The Love Hypothesis. Laura Steven

to make a boy like you. You are the best person in the world, so. You can take poison on that.’

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘Ah, maybe that is a German idiom.’ Vati frowns and strokes his stubbled jaw. ‘I think you say, “You can bet your life on that”?’

      I chuckle. ‘That makes more sense.’

      He stands up and ruffles my hair, which is brave, considering it hasn’t been washed in days. ‘My password is Bärchen, followed by your birthday. Lower case, no umlaut. Because the university is racist, of course.’

      ‘Of course.’ I grin and hug him round the waist. ‘Thanks, Vati.’

      ‘No problem.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘As thanks, you can visit me in prison after I have removed your father’s throat with a machete.’

      Maybe my German isn’t as bad as I thought.

      A few minutes later, I’m back in bed with the full paper loaded on my laptop. My eyes skim down the five paragraphs over and over, trying to make sense of what I’m reading.

      According to Sousa and other leading scientists in this field of study, the Brazilian Honey Beetle – particularly the female of the species – secretes absurdly high concentrations of an incredibly sophisticated sex pheromone, and researchers have now discovered a way to distill these chemicals into pill form, which are supposedly safe for human consumption.

      When tested on rats, and later monkeys, the pills artificially increased an organism’s ability to attract a mate tenfold. More relevantly, the report goes on to detail the clinical trials conducted with actual human participants, and while the results were not as potent as they were in rats and monkeys, the pills were found to quadruple the participants’ ability to attract a sexual partner.

      It sounds ludicrous. But for some reason, I sit up a little straighter. Because despite my intense cynicism, something about the idea captures my attention. And I’m no idiot when it comes to science. Okay, so pheromones are hardly my field of expertize, but the study and subsequent clinical trials at least sound plausible.

      I spend the rest of the movie only half paying attention. Meticulously reading through each and every one of Sousa’s articles, I familiarize myself with the subject as best I can. It sounds pretty interesting. And the best part? There’s a link to buy the pills directly from the researchers. They’re running a special trial price of $99 for your first month’s supply – plus an eye-watering shipping charge to the US.

      Despite my natural stance as an unfaltering cynic, I find myself genuinely considering it. Maybe I’m just feeling especially vulnerable after a day of rejection and loneliness, but the idea that there could be an easy fix out there is beyond tempting.

      I imagine how good it would feel to walk into my next AP Physics class and have Haruki gaze at me with newfound attraction. I imagine walking the hallways and no longer feeling invisible. I imagine the confidence and self-worth I would feel, and the thought is so powerful that it almost knocks the wind out of me.

      I imagine Haruki finally reciprocating my feelings. Bringing me bagels, making me playlists, sharing my hobbies and interests.

      Shivering, I pull myself back to reality. It’s a lot of money, and there’s no guarantees the drugs will actually work. Besides, I’m supposed to be saving for college. MIT doesn’t offer merit-based scholarships, because everyone who applies is a veritable genius, and I don’t qualify for needs-based financial aid because my dads are tenured academics. They can help a little with tuition fees, but I still need to have a cushion under me to cover rent and food and all those other inconvenient human necessities. And since the comic-book store which used to employ me closed down, I’ve been out of work and struggling to find a new gig.

      And yet . . . I can’t get that image of myself out of my head. Chin tilted up, shoulders pushed back, walking with pride and self-assurance. Like Keiko does. The way she carries herself is something I’ve always admired. It’s like she knows she’s beautiful and deserving; like she knows she’s worth something. I want that for myself. I want that so badly it churns in my chest, a sinkhole forming in my ribcage.

      It’s how I feel around my dads, I realize with a pang. Loved and wanted and respected. They make me feel funny, smart, beautiful. Special. Like nobody in the world could interest or inspire them more than me.

      That’s it. That’s the way I want to feel all the time, no matter where I am or who I’m with. Because it’s the greatest feeling in the entire world.

      Suddenly I identify the strange hollowness I experienced when I looked at the pictures on Vati’s computer. This time next year, I’ll be living hundreds of miles away from my dads. What if I never get to feel that special again? What if I go through my college career – and the rest of my life – feeling the same way I do when Haruki Ito looks at me with nothing but apathy? The thought sends a lance of sadness through my heart.

      Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach under my bed for my purse and pull out my debit card. A potentially imbecilic use of my birthday cheques, but the red-wine buzz has taken the edge off my inhibitions.

      The Matching Hypothesis has been proven countless times. But what if this is the antidote?

4

       The house is dank. The walls are dark. I’ve been here before.

       The ceiling shifts and warps, and I know I am alone. I am small, and so terribly, terribly alone. My body tries to sweat, tries to cry, but there’s nothing left inside. I am a husk, and the end is near. The walls bleed darkness, and the darkness bleeds fear.

      Somewhere, a door opens.

      I jolt awake, my snoozed alarm blaring into the sun-dappled room. Heart thudding, I turn it off and throw the tangled duvet off my sweaty legs.

      I fucking hate that dream.

      Every single morning, without fail. In that half-sleep, half-wake state of lucid cloudiness, the exact same dream. I push my fingers into my eyes until they turn into kaleidoscopes, forcing out the mental image of that damn room.

      I was adopted by my dads when I was tiny, and I think these dreams are memories of my past life – of which I recall almost nothing. I have no reason to. Whoever my birth mother was, she’s not around anymore. And my dads are. So why does my subconscious torture me? Why does it force me back into that room day after day after day?

      For as long as I can remember, I’ve had these dreams, or flashbacks, or whatever the hell they are, while I’m dozing. And I still don’t have the self-control to stop snoozing my alarm. Figures.

      I pad downstairs in my Buckbeak slippers. Dad, who is much more well-rested than Vati and thus less likely to replace the sugar with arsenic, lays out the usual breakfast buffet. This sounds impressive, but really it’s just a bunch of half-eaten boxes of cereal arranged by sugar content. As usual, I reach for the higher end of the spectrum, while Dad chows down on some sort of bran-based atrocity, washed down with tap water. Vati isn’t into breakfast, so he pours himself a giant coffee and slumps into the third chair. For all his japes and hijinks, he is not a morning person.

      ‘What are you guys doing today?’ I ask, crunching into a brimming bowl of Lucky Charms. I chuck one to Sirius under the table, but he just stares at it like it’s a hand grenade.

      Dad finishes his mouthful of bran before responding plainly, ‘I plan to visit the police station, on account of the fact we have been burgled.’

      Vati and I both gape at him. ‘What?’

      ‘It is the most likely explanation.’

      I look at Dad in bewilderment. ‘Explanation for what?’

      ‘The missing object.’ His face betrays no emotion or affectation. He is impossible to read, even when you’ve lived with him as long as I have.