The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

“Because.” Because my throat will dry up and my brain
will shut down and I will be so bad that someone from the
audience will take out a crossbow and shoot me in the
kneecap. “I’m not ready. To speak. In public.”
“Of course you are. You’re a good public speaker.”
“I’m not. I stammer. I blush. I meander. A lot. Especially in
front of large crowds, and—”
“Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. “What
do I always tell you?”
“Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel pipette’?”
“The other thing.”
She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a
mediocre white man.’ ”
“More than that, if possible. Since there is absolutely
nothing mediocre about you.”
Olive closed her eyes and took enough deep breaths to pull
back from the verge of a panic attack. When she opened them,
her adviser was smiling encouragingly.
“Dr. Aslan.” Olive grimaced. “I really don’t think I can do
this.”
“I know you don’t.” There was some sadness in her
expression. “But you can. And we’ll work together until you
feel up to the task.” This time, she put both her hands on
Olive’s shoulders. Olive was still hugging her laptop to her
chest, like she would a life buoy in the open sea, but the touch
was oddly comforting. “Don’t worry. We have a couple of
weeks to get you ready.”
You say that. You say “we,” but I’ll be the one to speak in
front of hundreds of people, and when someone asks a threeminute-long
question meant to get me to admit that deep down
my work is poorly structured and useless, I’ll be the one to