Chapter 1: Lab Nerd vs. Live TV

The research center’s budget was on life support. No, seriously. It was that bad.

Honestly, it felt like we were one bounced check away from taping cardboard over the windows and selling plasma for pipettes. The air in the conference room was so tense you could practically hear the grant proposals weeping. I remember thinking, if someone sneezed, the whole place might implode.

For the sake of that $800,000 prize, I’d signed up—yep, me, of all people—to carry the hopes of the whole center and join an American talent competition. Not that I had any illusions about my "star quality." If anything, my only real skill was creative self-deprecation.

I mean, we’d already tried bake sales and grant applications. If there’d been a dunk tank fundraiser for postdocs, I’d have been first in line—anything to keep the lights on. But this? National TV, glitter, and the possibility of instant humiliation? That was a new low—or high... depending on how you looked at it.

On the day of the live broadcast, nerves buzzed in the air so thick you could practically taste it. Contestants from every walk of life were itching to show off. It felt like everyone was about to jump out of their skin.

Backstage buzzed like a beehive on Red Bull. Dancers did splits. A guy in a sequined jacket practiced card tricks, his hands flashing so fast it made my head spin. Someone was tuning a violin that looked like it cost more than my car. I tried not to gawk, but honestly, it was like a circus back there—and I was the only one who’d missed rehearsal.

“I’ve got a Level 10 piano certificate.”

A woman in a gown so sparkly it could probably blind pilots flashed her credentials at the camera, and her smile was as rehearsed as her scales. She looked like she could play Mozart with one hand and take a selfie with the other.

“I was in a K-pop group for three years.”

That got some serious side-eye from the rest of us. I swear, the girl looked like she’d stepped straight out of a music video—perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect confidence. I tried not to roll my eyes, but wow.

Then the host turned to me. He grinned, all teeth: “So, what’s your special talent?”

“I can... repair missiles?”

You could hear a pin drop. For a second, I was pretty sure a producer somewhere choked on their coffee. And I kind of wanted to join them.

This quarter, our research funding was deep in the red—so deep the numbers looked radioactive. A week earlier—

We’re talking numbers so red, even the university’s finance office sent us a sympathy fruit basket with a card that read, “Hang in there!” I’m not kidding. My advisor and I were squatting on the curb outside the center, totally lost, staring at each other in silence.

We watched helplessly as the project team next door was about to pull ahead of us. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash—except we were the ones without airbags.

The rival team strutted by with new laptops and matching hoodies, their laughter echoing like a taunt. I could practically see dollar signs floating over their heads, just dancing around, mocking us.

Suddenly, an entertainment news segment flashed across the giant LED screen on the corner of Main and 5th:

“American Talent Show Shakes Up TV! First prize: $800,000!”

My eyes lit up right away, and I said, “If we had that $800,000 as project funding, I’d lose my mind.”

The possibilities ran wild—new equipment, actual pay for the undergrads, maybe even a working coffee machine. For a moment, I could almost taste victory. Or at least, coffee that didn’t taste like sadness and despair.

Who would’ve thought—as soon as I said that, my advisor smacked his forehead and gave me that look. You know, the one that says, “I just got an idea, and you’re about to regret it.”

His glasses slid down his nose. He looked at me like he’d just cracked Fermat’s Last Theorem. I felt a chill run down my spine—this couldn’t be good.

My right eyelid started twitching. Uh-oh.

That’s always been my bad omen. Like, ‘brace yourself, Sam, here comes the chaos.’ Seriously, nothing good ever follows that twitch.

“Sam! For the sake of our group’s future—” He paused dramatically, as if prepping for a TED Talk.

“I’ve decided to send you to the talent show!”

It hit me like a brick to the face. I mean, what?!

I swear, I almost dropped my coffee. My mind went totally blank. Was he serious? Was this some kind of twisted pep talk? Or had he finally snapped?

No way! I didn’t want to join a talent show! I mean, seriously. No. Freaking. Way.

Game shows, maybe. But talent shows? That’s a whole new level of public humiliation. My social anxiety started tap dancing in steel-toed boots.

But protesting was useless. Here was his logic:

“Out of all our group members, you’re the only woman. You’re our only shot.”

He said it like it was a scientific fact, not a wild leap of logic. I could already hear HR’s alarm bells blaring in my head, but he just kept going like it was no big deal.

My fellow grad students chimed in:

“Sam, go win us that $800,000!”

“We can’t let the next-door team beat us!”

They sounded like they were sending me off to storm the beaches of Normandy, not a reality show. All I needed was a pep band and some confetti. Maybe a parade float, too.

The way they acted, it was like they were sending me to spin the Wheel of Fortune to win a fridge. Or maybe a lifetime supply of ramen.

I half expected someone to hand me a lucky rabbit’s foot. Instead, I got a pat on the back and a half-eaten protein bar. Figures.

And just like that, I was packed off to the talent show. No time to process. Just go, go, go.

They even made me a good-luck playlist for the ride there—full of songs like “Eye of the Tiger” and “Don’t Stop Believin’.” I tried to laugh, but my stomach was in knots. Who knew grad students could be so dramatic?

Before I knew it, it was competition day.

My nerves were shot. I’d barely slept. The only thing keeping me upright was the promise of coffee and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d get eliminated quietly. Honestly, I was already planning my exit speech.

This show claimed to have a multi-million-dollar investment, and every second was live. No do-overs, no editing out the awkward silences.

The cameras were everywhere—like, everywhere. I swear, even the bathroom stalls had warning signs about microphones. I checked twice, just in case.

The first episode was all about self-introductions on camera. Just you, a spotlight, and the knowledge that your awkwardness was immortalized forever.

First impressions matter. Big time. This part was crucial—it set the tone and would affect voting later. No pressure, right?

The producers kept reminding us: “America loves a good story. Make it count!” No chill. None.

So everyone took it super seriously. Like, Olympic-level serious.

Some contestants practiced their intros in the mirror, others paced and muttered motivational quotes. One girl did a full-on power pose before stepping on stage. I just tried not to hyperventilate.

Standing backstage, I looked around at the sea of gorgeous women and went quiet. All that confidence and poise? It was like a beauty pageant with a PhD requirement.

And a little insecurity. Okay, maybe a lot.

Why did everyone have such shiny, flawless, perfectly styled hair? Did they have a secret stylist hidden backstage?

They looked like they’d stepped out of a shampoo commercial. I caught my reflection in a window and winced. My hair looked like it’d lost a fight with a Tesla coil. Seriously, I could’ve powered a small city with the static.

I touched my own split ends and frizz, almost in tears. It was a disaster zone up there.

I tried to smooth it down, but my fingers just got caught. Great. Maybe if I stood really still, nobody would notice the frizz halo. Or maybe I’d just blend in with the lighting rig.

“All contestants, get ready to go on stage!” someone shouted. Cue instant panic.

With that, the staff’s call had everyone springing into action. It was like a flash mob of beauty and nerves.

The beauties all whipped out little mirrors to check their makeup. I just stood there, wondering if chapstick counted as cosmetics.

Some were stretching and warming up. I considered stretching, but decided I’d probably pull something.

Some were singing high notes to open up their voices. I hummed quietly, hoping no one noticed.

I just stood there like a background extra. Waiting for my cue to shuffle onstage.

I tried to look busy, but my only prop was a half-dead phone. I scrolled through my notes app for the millionth time, pretending to be super focused. In reality, I was just refreshing my to-do list.

A girl next to me asked, “What are you performing? Aren’t you going to get ready?” Her tone was friendly, but I felt like a deer in headlights.

I nervously rubbed my nose and laughed awkwardly. My brain completely blanked. What was I supposed to say?

She raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to say something impressive. I just shrugged, hoping she’d buy it.

She took my non-answer as some mysterious act. Maybe she thought I was playing 4D chess.

“Wow, you’re so cool and aloof! I’ve got high hopes for you.” She sounded genuinely impressed, and I almost felt bad for her misplaced faith.

She gave me a thumbs-up and walked away, leaving me alone, dazed and confused. I just stood there, blinking.

I stared after her, wondering if she’d ever been this wrong about anyone before. Probably not.

Oh, God!

It’s because I don’t know how to do anything! Not a thing! Panic rising...

I felt like an ugly duckling in a flock of swans—anxious and out of place. I mean, who let me in here?

I tried to remember if I’d ever felt this awkward in my life... Maybe that time I wore pajamas to a 9 a.m. seminar by accident, but this was a whole new level. This was the Olympics of awkward.

Soon, the contestants went up one by one. I could feel my heart pounding out a countdown.

Everyone was dying to show off their talents in front of the cameras. I could practically hear the hunger for applause.

“I’m proficient in all kinds of instruments—eight certificates: Level 10 piano, Level 10 violin, Level 10 guitar...” (Level 10 is like, the highest certification you can get. These girls were basically musical ninjas.)

“I can do all kinds of dance: jazz, hip-hop, ballroom, ballet...”

“I was in a K-pop group for three years, tons of experience, millions of followers...” (Yeah, not just "debuted"—she was the real deal.)

Jeez, listening to their intros made me feel even more hopeless. Like, what was I even doing here?

I crouched in the corner and texted my advisor:

*Dr. Ellis, I’ve let the team down. I’m definitely getting eliminated in the first round.*

This $800,000 was a hot potato I just couldn’t handle! My hands were already burning.

I almost added a crying emoji, but decided to keep it professional. Sort of. (There may have been an accidental period of keyboard mashing.)

The next second, the host called my name. Heart, meet throat.

“Next up, contestant Samantha Carter!”

“Let’s see what kind of talent she’ll bring us.”

Stiff and trembling, I shuffled onto the stage. My feet felt like they were made of lead.

My palms were sweating so much, I was afraid I’d slip and fall on live TV. The lights were blinding, and I could barely see past the first row. Honestly, I considered faking a faint.

In an instant, every camera was aimed at me. No escape.

Social anxiety kicked in. It was like my brain short-circuited.

So. Many. People.

I could feel every eye, every lens, locked on me. My brain went into static. For a moment, I forgot my own name. Was I even real?

Before this, I’d only ever buried myself in the lab crunching data. When had I ever faced a crowd like this? Never. Not even at karaoke night.

I’d presented at conferences, sure, but those were full of nerds who just wanted to get to the coffee break. This was a whole different battlefield. This was gladiator arena stuff.

The host asked, “So, Samantha, what’s your talent?”

I lowered my head and mumbled, “Uh, um, well... I can repair missiles.”

Those last four words came out with zero confidence. Negative confidence, if that’s possible.

I curled my toes in my shoes, wishing I could dig a hole and crawl inside. Or at least become invisible for a few minutes.

If I could’ve teleported out of there, I would’ve... Beam me up, Scotty. I could almost hear my advisor’s voice in my head: ‘Confidence, Sam! Confidence!’ Yeah, right. Not happening.

Would they see right through me as a fraud who’d slipped into the show? I felt like I had a giant neon “IMPOSTER” sign over my head.

Compared to the other contestants’ almost cheat-code-level skills, my missile repair sounded utterly unremarkable. Like, “Here’s my magic trick: I exist.”

It’s fine. I’d already resigned myself to being eliminated in the first round. At least I’d go out with a whimper, not a bang.

My advisor and fellow grad students couldn’t blame me. If anything, they’d probably thank me for trying.

But maybe it was just my imagination—in the moment after I introduced myself, the whole room went dead silent. Like, horror movie silent.

The judges sitting in front of me were completely blank-faced. Poker faces. Not a twitch.

One of them blinked twice, as if trying to process what I’d just said. The audience seemed frozen in place. I almost laughed.

Luckily, the host was quick on his feet and recovered first. Professional, that guy.

“Contestant Samantha Carter just lightened the mood with a joke! Now she’ll show us her real talent, right?”

He gave me a wink, trying to keep things moving. I could tell he was praying I’d start juggling or break into song. Sorry, buddy.

I coughed twice, bracing myself and telling the truth: “I was rushed and didn’t have time to prepare anything.”

“How about I show everyone the journal article I published last week?” I blurted. Genius, right?

The room went silent again. This was getting to be a habit.

You could hear the air conditioning hum. Someone in the back stifled a laugh. I wanted to join them.

The judges’ eyes widened in disbelief. I could almost see the question marks floating above their heads.

Even the host was tongue-tied. That was a first.

He looked at the camera, then back at me, as if waiting for a punchline. Sorry, no punchline here.

Seeing everyone’s reaction, I figured maybe I hadn’t explained myself clearly. Or maybe I was just too sincere.

True, a published article doesn’t count as a talent. I mean, unless you’re auditioning for “America’s Next Top Nerd.”

It has to be performed live! That’s the rule, right?

So I cleared my throat and spoke confidently:

“I know what I’ll perform!”

“How about a live bilingual literature review, Spanish and English?”

There was a loud clatter.

The host’s microphone hit the floor. Oops.

He scrambled to pick it up, his face a mix of panic and disbelief. I almost apologized.

The judges couldn’t sit still anymore. One shouted at the director, furious:

“Where did you find this contestant? You can’t just make up stunts for publicity!”

The director was losing it too. “How should I know where she came from? Where’s the assistant producer who recruited her—”

The scene descended into chaos. Pure, beautiful chaos.

My vision went dark. Only one thought flashed through my mind:

Oh crap.

I’m toast.

Because the show was broadcast live, the whole chaotic scene was streamed straight into the chat. No filter, no delay.

The chat exploded with memes and gifs almost instantly. My phone buzzed nonstop in my pocket. I half expected it to catch fire.

Even though they cut the feed quickly, it was too late. People had already posted it on Instagram and Twitter. The damage was done.

Within minutes, my face was all over social media. I was suddenly ‘that girl from the talent show.’ Fame, but not the good kind.

Soon, my intro segment was trending. Oh boy.

The trending headline:

“Publicity Stunt Queen Appears on Talent Show!”

I hid in the bathroom, opened Instagram, and my vision went black again. My soul left my body.

My first time trending, and it had to be for this? Of course.

Big thanks to whoever came up with that title. Really. Thanks a lot.

Seriously, how did I become the publicity stunt queen? I didn’t even want to be here!

God, please clear my name! I’ll never make fun of lab safety again!

Every word I said was true! I swear!

If I lied even a little, may all my future articles get desk-rejected! (Please, publishing gods, have mercy.)

The comments under that post were even worse—a disaster zone. Like a digital dumpster fire.

Everyone was flaming me for faking an intellectual persona. Apparently, being a nerd is now a crime.

[LOL, her special skill is missile repair? Why not just fly to Mars?]

[Samantha Carter must be desperate for fame.]

[She says she published in Science? I’ll eat my hat if that’s true.]

[I checked online—there’s not a single paper with her name on it.]

[The first contestant to flop at faking it—girl, you’re infamous now.]

Reading this, I almost fainted. For real. My legs went wobbly.

I was about to clap back at the commenters, but when I tried to reply, it said I needed an account. Figures.

Oh, right—I never made an Instagram account because I was too busy in the lab. Who has time for social media when you’re knee-deep in data?

It felt like shouting into the void. Like arguing with a wall, only the wall is judging you.

I stared at the sign-up page, debating if it was worth the hassle. In the end, I closed the app and slumped against the bathroom stall. What was even the point?

It’s fine. I was about to be eliminated anyway. Problem solved.

I could go back to my lab in peace. Blissful, quiet, untrendy peace.

The entertainment industry was too messy. If I couldn’t handle it, at least I could avoid it. Let the real stars have their spotlight.

Whoever wanted that $800,000 could have it! I was over it.

Worst case, I’d just crank out a few more peer-reviewed articles when applying for funding next month. At least I knew how to do that.

With that settled, I breathed a sigh of relief. Sweet, sweet relief.

Feeling cheerful, I left the bathroom and got ready to call a Lyft home. I deserved a break.

I even considered treating myself to an overpriced latte on the way. Nothing like retail therapy, right? I’d earned it.

In the lobby, staff were reading out the list of contestants eliminated in the first round. I waited, practically humming the Jeopardy theme.

I perked up, listening for my name. It had to be coming.

Next up had to be me. I was ready to walk out with dignity.

Wait, why hadn’t they called me yet? Was there a mistake?

Maybe I was the last one eliminated. Just my luck.

But when the staff finished reading the list, I felt like the sky was falling. My name wasn’t on it.

Wait, why wasn’t I eliminated? This couldn’t be right.

After that performance, anyone could see I was just there as a filler. Literally just background noise.

Why didn’t they kick me out? I wanted to go home!

Let me go! I want to get back to my experiments! Please!

“Contestant Samantha Carter, this is the eighteenth time you’ve asked—you really advanced to the next round.”

The staffer looked exhausted, clutching the clipboard like a shield. I could see the sympathy in her eyes. She probably wanted to let me go, too.

“No, that’s impossible. You must have made a mistake.” I was ready to argue all night.

I sat in the room, close to tears. This was torture.

Across from me, the director and assistant director looked helpless. Like, “How do we deal with this?”

They’d probably never seen anyone begging to quit. I was making reality TV history.

“You saw it yourselves—I really don’t have any talents.” I pleaded my case like a lawyer with nothing left to lose.

“I only joined this show for the $800,000 prize, to use as research funding.” Honesty hour.

Gritting my teeth, I said, “So please, just let me quit.” I was desperate.

The director smiled, eyes narrowed, and threatened me gently:

“No way. You’re already viral—tons of buzz and traffic. If you really want to quit, we’re very reasonable about it. Just pay the $800,000 penalty.”

My eyes went wide. $800,000? That was more than my entire department’s budget.

“Wait, suddenly I think I can stick it out a bit longer.” I wasn’t stupid.

Dang, an $800,000 penalty. That’s a number that’ll keep you up at night.

No wonder the entertainment industry is so lucrative. Maybe I was in the wrong business.

If that money went into buying equipment and research materials, our progress would skyrocket! I could revolutionize the field.

Sometimes you swallow your pride. For $800,000, Samantha Carter can endure anything. Bring it on.

I just had to survive one more round. Easy, right?

With my skills and background, seriously, who would vote for me? The odds were in my favor—finally.

Didn’t get eliminated in round one—round two, I was definitely out! No way I’d make it further.

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s self-soothing and going with the flow. I’d mastered the art of not caring.

Just like when I picked my research direction. Sometimes you just have to roll with it.

Honestly, I wanted to aim for the stars. I really did.

But my eyesight tanked that dream. The universe had other plans.

Dang it, it’s not our fault we’re nearsighted! Genetics, man.

So I settled on missile maintenance and mechanical engineering in aerospace systems. Not bad, but not astronaut material.

As for people online saying they couldn’t find any papers with my name—

That’s because I publish under a different name! Surprise!

Back in school, people made fun of my name, so I got used to publishing under my middle name. It just stuck.

Who knew that would come back to bite me? Irony at its finest.

Whatever, I was bound to get eliminated next round anyway—no need to explain. Let the mystery live on.

After comforting myself, I returned to the dorm determined to coast. No more stress.