“Huh. You sound confused.”
“I am.”
“Why’s that?”
Again, I shrugged. “It’s—” what would the right word be? “—complicated.”
“You know what’s a good way to find out for sure? Invite him to dinner,” she said. My face flushed. Was she serious? “Look, Mara. I know you don’t take titles like ‘boyfriend’ lightly. But if you need a test, meeting the parent is always a good way to pick out the weeds.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the sting of the singular noun. Parent. Not parents, like most other people had. “He’s older,” I said, cutting off my own train of thought. “A lot older. Like your age, older, actually.”
“Are you calling me old?” she asked, laughing.
She wasn’t freaking out? “The age thing doesn’t bother you?”
“Come on, Mara,” she laughed. “You’re an adult. He’s an adult. You know what you’re doing.” Relief flooded through me. “He’s not some little punk who will skip on dinner with some lame excuse, right? If he’s my age, then he’s old enough to tell you the truth.”
I thought it over in my head. Why shouldn’t I invite Nate? Maybe it made whatever we were too personal, tooreal, not like the fantasies we had been indulging in. But part of me wondered if my mom was right, if it was worth seeing where I stood with him. Mom and I exchanged the details for dinner, then hung up. By then, my mug was empty and my stomach was growling. I slowly opened the door to the house, not wanting to disturb anyone, but once I saw Dr. Smith, fully dressed, picking through the bowl of fruit on the counter, I relaxed. If she was up and ready, then Jessica and the rest of the group would soon follow.
“Good morning, Mara,” Dr. Smith said.
“Good morning,” I said. I kept to myself, poking through the foods and pastries on the counter and in the fridge. I had seen a box of croissants somewhere. I could take a croissant back to the patio with a fresh cup of coffee, and read by myself until the rest of the group ventured out.
“We should probably talk,” Dr. Smith said. My hands rested on the counter, waiting for her to say something. “You shouldn’t trust him, you know.”
My gut clenched in knots. I knew the answer, but I wanted her to say it. “Who?”
“Dr. Evans. He has a,” she paused, thinking over the words, “reputation for using students’ ideas as starting points for his own publications. Kind of like plagiarism, but with all the maliciousness, and none of the actual copyright infringement.”
Which wasn’t plagiarism, but whatever. “I know,” I said.
“You know?” She scoffed. “You don’t care?”
“I’ve known that was his thing since the beginning.” I went to the pantry and pulled out a cardboard box: a mix of plain, chocolate, and matcha swirled croissants, reminding me of the time Nate had surprised me with breakfast in the graduate student office. “Isn’t that what education is about?” I opened the box and removed a plain one, then opted for a chocolate one too. Dr. Smith lifted a brow, I assumed at my words and not at my breakfast choice. I continued, “Education is about coming together and brainstorming ideas, right?”
“Brainstorm?” Dr. Smith laughed. “Is it education when you’d rather write contrary articles to fuck with your students for your personal gain, rather than pushing them to write better papers on their own?”
The curse word caught me off guard. It wasn’t that I disliked curse words, but Dr. Smith using it, losing her typical composure, signaled that something was seriously off here. I shrugged. It wasn’t that she wanted me as one of her main students; it was too late for that, at least as far as the semester and the contest went. Dr. Smith wanted something else.
Nate and Dr. Smith were both being reviewed for tenure this year, weren’t they? Maybe it would have been better for Dr. Smith if Nate didn’t have me as one of his students.
“Is Dr. Evans your committee chair?” Dr. Smith asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. It was the first semester of many; my dissertation still felt like a far off idea. “I didn’t realize we had to pick committee chairs already.”
“A student as young, as bright as you.” She sighed, then plucked an apple from the bowl. “I would hate to see your potential wasted on someone who won’t be around much longer.”
This was irritating. “He’s up for tenure too,” I said. “Like you.”
“Yes, but his record isn’t exactly clean,” she said. “And if the board catches wind of it, you know, that poor woman showing up bruised…” She sighed, her eyelids fluttering in a show of empathy. “Well, you know.” She turned her head towards the stairs and the bedrooms, making sure that we were alone. “I didn’t want to have to mention this, but maybe it’s better if you know.”
“Know what?”
“He told you about his interests, right?”
“His interests?”
“Sadomasochism.” I couldn’t help it; I smiled. Because ifthatwas all she had, then she was a fool. I grabbed a napkin from the holder next to her. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “Don’t tell me you’re into it too.”
