Page 5 of Under Pressure

Tyler

“I’d behappy to do it.”

I turn sharply toward her. She’ll do it? After all the shit I gave her? What the hell is wrong with her?

Dr. Price claps his hands jovially. “Excellent.”

He launches into talk of schedules and logistics, but it’s hard to focus over the fact that I’ll be spending the next few months with this girl. Wild, curly brown hair. Soft, gray eyes. Fresh-faced in a way that doesn’t match at all with the Clemons I remember from Research Methods. Based on her answers in class, I had imagined a studious, confident Ravenclaw. I’d never bothered to actually see who responded to what questions, but this wholesome-looking girl looks like she belongs on some Midwest dairy farm, not working in a psychology laboratory.

It burns that I’ll share credit with her, that he believes her study proposal is better. But the worst part is that objectively, he’s right. It’s probably only because biofeedback sounds fancy, though. Involves some kind of special machine and a trained person to do it. I’m not too familiar with it, but I know that my proposal of physical activity is a proven stress reducer. It helped me when I needed it most. Boxing saved my life, became an outlet for my aggression. And Lord knows there was a lot of it.

Dr. Price said my study hadreal added value. He might as well have bitch-slapped me. It’s fine, though. This is an in. A way to make a name for myself, gain experience. I’ll have an actual paper credited to me. And that will mean something when I apply to grad school. I’ll be running my own lab one day. Then I’ll be deciding who’s worthy of a study or not.

“You’re both required to take a human subjects research training online before the Institutional Review Board will approve the study,” he continues. “And, Mia, you’ll need to complete additional certifications in order to be qualified to perform biofeedback. Since your part is more labor intensive every week, Tyler will take lead on analyzing the data.”

We nod our agreement, and I’m glad this actually works in my favor. More responsibility means more credit.

“You’ll need to create a comprehensive standard physical activity each participant will do,” he says to me. “Figure out if it needs to be adjusted for sex, current body weight, all that, and bring it back to me for approval.”

He goes on detailing what Mia and I should decide on together. Prerequisites and disqualifiers for potential participants. An incentive to offer. Developing a questionnaire that will define how we measure self-reported stress levels in individuals we can track throughout the study. How participants should be assigned to each cohort. Balancing pre-qualifying factors like how much they already exercise and how much stress they’re reportedly under.

The list goes on, Mia and I both frantically scribbling in our notebooks after realizing there’s no way we can remember the amount of information he’s throwing at us.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but I’ll be here to help you with any questions that arise, or you can ask the graduate students here in the Stress Lab. And lucky for you, you’ll have each other to rely on as well.”

Yeah, lucky us.

He dismisses us and we exit his office together, walking out of the Stress Lab. Mia waves goodbye to the receptionist, and when the door closes behind her, I turn to her. “Why are you being nice?”

“What?” She startles, actually looking taken aback. Maybe that’s more because of the accusatory way I said it, though.

“Why did you agree? I was an asshole to you yesterday. Is it a mind game? A power play? Because don’t think I owe you anything now.”

She tilts her head to the side, eyes softening with compassion. “Have you ever heard of the Golden Rule?”

Something tickles the back of my mind. My mom telling me to be nicer, using the wordunto, which I always thought was odd because who actually uses that word?

I cross my arms over my chest. “Remind me of it again.”

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” She smiles. “I hope you would have given me the same opportunity to be included if the roles were reversed.”

Yeah, fat chance of that.

She quirks her lips as if she can read my mind on the matter. “But don’t think just because I’m nice, I’m a pushover,” she says sweetly. “We’re equals on this project. Okay?”

Now this attitude I can begrudgingly respect. I nod.

“Good. Do you want to get started on this stuff?” She holds up her notebook with its list of tasks on the page. “We could go to the library. I’ve got a couple hours till my evening class.”

I indicate for her to walk ahead and down the stairs, an icy wind blasting us as soon as we exit the psychology building. We’re supposed to get another four inches of snow tonight.

She burrows into her coat, her shorter legs practically sprinting in an effort to keep up with mine. “Could you—” She quickens her pace to catch my eye. “Could you slow down?”

“It’s twenty degrees out. I’m not waiting around for you.”

What sounds like a growling noise, followed by a lot of mumbling, emanates from her, and I glance over in amusement as she hitches her backpack higher and jogs next to me.

Warm air greets us as we trigger the automatic doors of the library ten minutes later and we take a second to thaw out our frozen faces before securing a free table. The place is eerily silent this early in the semester before it becomes a zoo. The only other time I’ve seen it this quiet is during midterms and finals week when there’s some kind of hive mind going on that mutually forbids everyone from talking.

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