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Chapter 6

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Cemone exited the great lecture hall with the deafening roar of applause behind her. She thought she could find her breath outside with some privacy. She was wrong.

“Okay,” Cemone stammered. Her heart raced in repetitions of anxiety. Her head and heart were running in circles waiting for the painful instant when they might collide or burst. With no way to save herself, she fought for breaths of egress.

“You’re having a panic attack,” said a new voice. “You need to put your head down and breathe.” Cemone wanted to say something smart, but without a consistent heart beat this proved difficult. This feeling had been too much for her to handle. Afraid that her heart might explode, Cemone jumped at the seemingly stupid suggestion and bent her head beneath her waist. It was overkill, certainly, but she couldn’t take the chance that she might die. Skipping beats of panic slowly morphed back to a healthy rhythm in her nearly prone position. “Do you feel a little better?”

“Yeah, I do,” Cemone admitted. “Can I ask who you are?”

“Yes you can, Miss Holmes,” the stranger replied.

“You’re not some creepy mugger, are you?” she joked.

“Would a mugger help you through your panic attack?”

“It’s a big world,” she answered. “You never know.” The stranger laughed. By the depth of his voice, Cemone could tell he was a young man. His laughter was a raspy tenor that was confident and made the situation slightly more bearable. From her near bend, she could see only his brown loafers and part of his black jeans. They added to the comfort he provided. Cemone was ready to say something smart about her head and heart colliding when suddenly her stomach smashed into those circling organs, forcing her to vomit. The splash hit the tile and his shoes dramatically.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry!” She snapped up immediately, talking to his white button-up shirt and black tie. The stranger was a great deal taller than Cemone, so when she saw his face she was forced to move back.

“It’s perfectly fine. You’re a nervous girl.”

“Yes—well, no, it’s not a gender-specific issue,” Cemone replied, wiping her mouth. “But, I am nervous!”

“No, I didn’t mean to imply that you—”

“No, I understand, I was just being clear,” she stammered. “You see my organs are circling. Figuratively, not literally. I thought a large lunch would help with this.” She panicky-pointed at the door while a small crowd billowed out of the lecture hall. “There was—were so many people here. I thought I would be denied or asked to make revisions. This is a lot all at once, and the first time I did this it was a lot easier.”

“I completely understand.” He smiled, although he too seemed to squirm at the sight of the vomit.

“You do? Are you a—were you a part of the….” Groping for the words in her mind, Cemone fidgeted with her fingers: a strange introduction.

“My name is Nolan Derobe.” He put his hand out which she shook. “Dr. Cart asked me to watch your examination. I was really impressed with your work.” Forcing the formality, Cemone looked into the eyes of the stranger to properly shake his hand, only to be surprised by the sight of him. Nolan Derobe had gray eyes and curly black hair: a remarkable combination of traits that Cemone had never seen. Cemone had never been startled by a man’s face before, so when she saw Nolan presenting his hand, she was unaware of what she should do. He might have looked supernatural if it weren’t for his one snaggletooth and snub nose. However even with these two distinctions, Cemone felt obliged to act in a manner she had never before—one she considered an affront to her self-respect, both compromising and embarrassing. Suddenly she laughed. It was only for a moment, but it was made noticeable by her immediately covering her mouth afterward.

“Oh God, I wasn’t laughing at you. I really wasn’t.” Cemone could feel the heat of herself blushing. Her mind ran at maximum to conceal her shame. In her panic, she tried to change the subject, but could only come up with negative conversation starters: like how vomit never looks like anything you’ve ever eaten, or that Nolan looked like he might faint at the sight of her wretch. Aggravated with the brain capable of two doctorates and zero conversational skills she reacted audibly. “Shit, shit, balls, fuck, Hitler, bugger, crap, anus, cunt, shit.”

Nolan slowly removed his presented hand while changing his happy expression. Cemone wanted to explain herself, but her hand quickly found her mouth again. The shared silence created a boiling pool of awkward regret that seared the inside of Cemone. She wanted to die in her little mental stew, but couldn’t. For metaphysical reasons. They stared at each other for some time before Nolan raised his first question.

“Are you upset with me?”

“No.”

“Have we met before? Possibly in an informal capacity?”

“I’m sure we haven’t.”

“Do you have a condition that I’m unaware of?”

“I can see why you might think that, but I pretty sure I’m considered normal across all spectrums,” Cemone answered. Nolan gave Cemone a look of sympathy as well as confusion. He was about to say something when a large group of doctors exiting the lecture hall found them. Dr. Cart was at the front of the group and quickly spotted Cemone.

“’The Spanish Inquisition,’ she called it. Cemone, I think I speak for everyone present when I say you were unbelievable. I’m sure you would have even impressed Ferdinand the Second!”

Cemone smiled at her professor’s joke. It seemed to distract her from the embarrassing moment.

“Thank you, Doctor. It did seem easier this time,” she lied.

“Well, that’s because this time, you were the only one in the room that seemed to know what the hell you were talking about.” Dr. Cart had noticed Nolan and decided to include him. “In her first examination, she tried to explain how one could override conservation of mass.” Dr. Cart laughed at the concept as Nolan smiled along with the old man. It was only after Dr. Cart’s chortle did he begin to recognize Nolan. “Tell me, Cemone, do you know who this is?” Nolan’s smile began to fade as he anticipated Dr. Cart’s next sentence. “When I invited you, I wasn’t sure you’d make it in time. But when I thought of the short list of people that could appreciate Cemone’s work, the first name I thought of was the Geisha of Columbia.” Nolan immediately looked down at the vomit and gave a laugh that seemed rehearsed.

“Yes, that’s me,” Nolan confirmed regretfully. “’The Geisha of Columbia University.’” Cemone could see the somber disdain Nolan had in his nickname. She assumed it had to do with Nolan being compared to a Japanese prostitute.

“Cemone, do you know what a geisha is?” Dr. Cart cheerfully asked.

“I believe they are Japanese prostitutes, Doctor,” she said timidly, disliking the idea of Dr. Cart thinking she knew such things.

“You’re close—actually you’re very wrong. While a prostitute satisfies to the wants of the body, a geisha panders to the mind.”

“Yes, though they usually do it through song and dance. Not through nebula models and blackbody refraction indices,” Nolan clarified. “That’s why I hate the stupid nickname.”

“It’s cute,” Dr. Cart objected.

“It belittles my work,” he replied. Cemone felt bad for Nolan. She could hear a sincere desolation in his voice: one that would demand action from her in the name of empathy.

“Nolan,” Cemone began, “if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure you would look lovely in a kimono,” she said, smiling. Dr. Cart laughed at her joke immediately, and Nolan’s grimace broke into an awkward grin. With his face alight, Cemone began to feel the same impulse she had felt when she first saw Nolan. Although this time she need not worry about her giggle. The cheerful feeling was shared by all, only stopping when Dr. Cart looked down.

“Goodness,” he cried. “What’s on the floor?”