the mice eat this stuff and start envisioning giant pieces of Swiss cheese.”

  Once Grace stops laughing, she says, “After we realized its potential, we started propagating the fungus and isolating its proteins. When we analyzed the interaction between the fungal proteins and the melanoma cells, one protein stood out. I nicknamed it GrR.”

  Grace makes a scary face, holding up her hands like claws and baring her teeth.

  “That’s an interesting nickname,” I say. “Does GrR scare away the cancer cells?”

  In a familiar gesture, Grace rolls her eyes.

  “GrR stands for Grim Reaper, and it triggers apoptosis.”

  “Apoptosis?” I say. “You mean cell death?”

  “Exactly. GrR binds to a receptor on the cancer cells, activating an apoptosis pathway, and the cells start dying.”

  “What happens to the healthy cells? Does GrR kill them, too?”

  “That’s the beauty of it,” she explains. “The healthy cells lack the receptor that binds to GrR, so they’re completely unaffected. Because it differentiates between melanoma cells and normal cells, GrR doesn’t cause any toxicity in mice.”

  “Wow.”

  My minds starts racing with possibilities.

  “Do you think GrR could be used to treat other cancers, besides melanoma?”

  “Nope,” says Grace. “We’ve already tried that experiment. The protein-receptor interaction is very specific; GrR only binds to melanoma cells with the Mts mutation.”

  “Still, that’s pretty cool,” I say.

  Grace shrugs her shoulders.

  “At this point we have no idea whether the drug will work in people. Can you imagine what a disaster it will be if GrR can bind to healthy cells in humans?”

  When a hiss of steam issues from an overhead pipe, I’m distracted from considering the pitfalls of this scenario. In seconds, the entire room fills with water vapor, effectively transforming the space between us into a tiny rainforest. Though she’s standing only two feet away from me, Grace’s face is barely visible through the mist.

  “Nice special effects,” I say.

  “The fungus grows best in a humid environment,” she explains. “Alvin rigged a humidification system in here to operate on a timer, activating once every couple hours. If it gets too dried out, the fungus starts dying. We were lucky to figure that out in the beginning, before it all shriveled up.”

  On our way back to the lab, I ask, “Since things are going so well with your project, do you think you’ll extend your stay here?”

  Slated to return to New York one month after me, Grace’s time in this country is already running thin, just like mine.

  “I doubt it,” she says.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because Alvin has been so difficult.”

  “Really?” I say.

  Usually very positive, this is the first time I’ve heard Grace complain about her boss, or anything else, for that matter.

  “Do you promise not to repeat any of this?” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “From the minute I got here, Alvin has treated me horribly.”

  “In what respect?”

  “He’s always criticizing me. First, I’m not keeping the cages clean enough, and then he can’t read my handwriting. Next, I can’t listen to music because it’s ‘too distracting,’ which isn’t true. I actually work more efficiently with music playing.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say. “I always type faster that way.”

  “See! I knew you’d understand,” says Grace. “Lately, Alvin’s been making me deliver lab equipment to the hospital downtown. I have to pay for the bus myself, which is depleting my cash, and he never pays me back.”

  “Do the hospital deliveries have anything to do with your project?” I ask.

  “No. They’re totally unrelated. I think Alvin’s just too lazy to transport the stuff himself, so he’s passing it off to me. The man is driving me crazy.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “Not as sorry as I’ve been this whole time. All day, every day, for the past six months, I’ve been putting up with him. He’s just so obnoxious, and it’s getting to me. If Alvin weren’t here, this job would be great.”

  “You don’t think he’s secretly in love with you, do you?” I ask.

  Grace raises her eyebrows.

  “I can’t believe you asked me that question, Emma. You must have some twisted ideas about love.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. But why do you think he’s acting this way? He seemed all right when I met him. I completely missed the whole ‘evil twin’ routine.”

  “Honestly, I think it has something to do with the fact that we’re both Korean.”

  “Oh. Are you saying that he’s got a self-hatred problem, and he’s taking it out on you?”

  “No, not at all. I think he just expects me to be perfect because that’s what he demands from himself, which is totally unrealistic.”

  “Whatever the reason, he’s acting inappropriately, and you should tell your advisor. Maybe they could move you to a different lab,” I suggest.

  “No way,” says Grace, shaking her head. “Unless something really bad happens, I’m not leaving. I want to finish my project, and I’d like to avoid causing any trouble with Alvin along the way.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  To avoid aggravating her, I don’t push the issue.

  Over the next few days, Grace and I review her clinical data. As we begin linking treatment to outcomes, we discover something remarkable—a nearly 1:1 treatment to survival ratio. In other words, almost all the mice who received the drug (83 altogether) are alive, whereas the vast majority of placebo mice are either dead, or close to it. Of the two mice who received the drug and died, one was killed by another mouse, and th
e other developed an infection at the injection site. None of the mice who received GrR died from melanoma.

  For the remainder of the week, Grace and I carefully perform physical exams on the healthy mice, looking for subtle signs of disease that might’ve been overlooked. Technically I’m not required to handle the animals, but since we’re not harming them, I don’t really mind. One afternoon Grace holds up a fat, white mouse and flips him over to check his chubby belly.

  “That’s a cute one,” I say. “Maybe we should give him a name. How about Wilbur?”

  “This one is as fat as a pig,” she says.

  “I can see that. Why is he such a porker?”

  “He’s always fighting with the other mice over food, but I’m not sure why he’s so aggressive,” says Grace.

  Then I start laughing.

  “Who does he remind you of?” I ask.

  “Why do you ask? Does he remind you of someone?” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Me, Grace! Don’t you see the connection? We both have issues with food insecurity. I think we should start calling him ‘Mini-me.’”

  “Oh, no, Emma. No names. That’s the first step toward getting too attached to your subjects. Plus he looks nothing like you.”

  “But we have so much in common.”

  Grace scoffs at me.

  “Emma, you need to think of them as avatars, not individuals.”

  “What’s an avatar?”

  “You don’t know that term?”

  She stares at me in disbelief.

  “Umm—that would be why I just asked, ‘What’s an avatar’?’”

  “An avatar is your on-line persona,” says Grace. “Like when a fat guy in his fifties posts a picture of a hot guy in his twenties, and then the fat guy pretends to be the hot guy, to get a date with a younger woman.”

  “Okay, an avatar is something you use to trick people on the internet, but I still don’t get it. How are the mice avatars?”

  “Well, they carry pieces of people’s tumors,” says Grace. “They’re role playing for people with cancer.”

  “That’s not the same thing as lying on the internet. I mean, the mice aren’t doing this by choice.”

  Without warning Alvin stalks into the lab, interrupting our ethics discussion. He turns to Grace, looking annoyed.

  “Grace, you left the greenhouse door open last night, which could’ve damaged the fungal samples. You need to be more careful.”

  Grace nods her head.

  Eyeing Mini-me, he continues, “And you’re feeding these mice way too much food. If you don’t watch their intake, you’re going to kill them with obesity.”

  “Sorry,” she says.

  Alvin turns and strides out the door.

  When he’s beyond earshot, I ask, “Why did you apologize? I’m sure you closed the door yesterday.”

  “I know,” she says. “He probably left it open himself.”

  “Well?”

  She shrugs.

  “Why fight with him? Arguing won't help the situation.”

  I completely disagree. While Grace prefers to suffer in silence, I think she should shout into the ears of her advisor with a megaphone. Taught from a young age to stand up to the injustices of life, I’ve never been able to sit quietly when faced with inequity.

  When I was a kid, my mother once said, “Don’t be afraid to speak up, Emma. Let your voice be heard. Even one voice can make a difference.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “I know it,” she said.

  Over the years my mother reinforced this concept with concrete action. When I was eight-years-old, she brought me to Washington for a march supporting abortion rights with the National Organization for Women. Packed with thousands of women loudly voicing their opinions, the rally left an impression. A few years later, unhappy with the care my grandmother was receiving in a nursing home, my mom wrote a scathing letter to the local newspaper. Eventually her remarks landed on the governor’s desk, resulting in a comprehensive inspection of the home, managerial changes, and presumably better care for the residents.

  Thus instructed, I’ve never had a problem speaking my mind…except in romantic relationships. When it comes to significant others, particularly those who’ve captured my lust, I tend to put up with mistreatment. This specific brand of passivity helps to explain why I’ve remained with Thomas for as long as I have, despite my feminist upbringing. Back in junior high school, when I first started dating, I should’ve paid more attention to my mother’s advice about men. Applicable to both abusive colleagues (i.e. Alvin) and boyfriends (Thomas), her instructions were well received, though generally ignored in practice.

  “Never let a man treat you like a doormat,” said my mother, “because if you allow him to do so, he will.”

  “Dad doesn’t treat you that way, does he?”

  “Not anymore,” said my mom. “But you should’ve seen him before we got married.”

  “Why? What was he like back then?”

  “When he was younger, your father was the worst boyfriend ever.”

  “Then why’d you marry him?” I asked.

  “Because your grandmother proposed to me, and she was a very persuasive woman.”

  “Grandma Sally proposed to you?”

  “Essentially, yes. You remember that she worked in the diamond district in Manhattan?”

  “Yeah. Grandma worked as an accountant at Alani Diamonds.”

  “That’s right,” said my mom. “Initially she kept their books, but later she got involved in advertising, and she even started working on some aspects of jewelry design. Sally was a very creative woman, and she managed to hold onto a great job, at a time when most women weren’t working.”

  “Grandma Sally must’ve been really smart.”

  “She was. Early in our relationship, your brilliant grandmother recognized that I was quite a catch. So she brought home an engagement ring, which she gave to your father, to give to me.”

  “But you’ve never worn an engagement ring.”

  “In general, I don’t wear any jewelry,” said my mom.

  “So Dad didn’t give you the ring…or did he?”

  “He never gave it to me.”

  “What’d he do with it, then?”

  “He sold it.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Because he had to come up with the money for his motorcycle from somewhere.”

  “But why did he buy the motorcycle, instead of giving you the ring?”

  My mother sighed.

  “You need to understand, Emma, that at the time, your father didn’t want to get married at all. Don’t look so shocked, honey. He was twenty-years-old, and it was the sixties. There was a lot going on, and the last thing he wanted was to be tied down.”

  “Did Grandma Sally get mad at Dad?”

  “Did she ever! When your father came home with that bike, instead of a fiancée, Grandma Sally was enraged.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “First she screamed at your father for a good week—and boy, oh boy, that woman had quite a pair of lungs. Then she tried to get him to return the motorcycle, but you know that didn’t work. Eventually she brought home another ring.”

  “Another one?”

  “Yes. Your grandmother was a very stubborn woman. I don’t know how she paid for the replacement, but somehow she managed it.”

  “She must’ve really wanted you and Dad to get married.”

  My mom winked at me.

  “Like I said, she knew I was a fabulous catch.”

  “But it sounds like Dad wasn’t.”

  “No, not initially.”

  “Then why’d you stay with him?”

  “That’s a fabulous question, and the answer’s complicated.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “I’ll try,” she said, running her fingers through her thick, curly brown hair. “When I’m around your father, Emma, he makes me feel hap
py…even when he’s doing or saying something stupid, which is often. On some level, I think my response to him is chemical. Who knows? Maybe our pheromones are a good match. To give him some credit, though, your dad does have a terrific sense of humor. After all this time, he’s kept me laughing.”

  “Me too,” I said, looking up into her twinkling brown eyes.

  “I know. He’s very loveable that way,” said my mom.

  “So you married Dad for his sense of humor, and his pheromones?”

  “Yes, but that’s not all.”

  “What else, then?” I asked.

  “When we first started dating, despite all our problems, I sensed that your dad had potential as a husband…and a father.”

  “Was Dad a better husband than a boyfriend?”

  “In the beginning, no. But periodically I threatened to divorce him, and eventually he straightened out. That’s the point of this story. Unless you stand up for yourself, a man—even a good man, like your father—will potentially take advantage of you. Grandma Sally understood that pretty well. She also recognized that as a woman, if you want to get something accomplished, you’ve got to take the initiative, and go after it yourself.”

  “What do you think made Dad straighten out?”

  “Another good question. Believe it or not, Emma, the answer is you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Once you were born, your dad finally got his priorities in order. In fact, I don’t think I’d be wrong in saying that prior to the late 1970’s, the only thing he loved more than his motorcycle was you.”

  “Didn’t he love you, too?”

  “Yes. But in the beginning, if he’d had the option, I think your father would’ve married that motorcycle over me.”

  “And now?”

  “After years of asserting myself, Emma, your father and I fortunately have a very good relationship.”

  “But you still don’t wear a wedding ring.”

  “No.”

  “So what happened to the second ring?”

  “That ring was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’d ever seen; naturally I hocked it.”

  “You hocked it? Really?”

  “Yeah. Once I married your father, what use did I have for a silly, expensive diamond that did nothing but annoy me at work? After I got rid of the ring, my hand felt so much lighter. Plus I got a great deal on the trade in—almost enough for a down payment on our first house. With your father driving all over the country on his motorcycle, we really needed the money.”