Page 23 of Deep End

“I do need to know, however, if you wrote it on your own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked you to choose a science problem and solve it using computational biology. You proposed to classify different types of pancreatic cells using deep learning,anddetailed the appropriate neural networks. Was it your idea? It’s a simple yes or no question. Don’t waste my time.”

I scowl at his audacity. Hot blood rushes to my cheeks.Of courseit was my idea. Who the hell would I even ask to—

“I see that it was.” He seems . . . pleased? “Would you be interested in pursuing it further?”

“What?”

“The deep learning algorithm. Would you like to participate in a research project?”

“So it’s . . . is this why you asked me to come here?”

He nods.

I sink back into my chair, and must spend too long savoring my relief at having escaped plagiarism jail, because he prods: “The research project.”

“Oh, right.” Would I? In my carefully and anally crafted academic plan, I was going to get some research experience next summer, just in time to ask my mentor to write me a rec letter. Med schools love that stuff. “Maybe?”

“Maybe.” A puzzled eyebrow lifts, like he’s encountering the concept of indecision for the first time.

“Well, I’m a student athlete, and this semester is . . .”

His eyebrow demands to know,Did I ask?

Nope, you did not. My bad. “It would be amazing. But I’m not sure I’m quite good enough to . . .” I drift off, because he’s now writing something on a Post-it, then handing it over.

It’s an orange square. The printed message in the top corner readsPumpkin Spice Life. The bottom is a smiling coffee cup, little hearts orbiting around the lid. Scribbled in the middle is an email.

“If you decide you’re interested, contact my colleague.”

“Will they know who I am?”

“Yes,” he says. No explanation. I have so many questions, it must take me too long to decide on which. “You may go now,” he says, sterner than a Victorian governess.

I quickly scurry to the door—then stop. “Dr. Carlsen?”

He types away, giving no sign of having heard me.

“There was no grade. On the paper.”

His eyes settle on me again, and he looks genuinely confused.

“Will I receive one?”

“Ms. Vandermeer, you planned a graduate-level study and extensively described its pitfalls and possible solutions, showing a command of the topic that eighty percent of my fellow faculty members will never achieve. Most of your peers copy-pasted their projects from Wikipedia and neglected to remove the hyperlinks. If your topic weren’t much more in line with my colleague’s research, and if my colleague wasn’t incredibly . . . persuasive, I would be recruiting you into my lab.”

“Oh.” Wow. Just . . . wow.

“Believe me when I say that the grade is . . .” I sense despair in him. I bet he’dloveto slug off the mortal coil of scoring rubrics. “Irrelevant.”

“If you don’t care either way, I’d like an A plus.”

His mouth twitches. “I will let Otis know.”

I grin. This time, Dr. Carlsen nods his goodbyes. The overall effect is stilted, like he pulled an item off a How to Act Politely list that someone scribbled for him on an orange Post-it, but I’ll take it.

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