by Laura Steven
Why did I have to go and make it so personal? I mean, he only told me about how much he was going to miss his gaming buddy because he was drunk. I’m pretty sure he did not want to be reminded of that. And here I go, dropping it into conversation like some kind of needy stalker. Does he think I’m a psycho for even remembering that? I bet he barely remembers what colour my eyes are, let alone the names of my best friends.
Hastily, just so I don’t have to look at it any more, I delete the message, wishing this very act would remove it from his phone too.
I sigh, shove my phone under my duvet and lean back against the stack of pillows I’ve propped against my headboard. The TV and my fairy lights flicker in the darkness. The window is cranked all the way open, and the street outside is moonlit and peaceful, save for a few crickets chirping in the trees. The smell of warm sidewalks and cut grass drifts into my bedroom on the breeze. I take a sip of heady red wine, enjoying the rich, fruity flavour and faint buzz of alcohol. I feel young and old all at once.
Speaking of old, this time next year I’ll be at college, if all goes according to plan. My first choice is MIT. Both my dads are alumni – that’s where they first met – and Leo is there now, studying Chemical Engineering. It’s a Kerber-Murphy family thing. And in twelve short months, I could be there too, studying Astrophysics at one of the best institutes in the world. I spent the whole of the tour visit I took this summer with goosebumps running up and down my arms.
That reminds me. Mrs Torres told me earlier in the week that she’d read over my personal essay and provide notes. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without that woman. She’s writing my letter of recommendation, too, and I have every faith she’s going to knock it out the park.
I pull my phone out from its nook in the bedsheets and refresh my email to see if she’s gotten back to me yet. Nope, nothing. Not even a single email. Seriously, am I some kind of leper? I text my group chat with Keiko and Gabriela just to make sure. It doesn’t even deliver to Keiko, and even though Gabriela reads, she doesn’t reply. She always does this – she’s usually too busy hanging out with Ryan to answer.
Muscle memory leads me to perform my cursory evening perusal of Haruki’s social-media accounts. He’s the kind of guy who’s way too cool for Instagram. He’s popular without even trying. So as usual, he’s uploaded precisely nothing today. His last post was a shot of Lake Michigan from the penthouse of his family’s flagship hotel, where he spent most of his summer working as a kayak instructor. A few posts earlier is a picture of him helping a tiny kindergartner to buckle his life jacket.
Something twinges in my chest. I wish I was the kind of person Haruki Ito could fall for. I wish he would look at me the same way I look at him.
I shift in my duvet burrito, suddenly restless and antsy. I want to do something about this. About this perennial feeling of being unwanted. Undesirable.
Maybe science has the answer. Science can answer almost all of the important questions in the universe. So why not this? We’ve been studying love and attraction for centuries. We know that lust is governed by both estrogen and testosterone, and that attraction is driven by adrenaline, dopamine, and serotonin. Long-term attachment is governed by a different set of hormones and brain chemicals: oxytocin and vasopressin, which encourage bonding. Each of these chemicals works in a specific part of the brain to influence lust, attraction and attachment.
Surely, throughout hundreds of years of studying these things, someone has found a way to manipulate them? I mean, come on. Imagine possessing a wealth of knowledge in this field. That dark part of your mind would totally be tempted to manipulate that information to your advantage, no? To find a drug or hack to get other people to fall in love with you. Hedonistic renaissance dudes weren’t exactly known for their moral compasses.
I pull up a new browser window on my phone and start researching whether anyone has ever attempted to manufacture these hormones and brain chemicals. However, all I find on Google are dating sites filled with hokey pseudo-science, and so-called ‘love doctors’ promising to transform the lives of even the most hideous homo sapiens. A cursory glance at some more academic sources pulls up social anthropology journals and neuropsychology papers which explore the theories behind love and attraction, but there’s nothing to suggest they’ve attempted to put these findings into practice.
I’m about to give up and focus on Anna Faris singing ‘Forgivenesssss’ on my TV screen when an abstract catches my eye.
Scientists have discovered the key to attraction lies in a new type of pheromone which has recently been identified in the Brazilian Honey Beetle. The researchers behind the study, all three of whom are doctoral candidates at the University of São Paulo, believe that extracting this chemical and distilling it into pill form . . .
The rest of the abstract is hidden behind a paywall. I run a search on the paper’s author – Professor Pablo Sousa – and the university website comes up with several hits, all relating to his research on the Brazilian Honey Beetle. He’s won several prizes for his work, and is now celebrating ANVISA approval of a drug prototype based on his findings. From what I can gather, ANVISA is the Brazilian equivalent of the FDA.
I’m desperate to read the entirety of the paper, and notice a small login portal beside the paywall, which grants access to those with an existing university ID. A dropdown menu shows they accept IDs from most major institutions, and I notice Vati’s college on the list.
Inspiration strikes. Vati’s desktop computer sits downstairs in sleep mode, with no password protection whatsoever. If his email account is open, I could simply request a password reminder, open and delete the email before he sees it, and use the deets to access this paper. I’m a genius.
As I pass their bedroom, Dad’s earthquake snores rumble through the closed door. I stifle a laugh. He’s such a quiet, restrained man, and yet his sleep apnea turns him into some kind of meteorological emergency. Between enormous snores, I can hear Vati muttering, ‘Verdammt noch mal, Michael!’, which loosely translates as ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He says something else along the lines of removing his throat with a machete, but like I say, my German is not great.
Leapfrogging over Sirius as he lies snoozing at the bottom of the stairs, I make it to the computer in the dining room and load it up. While I’m waiting for it to whir into life, I look at the photos taped to the bottom of the monitor with literal duct tape, because Pinterest-worthy our house is not. There’s the four of us at the Rube Goldberg machine at the Museum of Science Boston; the four of us watching rat basketball at Discovery Place; the four of us playing mini golf at the Science Museum of Minnesota. In every single picture, Leo and I are concentrating intently, and Vati is pranking Dad – pulling pants down, drawing rat whiskers on him in Sharpie, using golf clubs to perform wedgies, etc.
As I open up Vati’s email account, I can’t help but grin. My dads are like my best friends, and my childhood has been so great. It’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing it’ll be over soon. There’s something hollow beneath the bittersweetness, too, but I can’t quite place it.
‘Bärchen ?’
Swiveling around, I see Vati standing in the doorway, fuzzy chest hair poking through the top of his bathrobe.
I leap back from the computer, as though I’ve been caught performing some kind of diamond heist. ‘Vati. I was just, erm . . .’
‘Hacking my emails.’ He says this in a jokey way, i.e. the way he says everything ever.
‘I thought you were asleep,’ I say, as though this is a valid legal defense.
‘Nein, nein. Dad eins, he sleeps like a woodchuck. Me? Well, what is the opposite of a woodchuck?’
I have no idea what a woodchuck is, nor how one might sleep, so I decide not to push the matter.
‘What are you really doing, Bärchen ?’ he asks gently, perching on the edge of the oak dining table. He looks very tired, but also jolly, which shouldn’t be possible.
I decide the truth isn’t exactly incriminating, so I say, ‘I need yo
ur institution login to access a research paper.’
‘Ah, wunderbar !’ he exclaims. ‘Which paper?’
Chewing my bottom lip, I admit, ‘It’s about the laws of attraction.’
Vati’s features soften. ‘You like someone, ja ? And you want to seduce them?’
‘Please never say “seduce” again.’
‘Bärchen, you don’t need any papers to make a boy like you. You are the best person in the world, so. You can take poison on that.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Ah, maybe that is a German idiom.’ Vati frowns and strokes his stubbled jaw. ‘I think you say, “You can bet your life on that”?’
I chuckle. ‘That makes more sense.’
He stands up and ruffles my hair, which is brave, considering it hasn’t been washed in days. ‘My password is Bärchen, followed by your birthday. Lower case, no umlaut. Because the university is racist, of course.’
‘Of course.’ I grin and hug him round the waist. ‘Thanks, Vati.’
‘No problem.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘As thanks, you can visit me in prison after I have removed your father’s throat with a machete.’
Maybe my German isn’t as bad as I thought.
A few minutes later, I’m back in bed with the full paper loaded on my laptop. My eyes skim down the five paragraphs over and over, trying to make sense of what I’m reading.
According to Sousa and other leading scientists in this field of study, the Brazilian Honey Beetle – particularly the female of the species – secretes absurdly high concentrations of an incredibly sophisticated sex pheromone, and researchers have now discovered a way to distill these chemicals into pill form, which are supposedly safe for human consumption.
When tested on rats, and later monkeys, the pills artificially increased an organism’s ability to attract a mate tenfold. More relevantly, the report goes on to detail the clinical trials conducted with actual human participants, and while the results were not as potent as they were in rats and monkeys, the pills were found to quadruple the participants’ ability to attract a sexual partner.
It sounds ludicrous. But for some reason, I sit up a little straighter. Because despite my intense cynicism, something about the idea captures my attention. And I’m no idiot when it comes to science. Okay, so pheromones are hardly my field of expertize, but the study and subsequent clinical trials at least sound plausible.
I spend the rest of the movie only half paying attention. Meticulously reading through each and every one of Sousa’s articles, I familiarize myself with the subject as best I can. It sounds pretty interesting. And the best part? There’s a link to buy the pills directly from the researchers. They’re running a special trial price of $99 for your first month’s supply – plus an eye-watering shipping charge to the US.
Despite my natural stance as an unfaltering cynic, I find myself genuinely considering it. Maybe I’m just feeling especially vulnerable after a day of rejection and loneliness, but the idea that there could be an easy fix out there is beyond tempting.
I imagine how good it would feel to walk into my next AP Physics class and have Haruki gaze at me with newfound attraction. I imagine walking the hallways and no longer feeling invisible. I imagine the confidence and self-worth I would feel, and the thought is so powerful that it almost knocks the wind out of me.
I imagine Haruki finally reciprocating my feelings. Bringing me bagels, making me playlists, sharing my hobbies and interests.
Shivering, I pull myself back to reality. It’s a lot of money, and there’s no guarantees the drugs will actually work. Besides, I’m supposed to be saving for college. MIT doesn’t offer merit-based scholarships, because everyone who applies is a veritable genius, and I don’t qualify for needs-based financial aid because my dads are tenured academics. They can help a little with tuition fees, but I still need to have a cushion under me to cover rent and food and all those other inconvenient human necessities. And since the comic-book store which used to employ me closed down, I’ve been out of work and struggling to find a new gig.
And yet . . . I can’t get that image of myself out of my head. Chin tilted up, shoulders pushed back, walking with pride and self-assurance. Like Keiko does. The way she carries herself is something I’ve always admired. It’s like she knows she’s beautiful and deserving; like she knows she’s worth something. I want that for myself. I want that so badly it churns in my chest, a sinkhole forming in my ribcage.
It’s how I feel around my dads, I realize with a pang. Loved and wanted and respected. They make me feel funny, smart, beautiful. Special. Like nobody in the world could interest or inspire them more than me.
That’s it. That’s the way I want to feel all the time, no matter where I am or who I’m with. Because it’s the greatest feeling in the entire world.
Suddenly I identify the strange hollowness I experienced when I looked at the pictures on Vati’s computer. This time next year, I’ll be living hundreds of miles away from my dads. What if I never get to feel that special again? What if I go through my college career – and the rest of my life – feeling the same way I do when Haruki Ito looks at me with nothing but apathy? The thought sends a lance of sadness through my heart.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach under my bed for my purse and pull out my debit card. A potentially imbecilic use of my birthday cheques, but the red-wine buzz has taken the edge off my inhibitions.
The Matching Hypothesis has been proven countless times. But what if this is the antidote?
4
The house is dank. The walls are dark. I’ve been here before.
The ceiling shifts and warps, and I know I am alone. I am small, and so terribly, terribly alone. My body tries to sweat, tries to cry, but there’s nothing left inside. I am a husk, and the end is near. The walls bleed darkness, and the darkness bleeds fear.
Somewhere, a door opens.
I jolt awake, my snoozed alarm blaring into the sun-dappled room. Heart thudding, I turn it off and throw the tangled duvet off my sweaty legs.
I fucking hate that dream.
Every single morning, without fail. In that half-sleep, half-wake state of lucid cloudiness, the exact same dream. I push my fingers into my eyes until they turn into kaleidoscopes, forcing out the mental image of that damn room.
I was adopted by my dads when I was tiny, and I think these dreams are memories of my past life – of which I recall almost nothing. I have no reason to. Whoever my birth mother was, she’s not around anymore. And my dads are. So why does my subconscious torture me? Why does it force me back into that room day after day after day?
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had these dreams, or flashbacks, or whatever the hell they are, while I’m dozing. And I still don’t have the self-control to stop snoozing my alarm. Figures.
I pad downstairs in my Buckbeak slippers. Dad, who is much more well-rested than Vati and thus less likely to replace the sugar with arsenic, lays out the usual breakfast buffet. This sounds impressive, but really it’s just a bunch of half-eaten boxes of cereal arranged by sugar content. As usual, I reach for the higher end of the spectrum, while Dad chows down on some sort of bran-based atrocity, washed down with tap water. Vati isn’t into breakfast, so he pours himself a giant coffee and slumps into the third chair. For all his japes and hijinks, he is not a morning person.
‘What are you guys doing today?’ I ask, crunching into a brimming bowl of Lucky Charms. I chuck one to Sirius under the table, but he just stares at it like it’s a hand grenade.
Dad finishes his mouthful of bran before responding plainly, ‘I plan to visit the police station, on account of the fact we have been burgled.’
Vati and I both gape at him. ‘What?’
‘It is the most likely explanation.’
I look at Dad in bewilderment. ‘Explanation for what?’
‘The missing object.’ His face betrays no emotion or affectation. He is impossible to read, even when you’ve lived with him as long a
s I have. You’d have more luck trying to psychoanalyze a park bench.
Vati drains his coffee mug and immediately pours another. ‘What’s missing?’
‘Well, Felix, during my bi-weekly kitchen stock-take this morning, I discovered a discrepancy in the quantity of wine glasses in the bar cabinet. Wine glasses are sold in boxes of four or six, to reflect the nonsensical societal preference for even numbers, and yet our cabinet currently contains a mere five glasses. Having checked the trash to ensure none had been smashed or discarded, I deduced that one had been stolen in the night. Would you like to accompany me to the police station?’
Shit! The wine glass! I was so caught up in my covert pill-purchasing operation that I forgot to return the glass to the cabinet. It’s still on my bedside, burgundy dregs turning to syrup in the bottom. I shoot Vati a panicked look, and he immediately understands what’s happened.
Unfortunately, so does Dad.
‘I see.’ Dad lays down his spoon and folds his arms. This is much more serious than it sounds, because there’s still bran cereal floating in the milk. Dad is not one to compromise the structural integrity of his breakfast by leaving it to swim in half-and-half. ‘And how long have you suffered from alcoholism, Caro?’
I splutter, trying to compose myself. ‘I’m not an alcoholic! I just had half a glass of red wine last night, that’s all. Eighteen is the legal drinking age in Europe.’
‘You’re seventeen. And this is South Carolina.’
I try to fight the urge to roll my eyes. ‘I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘Why did you want a glass of wine?’
I shrug, pushing Lucky Charms around my bowl with my spoon. ‘I dunno. I’d had a crappy day, alright?’
Dad nods knowingly. ‘Classic sign of addiction.’
Bless his soul, Vati breaks the tension with a bark of laughter. ‘Lay off her, Michael. It was one kleine glass of wine. No big deal. You’re not going to do it again, are you Caro?’
‘No.’ I suspect this might be a lie, but still.
