The Autumn Prince

4. Broken Mirrors

There was no returning through that particular door, so with the mystery of the tea behind me, and feeling abnormally clear, I decided to shelve the remaining questions and focus on my neglected classes. For the rest of the evening I resigned myself to the sofa and my books, flying through both assigned passages in ethics and actually completing the textbook on qualitative research.

My phone rang around seven that evening after I'd eaten a whole turkey sandwich and downed a full glass of milk for dinner. Katherine apologized that she wouldn't make it over as I'd hoped, but promised she'd take a rain check for Monday evening if I was free. Disappointment could be a significant trigger, so I prepared myself to cope with it, starting with a litany of mental exercises designed to mitigate the depression that would plague me most of that night and follow me into the morning.

But it never came. Katherine said she was sorry and I believed her. She would have remained on the phone had I not urged her back to her studying. The hottest woman on campus was upset that she didn't have free time to spend on me, and instead of feeling let down it gave me an unaccustomed thrill of excitement and pride.

The passive energy that had been with me all afternoon peaked after that and I hummed through hand-washing the few dishes I'd dirtied throughout the day, then I put away my books, tidied the bookshelf, swept the hardwood floor, and even pulled out my hardly-used electric broom to vacuum the area rugs in the living room and my closet-sized bedroom.

At half-past eight, my phone announced a thirty-minute bedtime warning. Sufficient sleep was a big part of my maintenance, but that night I wasn't the least bit tired. It might have been my power nap on the linoleum, or the exceptionally large dinner, but whatever the reason, restlessness prevented me from making the attempt. After a short, internal dispute, I decided a stroll around the block might force the issue and wear me down.

The dim streets were unevenly lit by short lampposts that lined either side. My small apartment building was one of several that made the block look like row-housing you'd expect to see in Brooklyn, not a Midwest college town, but we had roomy sidewalks and a residential street with intermittent hosta and young trees separating its lanes. I liked my neighborhood, but that night gave me a new appreciation for it.

A rapid series of wandering sparks cut across my vision and I stopped short, rubbing at my eyes. It blurred into nothing almost immediately and my curiosity vanished when I had to stop for two women exiting a neighboring building. They chatted loudly, laughing as they skipped down stone steps to a pale green sedan parked at the curb. The driver circled it without giving me a second look, but her friend stopped, waiting for the door to unlock, and glanced back, freezing as though captivated. She stood appraising me a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable and if I were anyone else, I'd have thought she was checking me out.

She apparently hadn't realized she'd been staring because when I smiled at her she startled, then hurried into her seat, laughing with the driver as they drove off. Sparks whirled again, but I blamed them on the tail lights of the departing vehicle because they vanished as soon as it disappeared around a corner.

My vision remained clear while I paced the lonely streets, and after an hour I had sufficiently wearied my body, impressed with that unexpected display of stamina. I slid under the sheets and pulled up the covers with my mind finally peaceful enough to entertain sleep.

I woke before sunrise, almost two hours before my alarm. After lying with my eyes shut for ten minutes I gave up and decided to put the extra energy to good use. I quickly dressed, pulled my ethics textbook off the shelf, and sat down in the living room to read.

The writers of Ethics in Modern Research vol. Six presented two full chapters on fabricating data, emphasizing the fact that you shouldn't. You might think of that as a given, that a person dedicated to science wouldn't need a reminder. You'd be wrong.