The Anti-Heroes

Chapter One EMILY NICHOLS, PHD

Chapter One

E MILY N ICHOLS , P H D

How did I get here?

The question is on my heels as my best friend, Liv, and I circle the Northwestern University track many mornings, where sweat dampens my shirt from running around a giant oval. A metaphor for working hard and just continually looping back to where I started.

I ask myself this question a lot. It’s an almost constant refrain, an unwelcome shadow yanking at my sleeve as I sleepwalk through life, each day some monochromatic version of the previous one. The question pulls up a seat at our breakfast bar, where I watch as Miles eats his daily dry wheat toast and single soft-boiled egg. He plates the egg in a trophy-shaped silver cup he’s had since childhood. To break the shell, he’ll use what was once his teething spoon to bat at the egg ever so delicately, like it’s the world’s most fragile pi?ata. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. Sometimes I just want to grab the egg and smash it on the counter. When the shell finally submits to his gentle pressure, Miles exhales with great relief, as though he’s accomplished something monumental.

How did I get here?

This query follows me every morning, as I leave my plain vanilla condominium Miles has all but moved into, a passionless place I sometimes call “the blando ” because it’s so bland. I live in Evanston, a few miles north of Chicago’s city limits. Miles convinced me I should buy a unit with views of the parking lot instead of the one overlooking Lake Michigan. Liv was my real estate agent, and in her kind way, she tried to encourage me to pick the one with the lake view; there wasn’t that much of a price difference. But Miles pointed out that a northern exposure meant I’d run the air conditioner less frequently, so I opted for the eco-friendly choice.

I can’t be mad at him for caring about preserving resources. I mean, part of what drew me to Miles was his quiet commitment to environmentalism. The first time I met him, he was knee deep in a trash can in front of the Hogan Biological Sciences Building, picking out all the aluminum cans, a bicycle helmet still on his head. I’m embarrassed that I assumed he was unhoused. Imagine my shock when I learned he was not only an associate dean, but one of the people who’d eventually make the decision to hire me.

I always say that morality is doing the right thing even when no one’s looking, so Miles’s first impression went a long way with me. I know it’s shallow, but with his piercing blue eyes, angular face, and unruly mop of black hair, he’s like an academic version of Matt Bomer or a two-thirds scale model of Jacob Elordi or a really beautiful Siamese cat. His looks trend more pretty than handsome, and his thick, inky lashes are longer than my own. Plus, he can rock an elbow-patch jacket and he is courteous to a fault. He even learned Spanish so he can speak with the Ecuadorian custodian who works on our office’s floor. These are all fine qualities, but none of them make my pulse race now that the newness is long gone. I fear good looks and a kind heart aren’t enough to sustain a relationship together, and as traditional as he is, I’m scared he’ll want a deeper commitment soon.

Lately, I’m having trouble concentrating on what’s right about him, instead focusing on what’s wrong, and that’s not fair to either of us. Yet it feels like I’m setting myself up for a lifetime of polite conversations until I die—from boredom.

After I moved into my condo, I kept the model apartment’s paint, a shade of oyster gray; it seemed wasteful to change the color for change’s sake. Landfills are overflowing with perfectly serviceable items because Madison Avenue convinces us that if we’re not consuming, we’re losing. My place is a dramatic contrast from the colorful pillow poufs and vibrant kilim rugs I favored when I was younger, when Liv and I roomed together in a dorm that was an explosion of tie-dye tapestries. A Zillow listing on acid.

If my current home were a flavor, it would be fat-free plain Greek yogurt, nothing but bleached zero-waste wood furniture and sallow paint—NPR as an aesthetic. Ditto for my life.

The ever-present question— How did I get here? —accompanies me as I ride my mountain bike toward campus. This bike has seen all kinds of action, with weeklong treks through hills and valleys and high-desert passes. I feel a nagging guilt about its now-mundane existence. All I do is ride it a couple of miles to work, a straight shot down the road on a paved bike lane, then home again.

There are as many blooming tulips bordering the street as there are students on the wide walkways. The coeds are giddy in the late spring sunshine as I cycle past. I’m barely a decade older than the seniors, yet I feel ancient.

I pass the tennis courts, pedaling to the thwack! of balls hitting the hardtop, then turn on Tech Drive, navigating through a sea of backpacks and acne as high school juniors from all over the country take guided campus tours. With my employer’s 9 percent acceptance rate, they’d be wise not to fall in love with the majesty of the Northwestern University campus. Ninety-one percent are setting themselves up for heartbreak as they take selfies in front of Alice Millar Chapel.

At the Hogan Biological Sciences Building, I secure my bike, then dutifully jog up the stairs instead of using the elevator. I’m proud that I’ve helped lead the charge to outfit our buildings with renewable energy sources, but I still conserve where I can.

The question is tucked neatly inside my Public Thread messenger bag, made from the leftover vinyl of a discarded billboard featuring one of my first crushes, ex–Chicago Bears player Brian Urlacher.

I spot a student in front of my door, even though office hours don’t start for another forty minutes. Taylor, a sophomore sorority girl with bouncy strawberry blonde ringlets, has her phone propped up on a fire extinguisher case. I chuckle, thinking, Please break glass in case of social media emergency.

Taylor’s filming herself performing a complicated set of dance steps, yet no music plays. She mouths the words as she claps, thrusts, and shuffles in silence. I haven’t seen this choreography on TikTok yet—it must be new. I cringe, knowing how Miles will re-create this, poorly, when he puts it on his Instagram Reels. He thinks people watch him because he’s talented and not because his looks are that of a vampire extra from the Twilight movies.

How did I get here?

The question and I hang back, waiting for Taylor to finish. I’m not eager to hear whatever excuse she has for whatever classwork she hasn’t done. Taylor and her ilk are why I prefer teaching advanced and grad-level environmental science classes. I want students who are committed, who remind me of me when I was their age, who understand that knowledge is power they can put into action. My environmental science majors understand the devastation of global temperature increasing even another degree; it’s why they’re here and passionate about conservation.

Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled when Northwestern made Environmental Impact 101 a required course for all students. I mean, I busted out a bottle of champagne. The problem is, I didn’t realize the lion’s share of instruction would fall on me and not a teaching assistant. My tenured colleagues have since taken over my Community Ecology and Economic Geography curricula, leaving me with the kinds of students who cheer at the possibility of an oceanfront Ohio coastline when I talk about the potential severity of rising sea levels. I worry that I’m not breaking through to them, and I don’t know how to fix it.

Taylor ends her dance with a twirl, whipping her hair around with a flourish. She throws up a peace sign and holds the pose for a beat and sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth.

I try not to sigh audibly. I fail. Taylor spins in my direction as she collects her phone and catches my subtle eye roll.

“Sorry,” I offer, but I don’t mean it.

“No worries,” Taylor assures me. “I’ll lay the music track over the video, so that’s all people will hear?” Most of Taylor’s statements come out as questions due to her tendency to upspeak.

I lead Taylor into my office—a space as unimpressive as my home. The industrial beige walls are mostly unadorned, save for my degrees. There’s also a framed infographic on the dangers of global warming. The large bookshelf behind my desk has personal effects on the bottom shelf, so only I can see them. I keep bamboo plants on the windowsill; they’re nature’s air purifiers, absorbing greenhouse gases. Still, it’s kind of a cheerless space, which is more on-brand than I care to admit.

Other, more senior profs have workspaces that look over Lake Michigan. I spend my whole day trying to get a peek at the lake, between work and home. Miles is an associate dean and has a spectacular view, but he keeps his shades drawn. He recently told me, “Dark water makes me nervous.” I wish I’d known that ... sooner.

My relationship with Miles is entirely drama-free; he’s absolutely literal, with no surprises. It’s almost like dating an AI. Lately, I find myself fixating more on how he wouldn’t have lasted one minute in my previous life. Not one damn minute. But that was a different time, when everything felt possible. Taylor is packing up her phone and ring light, so I close my eyes and remember. I can almost smell the briny sea.

The black water on the Southern Ocean is churning like a washing machine, against an impossibly blue sky. Our crew is off the coast of Antarctica. The water jostles the boats like they’re pool toys, but I’m not afraid.

Yesterday, I saw one of the minke whales we’re protecting breach over and over again, which is rare to witness. She’d rise from the water, using her flukes to propel herself, and jackknife the water on her way back down. I swear she was thanking us. When I’m arrested—again—it will have been worth it.

I want to do something. I want to get my hands dirty. The green organizations I volunteered for in Ann Arbor mostly have their people stand on street corners with petitions. But Planet BlueLove is the key to effecting real change.

We’ve given these poachers fair warning, having followed them for days, our vessel decked out with an enormous Planet BlueLove banner. We’re definitely not in stealth mode. Plus, I’m sure they’ve seen us on the news. Everyone has. My poor mother—her shame and pride are really fighting it out.

We’ve radioed the whaling boat’s captain multiple times explaining that we aren’t protesting; we’re enforcing international conservation law by protecting this minke whale sanctuary. They won’t engage and they refuse to leave the area. The whitecaps make standing at the helm of this rigid-hulled inflatable boat an exhilarating carnival ride as I bump toward their vessel. I feel like I’m snowboarding over huge moguls and it’s a total rush. I let out a victory cry; I can’t help it. My endorphins are pumping like mad. The icy spray hits my raw, red cheeks like a baptism, like I’m being reborn out here, serving my purpose.

Minutes ago, divers from our ship disabled the whaler’s propeller while we provided cover by flooding their decks with bottles of the foul-smelling butyric acid that comes from rotten butter. Stink bombs—childish, but so effective. We then pelted their crew with packets of cellulose powder. My throws were some of the most precise. I silently thanked Dad for making me stick it out in softball.

Using the powder was my idea. A PETA friend told me that when the powder comes into contact with chilly water, it dissolves into a slimy gel, making maneuvering on the deck virtually impossible. Once the poachers started slipping and sliding all over the place (yes, we got it on video), then I boarded the inflatable boat. Now I’m bounding across the water to hand-deliver the letter stating that the crew is whaling illegally. I hope they’re ready for me.

Are they going to hit me with their water cannons? Yes, if they can get to them. Will my team’s actions cause another international incident? Probably. Do I care? I do not. Because I will do it again and again until they stop. I love this work so much, I’d do it for free.

“Are you, like, stroking out? Do you smell burning toast?” Taylor asks, snapping her fingers in my face. I shake my head and quickly lick my lips, expecting the taste of salt spray instead of my beeswax lip balm.

“What can I do for you, Taylor?” She settles into the chair across from me and cracks open a single-use plastic water bottle. When I think of the resources consumed by importing water from Fiji, when we’re literally steps away from a safe and abundant source of drinking water, I ... argh. Before I can mention this fact to Taylor, she’s chugged almost all of it. Posting thirst traps is thirsty business, I guess.

“My paper is late because I missed class yesterday?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I don’t know?”

This happens all the time. I swear, I have heard every excuse. I had a 101 student’s grandmother die five times in the course of a quarter. Five times! Even in an age of blended families, explain to me how that’s mathematically possible, especially post-COVID. I didn’t flunk him only because I didn’t want to deal with him a second time around. Ds get degrees in my world.

“Why’d you miss, Taylor? Frat party? Emergency manicure? Bad news about Kylie Jenner?”

She gasps and clutches her chest. “Ohmigod, is Stormi okay?”

I clench my teeth. “Do I look like I keep up with the Kardashians?” I glance at my reflection in the glass door. Frumpy cardigan, messy bun, pant leg still tucked into my sock, zero makeup—just your classic schoolmarm. Definitely no longer the hot boho coed who dated the first-string lineman at Michigan. Taylor inspects her cuticles, not meeting my eye.

I press her. “Why did you miss class, Taylor?”

“I was at a demonstration?”

Wait, what ? “Really?”

She flips a hank of curls over her shoulder. “Well, yeah. It’s important to get involved.”

I sit up straighter. “Totally agree. You know, I used to work with Planet BlueLove.”

Taylor places the now-empty bottle on my desk and twirls it like a fidget spinner. The cap flies off, flinging beads of water everywhere. Unbelievable. In another lifetime, I’d have launched her and her bottle into next week. Now, thinking of the fallout from even raising my voice exhausts me. I can’t tap into whatever used to motivate me to fight, to protect. It’s like I’m as empty as her Fiji bottle.

“You were with them in the olden days?”

Olden days? “How old do you think I am?”

“Fifty?”

Fucking Gen Z.

“I’m in my early thirties,” I reply.

“Okay, whatever. But, like, BlueLove ... didn’t their operatives sabotage the Kinder Morgan oil pipeline in Alberta?” Taylor asks.

So maybe she’s brighter than I thought. “BlueLove could be militant.” I do not admit that I was arrested more than once thanks to the Kinder Morgan pipeline. Fortunately, BlueLove had committed attorneys who kept me from serving actual time or getting a permanent mark on my record. I’d have done it anyway. I didn’t care back then. I thought I was bulletproof.

Taylor eyes me up and down, clearly confused at how I might have been involved with such a radical group. “You, like, did their taxes or answered their phones or ...”

I no longer look the part, but more importantly, I don’t feel it. I clear my throat and brush away stray water drops from the desktop. “It was a long time ago. Anyway, what were you protesting, Taylor? The need for gun control? Police brutality? The newest Supreme Court travesty?”

There’s so much wrong in the world, it’s hard to home in on just one cause. For me, it’s been the environment ever since I was nine and saw my first polar bear at Brookfield Zoo. He was so majestic and regal, all beauty and power, but also so playful, swimming around and splashing as we admirers leaned over the Plexiglas partition for a closer look. He’d gotten his paws on a bucket that day and he kept sticking it on his head. I laughed and laughed and loved him so much. I wanted to bring him home with us.

Here’s the thing—I was serious. I truly thought he could live with us. I’d worked it all out and the math mathed . As we toured the rest of the park, I started to formulate the best way to scale the enclosure walls and mentally calculated what it would cost my family to build him a new home next to our in-ground pool. We’d likely need to talk to a fish wholesaler, I reasoned.

My mom had to convince me that even if I were successful, a thousand-pound bear would not fit in our Lexus. She compromised by buying me a stuffed bear in the gift shop instead. I named him Frosty and he’s still a prized possession.

A week later, my third-grade teacher taught us that polar bears were in danger because of global warming. Something stirred inside me. I remember thinking, Not on my watch. I was already scrappy, ready to throw down over any injustice. Preserving the planet has been my solitary goal ever since; though the way I go about it has morphed.

Generation X has been shrugging and saying, “Meh, what good will it do?” forever, but we Millennials are starting to feel that way too, now that so many of us have mortgages or children or back pain. But I see parts of that fight in Gen Z. I met Greta Thunberg at a conference last year, and I swear, I fangirled all over her. These kids hold the keys to our future, so maybe I shouldn’t let my frustration—

“The Greek salad in the cafeteria?” She must notice my confusion, because she asks, “Did you, like, forget to take your Adderall today?” Then she gives my hand a light tap. “No worries. It happens to me all the time?”

I stop myself and take a breath before answering, lest I make a career-limiting statement. “Taylor, what are you talking about?”

“They’re not selling Greek salads in the campus cafeteria anymore? And they’re everyone’s favorite, so we have to band together?”

I want to face-palm or scream into the void. During the pandemic, I read that a Japanese amusement park posted a notice about the dangers of expressing your fears aloud, due to the possibility of spraying droplets. The sign read Please scream inside your heart. I scream inside my heart a lot.

“Taylor, you know you can get a Greek salad almost anywhere else, so—”

She holds up a fingertip, topped with a bayonet-shaped nude-ombré nail. “The thing is, Professor Nichols—”

“Doctor.”

“Okay, Professor Doctor—do you know how it feels to make a difference? Like, how it feels to have an impact?”

Do I know how it feels to make an impact? Seriously? I glance at an old photo at the very corner of the very bottom of my bookshelf. It’s a shot of me and Jeremy.

Jeremy.

My toes curl inside my vegan canvas Danskos just thinking about him. We’re giving Blue Steel faces in front of the century-old giant redwood we are protecting.

I’d just locked us into place, pushing up against his lean, hard body, the hair on his muscular calves tickling my legs and his firm chest warm and yielding. He smelled like campfire and musk. We were burning up with excitement and pride when we kissed—and a Reuters photographer captured a picture that ended up on the cover of the New York Times (and Mom’s fridge). A BlueLove teammate took the shot I keep on my bookshelf a few minutes before the infamous Reuters pic. I’m beaming in the photo, so content with my power and place in the universe. I’m streaked in filth, leaf fragments fringing my hair, but gorgeous, like a Technicolor version of the gray person I am now.

During the Oregon operation, Jeremy and I had fallen quickly, deeply, and profoundly in love. Jeremy’s Aussie accent, unbridled power, and shared passion for our cause drew me in, but full disclosure, his chiseled features, flowing caramel-colored hair, and rock-hard body didn’t hurt either. I used to tease him that he should be a romance novel cover model. One look at him, and I swear, it makes me forget Miles’s last name. Let’s just say my first impression of Jeremy was not that he needed a sandwich and a hug.

I can practically feel the heat radiating off us in the photo, like it might incinerate the wooden frame around it. The chemistry we had. Animal. Carnal. Over far too soon. Taylor asks, “Then you’ll make an exception? Pretty please? Let me turn my paper in in class tomorrow?”

I sigh again. Taylor’s cause is trivial at best, but it’s a cause , and I want to encourage passion, even if it’s just lunch. Plus, she had the cojones to speak with me in person. The number of parents who intervene for their legally adult children is almost shocking.

Against my better judgment, I nod and tell Taylor, “I’ll make an exception.” In all fairness, I have to give her credit for wanting to do the work, not just letting some chatbot write the damn thing. Maybe I’m actually getting through to her.

Taylor smiles at me. “You’re way cooler than you look.”

I’m annoyed for feeling flattered, but my victory is short lived as Taylor drops her bottle in the trash next to my recycling bin as she exits. “Wait, you missed, Taylor,” I call after her.

“No, I didn’t,” she says, popping her head back into my office. “You can’t recycle this kind of plastic, Professor Doctor!”

I can feel myself deflating. I can feel myself starting to spiral, burdened by the questions I can no longer answer.

How did I get here?

Why am I not like I used to be?

What can I do to get my spark back?

What am I doing with my life?

What am I doing with Miles?

When did I stop fighting?

And how can I get away?