A L S O_ T O D A Y

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BAD CHEMISTRY | PAGE 1, 2
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Week 2

Driving to school, I decide that I will let Tracy run today's experiment. She can be a control freak, I'll get good data and we'll both be happy in the end. So after she finishes humming "Mandy" and performing her test tube ritual -- washing, rewashing, drying, arranging, affixing tiny white labels -- I become her personal valet. She barks out orders from her laminated outline of an outline and I fetch chemicals or read off concentrations while she records them on her chart, an elaborate spreadsheet she's concocted that resembles a quarterly report from IBM.

I'm squinting through my ski goggles, calling out numbers. "The concentration is 10.215," I say. "OK, 10.213, 10.212 and 10.21." "Ten point two one ZERO," Tracy declares loudly. "Don't forget about significant figures, Lori. It's bad form." From across the room the professor nods approvingly before announcing: "Class, I'd just like to remind you to be aware of zeros in your data. Thank you, Tracy, for your attention to accuracy." Tracy blushes under her goggles.

Two hours later, I have verbalized unnecessary zeros 37 times, resisted the urge to crack swan-shaped glassware over Tracy's head and controlled myself from "accidentally" spilling concentrated hydrochloric acid on her double-gloved hands. What's even worse, I notice that according to Tracy's chart, our data isn't looking good. The one thing I have on Tracy is that I'm smarter than she is. She might be more coordinated with a turkey baster, but I know what I'm doing. And I realize that if we use this data, our results will be flawed. When I tell Tracy that if we increase the concentration of each of the substrates we might obtain the desired results, Tracy consults her outline of an outline. "But it says here to use ..."

"I know what it says," I interrupt. "If we want the experiment to work, we need to use a higher concentration." Tracy squints at me as though I'm David Cash and I have just bragged about witnessing a molestation. "I don't know how you grew up, but where I grew up, that's cheating. And if there's one thing I will not do, I will not cheat."

"Fine, have it your way," I shrug, "but if you use this data, you're not going to get a four point zero ZERO!" Tracy and I don't talk for the rest of the lab period.

Week 3

Tracy takes out an even smaller outline of the outline of the original outline and washes the test tubes, but today she's not humming. She seems mildly distracted, which is good for me, because I've already decided to triple the concentration of substrate, which would probably give her a coronary if she found out. Eventually she will find out, when we include this information in our lab write-ups, but for now I decide to keep quiet.

Tracy's surprisingly quiet. She doesn't bother to criticize my measurement techniques or my failure to use the proper instruments. (As opposed to last week, when I used the side of a glass rod instead of a spatula to scrape off some precipitate and Tracy chided: "Would you go to a restaurant and use a steak knife to butter your bread?") So I'm relaxing a bit, using my fingers, doing my usual mix-and-match approach -- a drop or two of this, a fingernail or so of that, an extra few micrograms of this -- when Tracy finally speaks up.

"How do you know the data aren't good?" she asks, staring at her outline of an outline of an outline. I try to give her the big picture of the experiment, the theory behind the project, and show her what we'd see if our data abided by the theory. It amazes me that she can freak out over an extra zero yet have no understanding of the experiment itself. I tell her that if we multiply each substrate concentration by a factor of three, we can include this information in our lab reports, and then we won't be cheating. "Besides," I add, "we have no choice. I think the stock solution must be diluted because all of the other groups are getting bad data too."

"How do you know they're getting bad data?" Tracy asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

"Because I looked at their lab books," I reply, but then Tracy calls me a cheater again and says that people like me will never, ever change.

Week 4

This week Tracy has laminated index cards outlining each step of the procedure. They are coded in red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet to mirror the visible spectrum. She thinks this is hilarious.

"OK," she announces, "we're going to do the whole experiment over again to figure out what went wrong." I tell her that we can't possibly repeat the entire experiment because we have only five hours, and that we should just use the data with the tripled concentrations and make a note of it in our write-ups, but she looks at me as though I just asked her to join me in killing the pope. She walks up to the professor to inform him that out of diligence, we are redoing the experiment to generate better data. The professor beams at Tracy's dedication.

Four hours later, with only a third of the experiment repeated, Tracy asks me to analyze the new data. "It's still useless," I say, "but the numbers with the tripled concentration look better." Tracy studies her watch, sees that we have only an hour left and goes back up to the professor. "Excuse me," she practically chirps, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering if we're being graded on the quality of the data or on how we analyze the data." The professor replies that both are equal factors in the grading process, and Tracy, of course, says, "Thank you so much," before sashaying away.

"How good is the data with the tripled concentrations?" Tracy asks me back at our lab bench.

"Well," I reply, "it's OK, decent at best, but at least you can see distinctive maxima and minima. If we really want good data, we'd have to change the numbers completely. Like this." I sketch out a graph that might be generated from near-perfect data -- data we most certainly don't have.

"But we're being graded on the quality of the data! Isn't there something we can do?" she asks, a hint of desperation in her tone. "I mean, there must be something we can DO!" Her voice is becoming high-pitched and childlike, like she's just sucked on a helium balloon.

"Maybe if I do an Indian chant or something we'll get different results," I joke, trying to calm her down. "I've seen it happen on late-night TV."

Tracy doesn't laugh. Instead, something seems to snap in her. Crack, like a broken wishbone. Suddenly, and with maniacal intensity, she starts erasing numbers, replacing them with values from my made-up graph. Next she whips out her scientific calculator and asks me if numbers like 8.761 and 2.568 will yield the desired curves. I'm speechless.

"Well?!" she demands. "WILL THEY WORK?!" Time is running out and she knows it. She's on the verge of hyperventilating, caught between not wanting to cheat yet needing to get an A. She's creating her own data in a furious frenzy of forgery.

"They'll work," I reply, "but ..."

Within minutes, Tracy has generated a beautiful graph from falsified data. I tell her that I'm using the real data, the data with the tripled concentrations, but Tracy looks me right in the eye and says, "This is the real data, Lori. Don't you remember?" Then she winks awkwardly at me, like a private eye in a bad detective show. I've created a monster. My lab partner has gone from Felix to Frankenstein in less than an hour.

When time is up, Tracy brings her data to the professor. "Did it turn out better when you repeated the procedure?" the professor asks. Tracy smiles and nods. "Well, you certainly worked efficiently," the professor remarks. "I don't know how you got it done so fast."

"You just have to be diligent," Tracy replies, then she turns around and winks at me again, her eyelashes fluttering up and down like those of a mental patient.

Epilogue

Lab is over; it's winter break. I feel lucky to have survived. The other day, I went to check the grades posted up at school. Tracy got an A after having given the professor a Christmas gift. I got an A after having been admitted to medical schools. Tracy isn't applying to medical schools until next year, which consoles me. I wouldn't want to be stuck as her lab partner in gross anatomy. God knows what she'd do with a human body.
SALON | Jan. 13, 1999

Lori Gottleib is a pre-med student and freelance writer living in Los Angeles. Her forthcoming book, "Stick Figure: Diary of My Former Self," has been optioned by Martin Scorsese for film.