I walked into Dr. Jacob’s 10th grade chemistry classroom with a huge chip on my shoulder and a snotty attitude to match. I wasted no time letting him know that I was an arts-and-humanities gal with no use for nerdy lab coats, fancy number crunching or wanna-be-profound scientific theories. With a telepathic squint from under his bushy brows, he assured me that he wouldn’t embarrass me with the truth he’d sniffed out through my bravura’which was that I was bad at math, plain and simple, and terrified of failure. Only mildly consoled, I spent the first few weeks of class spewing judgments. Jacobs was an easy target. He had a bad case of eczema, a huge pot belly and he laughed like a goat. Despite significant dandruff issues, he only wore black turtlenecks. I even found fault with his decorating skills. Where were the inspirational posters? The only thing on the wall was a long rectangular shape covered with an ominous black cloth. Despite my efforts to remain aloof, chemistry grew on me. Rather than ridicule my self-righteous artiness, Dr. Jacobs spun intricate and’I had to admit’beautiful metaphors to help me understand isotopes. He picked up on my burgeoning romance