Princeton University

I spent three weeks trying to prove my chemistry teacher wrong about autumn leaves. We were both wrong, which turned out to be the point.

Ms. Park said chlorophyll breaks down in autumn, revealing pigments that were there all along. I had read that trees actively produce new ones. I was certain. I extracted pigments with rubbing alcohol for three weeks, stained every notebook I owned, and produced data that proved nothing at all.

I went back expecting to concede. She smiled and said, "Good. Now you are asking better questions."

She was right. My original question was shallow: who is correct, you or an article I half-read? The better ones only appeared after the experiment failed. Why do some leaves turn scarlet while others fade to brown? Why does one branch of the same tree behave differently from another?

We designed a second experiment together — controlling light exposure, measuring degradation and production separately. It was also inconclusive. By then I had stopped minding.

What she gave me was not an answer about leaves. It was a tolerance for being wrong in increasingly interesting ways, which is the only version of curiosity that survives contact with real data.

I still cannot tell you exactly why leaves turn red. I can tell you how I would find out, and that the answer is more complicated than I currently imagine.