Page 21 of Given Our History

“I’m curious what you’re listening to.” He snapped my headphones over his ears and picked up the CD player, squinting at the buttons.

I couldn’t explain why, but as much as I’d been embarrassed not to know this music when I was at the sleepover, I was equally embarrassed to have Teddy catch me listening to it. “Just some stuff that Izzy’s friends showed me,” I said. “I don’t think it’s really your—”

He pressed play and a muffled, uncensored version of “I Wanna Love You” by Akon resumed mid-song, loud enough that I could hear it even without wearing the headphones. His eyes widened and his mouth went taut, like he was making a very conscious effort not to laugh. My face was on fire.

After a long couple of seconds, he took off the headphones, mussing his dark curls. “I’ll have to burn you a CD,” was all he said, handing me the player back.

I cracked a small smile. “You’ll send me music, and I’ll send you books.”

CHAPTER8

PRESENT

I pop a cartridge of dark roast into the Keurig. The machine grumbles and black coffee trickles into a mug that says #1 TEACHER on it—Reagan thinks her birthday gifts are funny. They do make me smile. “So I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say over my shoulder as I tear open packets of sugar and dump them into the mug, “what are your thoughts on party planning?”

Over at the table, Belinda Jones looks up from her sudoku booklet with a thoughtful frown. She’s a small and lithe woman, her box braids pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her microwave meal has filled the faculty room with the tangy aroma of teriyaki beef and broccoli. “I threw a surprise party for my ex-girlfriend, like, five years ago.”

I drag out the chair beside her, metal legs grating on the laminate floor, and take a seat. I use my sleeve to sweep some crumbs onto the floor before planting my elbows on the table in front of me. “How did that go?”

“Fine, I guess,” she says, returning to her puzzle. She always fills in her sudoku with glitter gel pens—a bold move, if you ask me, but she never seems to get them wrong. “I kind of forgot that she scares easily. She punched her boss in the throat.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You invited her boss to her surprise party?”

She holds up her hands, gel pen laced between her fingers. “Hey, I said it went ‘fine,’ not great. Mistakes were made.” She fills in a square. “We all had a good laugh about it over drinks, later.”

“I could use some more people on the gala subcommittee,” I say. “We’re meeting once a week. Location to be determined.”

She stabs a piece of broccoli with a plastic fork. “Who’s we?”

“Professor Harrison and myself.”

She gives a mildly interested mmm as she chews, twirling her fork in a circle. “He’s the visiting lecturer or whatever.”

“Visiting scholar,” I say.

“What’s he doing on a committee?”

“He’s doing me a favor.” She shoots me a questioning look, and I loose a breath. I figured I might have to explain this part. “We went to this sleepaway camp together, when we were teenagers. Up in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

By the way her eyebrows are climbing even higher on her forehead, I get the impression that her curiosity isn’t quite sated, but she does me the mercy of dropping it, at least for now. “So, what do you need from me?”

“I need you to come to the subcommittee meetings.”

“What time?”

“Fridays at four.”

“Can’t,” she sighs, nudging a piece of broccoli around her bowl with a fork. “I meet with my Krav Maga instructor on Fridays.”

I sip my coffee, trying to think up a way to convince her. It’s not easy, recruiting colleagues to a subcommittee that doesn’t actually benefit them. Sure, there’s the altruism of raising scholarship money for students who need it, but even that proves poor motivation for faculty who are already overworked and underpaid.

Bel is my only hope. We’re both young women in a relatively male-dominated department, and there’s a sense of camaraderie in that, even if our friendship has never quite extended beyond the workplace. “Nothing’s really set in stone,” I say. “We could meet at a different time.” When she doesn’t look convinced, I sigh. “And it would be kind of nice to have you there. As a … buffer, of sorts.”

I can tell by her expression that she’s intrigued, but she doesn’t ask what I mean by that. She gets up and crosses the room to toss the broccoli beef container in the trash. “Do you want my honest answer, or my work answer?”

“Honest answer, always.”

“Honestly”—she plunks down into her seat and drags the sudoku back in front of her—“I’m adjunct. I don’t even know if I’ll renew my contract next year. I’m not sure I can justify devoting the extra time.”