CHAPTER SEVEN

EXTINCTION

( — in conditioning, the weakening of a conditioned association in the absence of a reinforcer or unconditioned stimulus. )

— ♡ —

          THE WAIT IS TORTURING.

          All Rhiannon wants at the moment is to get this interview over with, wishing she hadn't even accepted to come here in the first place, but Beatrice seems to have taken a particular liking to wasting her time. It leaves her awfully restless, watching the woman pace around the room to close the windows, turn on the heater and brew a cup of coffee for herself.

          No one ever acknowledges the massive elephant in the room and Rhiannon knows just how smart this woman is; she didn't become the Dean of Psychology through a mere coincidence or by sheer luck, much like she hasn't gotten to where she is right now by sitting back and pretending to not notice what's going on around her.

          Beatrice Northrop is successful because she fought for it—she fought for her rights and for her titles, for her experiments and for her department. If that doesn't make her a true inspiration, then Rhiannon has no idea what does. They belong to two completely different worlds, though you can always find a halfway point (it's no secret to anyone Psychology and Neurosciences can be intimately connected, but Social Psychology still has a long way ahead of it), but there's something there.

          Unfortunately, the thread that connects Rhiannon and Beatrice is thin and it goes by the name of Connor Duncan, which is certainly not strong enough to make Rhiannon want to sit here in silence for much longer. If anything, thinking about him merely makes her skin crawl, with icy stalagmites threatening to rip through her skin from the inside out.

          "We're not just trying to interview potential participants here, you know," Beatrice begins, and Rhiannon jumps on her seat when her voice resonates in the silent office. Before that, the only sounds inside the room were the faint buzzing of the heating system and the soft roaring of the tiny coffee machine, set on one of the corners. "Professor McCall and I are also trying to get to know our students, especially those we still haven't worked with. Do you take any Psychology courses?"

          "Brain and Cognition," Rhiannon replies. "I'm more into . . . Neurosciences, and that was one of the only courses I could take that also brushed against Psychology. I guess." Beatrice nods, setting a Styrofoam cup in front of her. Steam rises in waves from the black liquid inside and Rhiannon holds it between her hands, feeling the heat seep through her palms. "Do you do this for all the students you interview? Bribe them with caffeine?"

          "I thought it would be rude of me to be the only one drinking," Beatrice confesses, occupying her seat, on the other side of her mahogany desk, holding her own cup. "Do you drink coffee?"

          "It's part of my soul at this point." Beatrice's lips stretch into a small smile and Rhiannon shifts on her seat, already feeling like she has talked too much. She doesn't usually do this, especially with people she barely knows, and she can't possibly remember having exchanged more than two words with Beatrice in the past. "My sister once told me I was going to die from a caffeine overdose. I told her if this was going to be the death of me, that's definitely how I want to go."

          "Your sister?" Rhiannon nods, with dread creeping up her spine. Stephanie is a Crowcrest alumna and some professors still talk about her, as younger siblings are destined to continuously live in the shadow of the older ones, and, God, Rhiannon hates having everyone compare the two of them. "Stephanie, isn't it? She was brilliant, that girl. One of the brightest I've ever taught."

          "Yeah. She used to get that a lot. I get that a lot too, but it's mostly coming from people who want to remind me of how smart she is."

          "Oh." Beatrice blinks. "Oh, no, please don't think I'm—I didn't mean to offend you. I wasn't trying to compare you; from what I've heard of you, it seems like you're not following her footsteps, but being her sister doesn't make it okay for people to start drawing comparisons." She sighs, shaking her head. "I have an older sister too. I started my freshman year of high school when she graduated and, throughout those four years, I kept being bombarded by stuff like Julia this, Julia that, and, God, I don't know how I lasted so long without snapping at someone. Still, at the end of the day, the only person you have to be like the most is you—not your parents, not your siblings, not your friends."

          Rhiannon thinks that eases the palpable tension in the office, even though she's still shaking and the Styrofoam cup repeatedly bangs against her teeth whenever she brings it to her lips; she has, somehow, managed to slice it open on the border and it often stabs her gum, filling her mouth with the coppery taste of blood.

          It lingers in her tongue, much like how smoke effortlessly gets woven into your clothes and hair. The worst part is when smoke isn't the thing attached to you that you hate the most—the worst part is when that thing happens to be all of you, body and soul, whatever that is, if there even is such a thing.

          The first questions are pretty straightforward. Beatrice asks her for her full name, birthday, place of birth, preferred pronouns (even though she had referred to her as 'miss' when she called her in the waiting room) and field of studies. Rhiannon answers them with no problem, though her mind insists on taking her back to the brief conversation she exchanged with Connor earlier today and to how Jude is still God knows where.

          Rhiannon Cameron Ford, February 22 1997, Vofield, Nova Scotia, she/her, neurosciences.

          She gives a diagnostic interview—or so Beatrice calls it—and fills numerous personality tests, with both of these instruments being used to eliminate any candidates with a criminal history and any medical or psychological problems that might determine them unfit to partake in the experiment. Rhiannon is more than fine, if you manage to ignore the slow decay of her relationships, her grades and the money in her bank account, and she fills the scales and answers the interview questions with a clear conscience, but there's a voice in the back of her head that insists on reminding her this might be a terrible idea.

          There are some things you can't take back. Signing up for this experiment is one of them, along with any consequences it will bring for her and for anyone else who gets involved.

          "Why do you want to be a part of this experiment?" Beatrice questions. Her dark eyes stare deep into Rhiannon's, watching her every move and microexpression.

          Rhiannon fidgets, staring down at her hands, set over her lap. "For the money. I'm sort of in a tight situation at the moment and I know that, if we get paid, that will only happen if we get chosen as participants, but I don't have time for a job right now and the money I made from my summer jobs won't last me forever." She risks a shy glance up at Beatrice. "I'm not going to lie to you. I have absolutely zero interest in Psychology. I don't even know what this experience is about and I'm almost certain you're supposed to tell the participants what they're in for." 

          "Unless it's a blind experiment. We're not allowed to reveal every single detail to the public just yet, as we don't want to induce expectations on the students and attract even more attention from the media, but there are some things we can say." She flips through the chart in front of her and Rhiannon mentally curses Matteo for having talked her into this—she was perfectly fine worrying about her studies and her family and her bank account, but now she has to worry about this damn experiment as well. "The main focus here is a phenomenon called diffusion of responsibility, along with the bystander effect. Have you heard of them?"

          "Sort of."

          Beatrice straightens her back, as this is her domain, her natural habitat, and Rhiannon has noticed even the humblest, most modest people have a tendency to brag about their knowledge about their area of expertise when solicited (though others choose to do it even when no one ever asks).

          "Basically, people tend to take less responsibility for an action or inaction when other people are present," Beatrice explains. "Similarly, when other people are present, individuals tend to be less helpful of victims, with the strength of this effect growing along with the number of bystanders—the odds of any of them doing something to help decrease."

          Rhiannon's eyes widen and she tightens the grip on the arms of the armchair she's sitting on, her fingernails digging into the plush. "So you're thinking about potentially endangering someone's life just to prove a point?"

          Beatrice knits her brows together. "No. Of course not. I think it's good that you're asking these questions, but one of our main and many concerns is ensuring the maximum safety of everyone involved in this experiment, including that of the participants. You're still college students, after all; you might think you have everything under control and don't need anyone's help, but you're all a lot frailer than you know. All of us are."

          "Because of our humanity?"

          Beatrice nods. "When hasn't it been about our humanity?"

— ♡ —

          JUDE IS IN HIS DORM ROOM AT THE END OF THE DAY. Night is falling, drowning the campus in shades of purple, blue and orange, thanks to the streetlights, and the temperature drops several degrees in the span of an hour . . . or maybe even less. Either way, Rhiannon eagerly crosses the campus, with the crisp gusts of wind biting at her skin, and her teeth crackle against each other as ice fills the cavities between her ribs.

          He's there too, inside her rib-cage, but, at this point, it feels like Jude is its permanent occupier. His name is carved into her bones, to the point of her heartbeat spelling it out, and her brain just knows it's like coming home. He's standing inside after she knocks and pushes the door open, and she finds him pulling his knit scarf from around his neck, standing by the bed.

          His face lights up like a beacon when their eyes meet and she almost forgets all about the terrible day she has had. Isla told her Gabriel has finally found his ghostwriter (who just so happens to be that guy from the waiting room, Rowan, or something), which is something they no longer have to be concerned about, but Rhiannon still knows there are plenty of shady things unfolding in the shadows. That's a given.

          There are few certainties in life, but death, Crowcrest being shady and Jude's inextinguishable love for The Beatles certainly qualify as examples of them.

          Jude explains he went home for the day, as his parents wanted to have that debriefing conversation about Stephanie and Aaron's wedding and how he felt about not being asked to be a best man. Even though Rhiannon doesn't wish to relive her memories from that day, as everything that could have possibly gone wrong did go wrong, she still falls to his bed to listen. After all, the Sargents are her family, in a way.

          It's a funny story, actually, but more in a morbidly funny way.

          It's not like Ezra Sargent and Aaron had been particularly close before the big fall-out and after Jude's decision to stand by Rhiannon, but, seeing as it was a last-minute decision, Ezra just had to step in and take Jude's place. Though Rhiannon was never asked to be a bridesmaid in the first place and the bitter taste of it still lingers in her mouth, Jude barely even complained about Aaron's betrayal; after all, it made sense for Aaron to support Stephanie, who supported Christopher and Madeleine instead of her own sister.

          What hurt was knowing she had ruined Jude and Aaron's friendship by association. Being an outsider to all the Ford-Sargent drama, he got along relatively well with both families, as the only thing that mattered to him was making Steph happy, and, at the time, even she handled being around them like the responsible lady she was raised to be.

          They played baseball, went out to the movies, watched ferries vanish into the fog weighing down on the entire town of Vofield and promised to not ever let anything come between them. Until the scandal came along and messed everything up (better yet, Rhiannon screwed everything up, with Connor's support), that is.

          "How are you?" she asks, kicking off her Converse sneakers and crossing her legs over his dark-blue duvet. "Sorry for . . . you know. Never asking. I assumed you didn't want to talk about it."

          Jude shrugs, sitting next to her with a leg beneath him, and turns to face her. "I'm not sure. It's still really weird." She sadly nods, even though he keeps his head down and doesn't look at her, being too busy tracing the yellow threads of her jeans by her knees. "I don't know what they were expecting me to say. It sucked, obviously, but there really isn't anything I can do about it, is there? I stand by what I said and I don't regret any of it."

          "Jude," she mutters, in a clogged voice.

          "It's fine." He finally looks up, hazel eyes twinkling, and her chest tightens when he takes her hands in his, his thumbs gently drawing circles against her skin. "It's fine. Okay? Your parents overreacted and, like, I would have been pissed too if I was in their shoes because, God, you screwed up pretty badly"—she tries to smile, but ultimately fails, as he's right—"but what they did to you was unfair. It was cruel. Pulling the rug from beneath your feet when you needed stability was uncalled for."

          "Connor talked to me. Before my interview with Northrop."

          "I know. Isla told me." She scoots forward, inching closer to him, and he moves too, almost imperceptibly. "Try to not let him get to your head, okay? You already have too much on your plate, and he's not worth it, you know he isn't; all he does is lie and manipulate to succeed and, deep down, everyone knows where he'll end up sooner or later."

          "I'm scared they'll try to force me to become someone I'm not. With the experiment, and all." She sniffles and he raises a hand to cup her cheek with it, with Rhiannon being awfully glad they're alone in the room, as Matteo wouldn't let them live it down. "I know you still have to go through your interview, but this sounds like the Stanford Prison Experiment a little too much for comfort, with the whole let's force good people to do bad things because we're all terrible people at our core mentality behind it. I don't want them to change me." She looks up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I don't."

          "You're stronger than that. You are," Jude insists, when she looks away. "You are, Rhea. I swear on everything I am. The prophet in me agrees with it too, and you know I'm rarely wrong when it comes to this sort of stuff."