The Influencer Stole My Science

My influencer roommate thought that by destroying my lab samples, she could steal my spot in the prestigious Broad Institute fellowship.

She poured nine months of my engineered bacterial culture straight down the drain.

And she livestreamed the whole thing.

Hey guys, my roommate keeps her rotten yogurt in our room. It's so gross.

During the final review meeting, I quietly slid my phone across the polished table to Dean Crane.

On the screen, my roommate, Gina, was holding up my glass beaker. She smirked directly at the camera.

See? This is the little pet project she treats like gold. She never lets anyone touch it, acting all mysterious.

Her voice was laced with easy disdain as she complained to her followers on the other side of the screen.

I think its time we see whats actually in here.

Then, against a rolling tide of laughing emojis in the live chat, she tilted the beaker. Without a second thought, she poured the milky-white culture directly into the dorm sink.

The harsh, rushing sound of the water came through the phones speaker, sharp and grating.

She tapped her long, red-manicured fingernails against the empty glass.

Nothing special. Just smells sour. Completely worthless.

The video paused. Dean Cranes face had gone rigid, his jaw clenched tight as he looked up from the screen. His voice was thick with suppressed anger.

What exactly was in that beaker?

An L7-strain engineered culture, I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. It was the core of my synthetic bio-fermentation project. And according to the Broad Institute's final defense requirements, it was the mandatory live specimen I had to submit today.

Beside him, Professor Davies, who had always mentored my research, stood up so fast his chair legs shrieked against the linoleum.

The live culture is gone? Laurel, do you have a backup?

I looked down at the mahogany table, my eyes burning. No, Professor Davies. That was the final batch. It was also the one with the highest yield.

Nine months. Two hundred and seventy days and nights.

I had screened exactly one hundred and seven colonies, burned out three shaking incubators, and tossed out six ruined batches of growth media. Every failed attempt meant thousands of dollars of grant money vanishing into thin air. I had practically lived in the lab just to get the yield above the required threshold.

If I passed the defense today, I was supposed to secure the single doctoral fellowship spot at the Broad Institute. My advisor had already made the introductions.

It was the only spot in the entire department.

Now, the beaker was empty. The culture was gone. The path I had spent nine agonizing months paving had just been washed down the sewer lines.

Dean Cranes composure cracked, his eyes dark with fury. Who did this?

I looked past him, through the glass wall of the conference room and out into the hallway.

Gina was standing at the far end of the corridor. She was wearing a brand-new white eyelet dress, looking like a picture-perfect garden party guest, waiting around just to watch my defense fall apart. When she caught me looking, she smiled through the glassa tiny, mocking tilt of her lips.

I turned back to the dean. My roommate, Gina.

When they called Gina into the room, she strolled in with an air of complete indifference. She gave me a brief, dismissive glance before turning a soft, innocent face toward Dean Crane.

Dean Crane, Professor Davies, thank you for seeing me, she said, her voice dropping into a gentle, sweet register. I really had no idea that was an important experiment. Laurel is always keeping random jars and bottles in our room.

She knit her brow, looking like a child trying hard to remember.

The beaker was just sitting on the edge of the desk. It smelled incredibly sour, so I honestly thought it was a spoiled drink.

A cold laugh nearly bubbled up in my throat.

A spoiled drink? That wasnt what shed told her stream.

Besides, the beaker had three separate layers of waterproof lab tape wrapped around it, labeled in thick, red Sharpie.

L7 EXPERIMENTAL SAMPLE. DO NOT TOUCH. LIVE CULTURE.

To say she didnt see it was a lie so bold it was almost impressive.

Dean Crane tapped his pen against the desk, his tone cutting. Then why did you feel the need to livestream yourself throwing it away?

Gina bit her lower lip. I I was just sharing my daily dorm life. Im a beauty and lifestyle creator. My followers love seeing the raw, behind-the-scenes stuff. I really didn't notice what was written on the glass.

I couldnt listen to her spin it anymore. You held the camera on the beaker for fifteen seconds, I said, my voice cutting through her performance. And you read the label out loud. You said, Do not touch? How pretentious.

Ginas expression didn't even flicker. She turned on me, entirely defensive. I was joking with my chat! That's just the humor of the stream. And honestly, don't you have some responsibility here? Who keeps biohazardous materials in a shared dorm room anyway?

The entire biology building had a scheduled power outage starting at eleven last night, I replied, keeping my voice level. I logged an emergency request with the department and posted the approval in our floor group. I told you three times face-to-face that I had to keep the incubator in our room for twelve hours.

Gina rolled her eyes. I had my AirPods in. I didn't hear a word. Besides, Im not your research advisor or your lab tech. Why is it my job to guard your stuff?

In the silence of the room, the professors exchanged troubled looks.

It was so incredibly familiar. Last semester, when she stole my preliminary thesis presentation slides and slapped her own name on them for a state-level grant application, she had used the exact same defense. We live together, everything is shared, it was just an accident.

And back then, everyone had told me to let it go for the sake of roommate harmony.

Now, she had flushed my future down the drain.

Professor Davies set his pen down on the table, his eyes heavy with sympathy. Laurel, Im sorry. Well have to pause your defense. The physical sample is a non-negotiable requirement. You'll have to submit a new live culture.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I understand, Professor.

How long to regrow it to this yield? another committee member asked softly.

I let out a slow, quiet breath. Four months. At least.

Dean Crane sighed. Then the Broad fellowship we cant hold the slot.

I didn't say anything. The fellowship deadline was this Friday. It wouldn't wait four minutes, let alone four months.

Gina piped up, her voice light and accommodating. Laurel, Ill cover the costs. Just send me an invoice for the glass beaker and whatever yeast you used.

I looked at her. She was offering to pay for a few dollars of borosilicate glass and media powder, as if that could replace my masters thesis and my doctoral career.

I picked up my phone, backed up the screen recording to my cloud drive, and stood up.

Sure, I said, matching her casual tone. Let's start with the cost of a PhD admission.

The meeting ended in a quiet, frustrating stalemate.

I didn't go back to the dorm, nor did I head to my bench. Instead, I walked straight to the campus security office. The technician on duty listened to my explanation and pulled up the hallway footage from the third floor of our residence hall.

The digital timestamp read 1:16 AM.

The footage showed me walking down the corridor, cradling the small portable incubator like a newborn child. Inside the room, Gina was sitting at her desk, the ring light reflecting in the window glass as she chatted to her phone. I walked in, set the incubator down, and spent nearly a minute speaking directly to her. Gina didn't even look up; she just waved a hand dismissively, her mouth moving in a quick, annoyed, Yeah, yeah, whatever.

At 1:47 AM, the camera caught me leaving the room to go down to the basement ice machine to get extra cooling packs.

I was gone for exactly three minutes.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, Gina got up. There was no hesitation in her stride. She walked over to my desk, picked up the beaker, turned the labeled side directly to her phone camera, and unscrewed the cap with practiced ease.

It wasn't a mistake. It was a perfectly timed execution.

I copied the footage onto a flash drive and uploaded it to three separate cloud servers.

As I stepped out of the security office, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was Dr. Collins, the head of admissions for the Broad Joint Program.

My chest tightened. I took a breath and answered. Hello, Dr. Collins.

Laurel, hi, her voice was warm but professional. We just received a note from your department indicating there might be a delay with your final defense submission?

I leaned against the concrete wall of the stairwell, my head spinning. Yes, Dr. Collins. We had an unexpected incident with the specimen, but Im prepared to restart the culture immediately.

There was a long pause on the other linea silence that felt like a slow, heavy door closing.

Laurel, you know how these joint fellowships work. The funding is tied directly to the departments institutional recommendation. Her voice carried a trace of genuine regret. The board requires us to submit the finalized cohort list by Friday afternoon. If your defense isn't signed off by then, the slot automatically goes to the next alternate on the list.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I understand. Thank you, Dr. Collins.

When the line went dead, my hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.

The next alternate.

In our entire graduating class, there was only one other student in the molecular biology track who had applied for the Broad fellowship.

Gina.

She had switched her research focus to match mine only last semester, and the preliminary data shed submitted with her application was a chaotic mess of poorly plotted charts. But lately, shed been bragging at department mixers about her "creative vision" and how much the selection committee loved her "modern approach."

I had assumed it was just her usual self-promotion.

But looking at the timeline now, the pieces clicked together with terrifying precision. It was too perfect. She had timed it down to the hour, waiting for the exact moment when she could ruin my submission and automatically step into the vacancy.

I turned around and walked straight back to our dorm.

Gina was lounging in my desk chair, her legs crossed, humming a pop song as she wiped off her makeup. When she saw me walk in, she let out a long, theatrical sigh.

Laurel, seriously, are you still throwing a tantrum? she asked, tossing a dirty cotton pad toward the trash. It was a jar of bacteria. You got me chewed out by the dean. Isn't that enough?

I didn't say a word. I reached behind me, closed the heavy oak door, and turned the deadbolt with a sharp, echoing click.

You knew exactly what was in that beaker.

She gave me a look that suggested I was completely hysterical. I already told you, I didnt. Are you deaf?

Then why did you do it last night? Right before my defense?

Her eyes flicked to the side, a split-second tell, before her face hardened back into its usual mask of righteous indignation. Youre paranoid. I dont keep track of your schedule, Laurel. I have a life.

Instead of arguing, I walked over to her desk.

Sitting right beside her makeup mirror was a freshly printed packet.

The Broad Institute Joint Fellowship Program C Supplementary Proposal.

Applicant: Gina Vance.

The final speck of doubt I hadthe tiny, naive hope that she was just incredibly carelessevaporated.

Gina saw where I was looking. She didn't try to hide the paper. Instead, she leaned back in the chair, a slow, ugly smile spreading across her face.

Oh. You saw. She stood up, brushing a speck of dust off her skirt. Yeah. If you cant finish your project, the spot opens up. It would be a waste to let it go to another department, wouldn't it?

I stared at her, watching the smug satisfaction warp her features. So you did it on purpose.

She picked up a bottle of toner, turning it over in her hands. Lets not use such ugly words. Opportunities go to people who are ready to take them. You should have kept a closer eye on your things.

She stepped closer to me, her eyes scanning my faded jeans and the cheap, worn sneakers Id bought at a thrift store freshman year.

Honestly, Laurel, you really thought you had this in the bag? A girl from some dead-end farming town living on state grants. She let out a soft, mocking laugh. You actually thought writing a few good papers made you special?

She was on a roll now, venting some deep, hidden resentment.

Thats your biggest flaw. You just put your head down and work like a dog. But nobody cares about that. The professors, the boardthey remember people who know how to talk, how to present, how to navigate a room. The university wants to fund people who can build a brand. What were you going to do with your little jars of bacteria? Hide in a basement lab forever?

She patted my shoulder, her fingers cold.

You were always just going to clear the path for me.

I looked at her, and for the first time in days, the tightness in my chest loosened. I actually smiled.

Gina, youre forgetting one thing.

She paused.

You poured out my culture while you were live on camera.

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered. An eight-second clip? Please. Out of context, poorly editedI can spin that a hundred different ways. Whos going to believe you over me?

She pulled her pink iPhone from her pocket, waving it in front of my face.

And unfortunately for you, the second my stream ended, I deleted the broadcast and the archive from the platform. Your little screen recording doesnt prove anything about what happened before or after.

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper.

Without that live specimen, you are absolutely nothing. I did it. And theres nothing you can do about it.