CHAPTER 24
Nate
“You need to reread the text,” I argued. “Slowly. In-depth. Analyze it. See what’s actually there. Dissect the diction word by word.”
I resisted the urge to rub my forehead. This was only the second day on the job, but I was already working one on one with students via webcam, offering generalized humanities help. What EDCSN did with distance education was beyond what I could have imagined, and while it was taking me awhile to get used to this way of teaching, I enjoyed the challenge. This particular student was struggling with the idea of analyzing a text. It was something that would be easier to show him face to face, but I was doing my best. The bigger issue was trying to remember what Mara taught me.
Resist the urge to say it, I thought, There may be more than one way to interpret a text, but he needs to find that answer for himself.
“I still don’t get it,” the student said. I turned around in my office, searching for the whiteboard I had seen here earlier. Finding it underneath the desk, I picked it up and jotted down a sentence from the text we were discussing. We could do this. I had to remember that this was a fresh start. I could be the same intense professor as before, but I didn’t have to be a dick about it.
After we signed off, I felt reassured. By the end, the student understood how to break down a sentence. His interpretations may have been far-fetched, but the process was there, enough for that session, anyway. I had a livestream lecture in a few minutes.
As I walked past the snack shack on the bottom floor, a thought crossed my mind that I indulged. Once Mara caught wind that Florence Berkley was teaching at a local college, there was no doubt that she’d try to get a meeting, like the many aspiring theorists out there. Perhaps Mara would even register for her class and watch the livestreams. She might even come to campus for one of those rare in-person lectures. Regardless, even if Mara had no clue about Berkley, I would make sure that they met. It was the least I could do.
The lecture hall studio was the size of a small classroom with a third of the number of desks. The rest of the space was taken up by filming equipment and a tech team. In truth, students were welcome to register for in-person lectures, but from what the other faculty had told me, very few did. It was distance learning. I wasn’t surprised to find only two sitting in the seats.
I took my spot at the front of the classroom. The two students in front of me instantly started jotting down notes. I hadn’t spoken yet.
“We’re on,” one of the film crew said.
“I’m Dr. Evans. This is the first lecture for Fear, Loathing, and Literature of Las Vegas. If you aren’t in the right class, well, then…” My mind halted, bringing me back to the last time I had given this lecture. I had noticed Mara in the seats then, her light brown hair, her soft chin, the puckered pink lips, no laptop or notebook to be found, her gaze steady on me. I had assumed she was an upperclassman taking a final general education course before she graduated. But she was so much more. I didn’t know how much she would change my life.
“If you aren’t in the right class, then click the back button,” I said. It didn’t have the same ring to it as it did at LVU. I went over the syllabus and schedule and discussed the one on one webcam appointments available, as well as review videos, livestreams, and class-wide forums. The first day of a college course was always logistics, not much else. That didn’t change from one school to the next. Not from an assistant professor to the director of humanities.
Right as I was going over the reading list, the two students still furiously scrambling to write notes, the door at the back of the room opened. Mara slipped in, carefully shutting the door behind her. One of the crewmen turned, a questioning look on his face, and Mara simply waved to him. Like she was meant to be there.
The same red shirt as she had worn on Fremont Street, tightly covering her breasts, the same worn blazer on her shoulders. I had barely known her then, but I knew one thing. There was an air about her, a confidence that I was drawn to. Her thick thighs touched as she leaned back against the wall. She crossed her arms, boosting her chest.
She grinned, pleased with how distracting she was, even without cuffs and a collar. She motioned for me to continue. As if it was that easy. It wasn’t. I didn’t have a pop quiz to turn to like the last time.
Besides, I wanted to talk to her now.
“Let’s give it a ten-minute break,” I said, making eye contact with the camera crew. They switched the livestream to the appropriateBreak!screen and one of the two students flagged me down to ask a question. I listened to the student, but watched Mara, who slipped outside as easily as she had entered. I needed to get to her fast.
“Let me think about that,” I said to the student, turning away before she could ask another question, and headed towards the door. Through the glass wall to the outside, I could see her: standing in the shade, a rose bush in the rock garden behind her, her eyes looking up at the short, two-story building, as if marveling at the contrast between the two humanities departments.
Once I was outside, I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know where to start. She was the only person who could render me speechless.
“New college, huh?” she asked. She turned towards me. “You turned down tenure for this?”
“I needed a change,” I said. “To rethink the mantra I had built for myself.”
“That’s one way to interpret it?” she asked. I nodded. She sucked in a breath. “You must have taken a pay cut.”
“A decent promotion in title though.”
We stood in silence for a few moments. The campus, more like a small business park than a college, was empty. The sounds of the nearby streets trickled to us. I wanted to explain why I did it, why I disqualified our entry and submitted her paper elsewhere, that I had started writing the opposing paper long before she had convinced me that it wasn’t right, that she deserved better. How even beyond that, I truthfully couldn’t argue with something that I believed in myself.
But none of that mattered. Explaining myself would be making up excuses. I wanted her to know how I felt.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have gone behind your back.”
She stared at me, a subtle smile on her lips. “Thank you,” she said.
Both of us looked around, then back to each other, unsure of what to say. She hadn’t come to ask me for an apology. There was something else. But I wanted her to say it on her own. It was her choice to be there.
“You asked me what I wanted,” she finally said. She adjusted her blazer, as if readying herself, and I held my breath, bracing myself too. She locked eyes with me. “What I don’t want is to teach your class for the rest of the semester.” I smiled, gently shaking my head. It was only two more weeks. She would have done most of the grading by herself anyway. “But I’ll do it because it’s my job, and I know you told the director that I could handle it.”
