Star Pupil

There are people you meet in life, by chance or by design, with whom you feel an instant connection. A spark, perhaps. In my more romantic moments, I believe that silly old adage that we are all made up of tiny pieces of exploded stars, and that when we meet someone crafted from the same source, a flame is ignited within us both. But even in my rational, scientific frame of mind, I must admit that there are times when you meet a stranger, and feel an inherent kinship. You know your life will never be the same.

When I first met Sara Sidle, that didn't happen.

When I first met Sara, she irritated the living daylights out of me. I couldn't get a word in edgewise while she peppered me with questions. Finally I made up a little sign that said "I'll get to that later, Miss Sidle," and held it up whenever those long fingers shot into the air, interrupting my finely tuned lectures.

She'd follow me into the hallway after class, arguing with my theories and presenting evidence from Moore or Hardaway that I was wrong. I'd just grit my teeth, force myself to remember that I was probably this annoying at twenty-five, and systematically explain all the faulty research that Moore and Hardaway had conducted.

"What about Bennett?" she asked one day. "Didn't he work with you in Minnesota? Shouldn't his findings coincide with yours?"

It was only then that I realized she was doing her homework. Not the facile assignments that I doled out in class, but the background study that few take the time to tackle. They figure that their esteemed professors will point them in the right direction for a precise education. Sara Sidle, however, was of the opinion that education was absorbing all information, then deciding what was right.

I was of the same opinion.

My assistant, Maxwell, had no patience for the inquisitor. "I'll bet she spends two hours every night coming up with all those questions," he said often, rolling his eyes and sighing loudly whenever she approached us. Sara was seemingly oblivious, pausing a moment to blink those big brown eyes at him, then diving right into her latest inquiry.

It grew endearing, really. Her hair was perpetually messy, and she had a habit of carrying too much at any given time, so that she'd have to hold her coffee cup in one hand, books in the other, binder under her chin, and several pens in her mouth. One afternoon, she gathered up all her paraphernalia only to realize she'd left a pen on her desk. Catching her slumping shoulders out of the corner of my eye, I leaned over and picked up the pen, popping it between her startled lips.

She blushed a deep red, looking at the floor. "You're leaving soon," she mumbled, trying to keep the pen in her mouth.

"Off to the Amazon," I confirmed. "It's the mecca of entomology. In a square mile, you can find upwards of 50,000 species of insect."

"That sounds nice," she said, and I was surprised to realize she meant it. "Do you, like... need help? With research or anything?"

"Maxwell will be there. It's his first trip, so he's really looking forward to it."

"Oh. Okay." She paused. "Can you... put my pen behind my..."

"Oh, yeah, sure." I plucked the pen from her mouth and slid it behind her ear, smoothing a lock of hair over it. She blushed again, and I watched, fascinated.

"You ever hear that old saying," she asked, "about how when two people meet and there's a spark, it's because they both have pieces of an old star within them?"

"Yes, I've heard something like that."

"I used to think that was why fireflies lit up." She shrugged and gave a self-conscious grin. "Thought it was nice, how they had such a clear sign to tell them when they'd met their counterpart."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she eventually gave up waiting, and headed out the door.

Two weeks into our stay in the rainforest, I got my first e-mail from Sara Sidle, asking how my trip was going. I spent two hours typing up a response.