I’ve spent so long building up an image of myself at school—an indestructible two-dimensional mask—that I forget sometimes it’s only me who sees behind it, sees who I actually am. I love chemistry, biology, and physics so much I could marry the subjects and have this huge polygamous family, and I love all those criminal science investigation shows and films about mutants, but it doesn’t mean I can’t also like sappy things like The Notebook and When Harry Met Sally. “I like happy endings,” I tell her. Her smile turns into a grin. “Me too,” she says.
