Page 56 of Given Our History

I park and grab my compact umbrella off the passenger seat, craning my neck to check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My makeup looks good, courtesy of Reagan—a dramatic, vampy look with winged eyeliner and a bold lip. It’s the sort of makeup I wanted to wear in high school, only I didn’t think to look up YouTube tutorials, so I never quite got it right. I bare my teeth. Fangs: check. No lipstick on them either, which feels like an achievement. Enough stalling. I open the door.

When I step out of my car and into the gale, the storm nearly rips my umbrella from my hand. It feels like autumn’s been holding back; it’s hardly rained since August, so now it’s coming down all at once. My heeled boots clomp on the wet, uneven sidewalk as I find my footing, the concrete ravaged from beneath by gnarled, overgrown roots.

I send Bel a quick text as I power walk toward campus. Lot B was full. Walking that way now. How is everything?

She sends back a thumbs-up.

With my free hand, I fasten a couple of the snaps on my raincoat, which I’ve thrown over a knee-length black dress—the vampire costumes at the local Spirit Halloween weren’t exactly what I’d call work appropriate, so I had to get creative. I pass by a woman standing beside a minivan, her date holding an umbrella for her as she runs a lint roller over a flapper costume. Everyone’s still wearing their costumes, weather aside; I take that as a good sign.

The Alumni House is perched at the crest of a small hill in the oldest section of campus. A road winds between beech trees, but there are no streetlights to guide guests—only the yellow glow of the building itself, reflecting off the wet asphalt. It’s a brick federalist home with twin chimneys, built in 1812, but it’s long since been updated—I cringe at the history lost—into an event space.

As soon as I’m sheltered from the rain by the porch, I shake out my umbrella and fold it before stepping into the traffic jam happening in the entryway. By nature, the gala is a town and gown event, so I’m surrounded by a handful of faces I recognize and plenty of faces I don’t. After a few hellos, I drop my umbrella at the umbrella stand and cut through the great room, where orange fairy lights twinkle near the ceiling. A dour oil portrait of the former university president hangs above the fireplace, the lacquer crackled with heat and age. Just above it, Bel’s strung up the banner: CULTIVATING COMMUNITY it reads, with the logos of our various sponsors on either side. The Bucky’s logo is blotted out, leaving a large, empty space. I feel a little guilty that we didn’t have time to replace it with Taverna Eliopoulos instead.

The air is thick with chattering voices. I shrug out of my coat and make my way into the kitchen. A foldout table is lined with foil chafing dishes of moussaka, vegetarian pastitsio, and grape leaves. People are standing in line with paper plates in hand. Behind the serving table, Teddy’s alone and looking a little harried. He’s not wearing his glasses tonight, dressed in a sort of drapey tunic covered with an apron. A crown of laurel leaves perches in his hair. This is bound to be a little awkward, but it’s now or never.

I jump behind the table. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?” I joke under my breath as I knot the apron, hoping to break the ice. I grab a serving spoon and take over the dolma tray.

“Don’t remind me,” he mutters. “The website called it a ‘Roman senator costume.’ I didn’t know we’d be serving Greek food when I ordered it last week.”

I withhold a laugh. “Et tu, Brute?”

“Don’t make me stab you with the spatula.”

I snort and he casts a tentative smile my way. As ridiculous as the costume is, it doesn’t look bad on him. His biceps are on full display, his skin bronzy against the alabaster fabric, and the rain has mussed his curls, making them a little unruly.

Bel pokes her head into the kitchen. She’s dressed as Velma from Scooby Doo, her hair in a short twist out. “The band just got here. They’re asking where you’d like them to set up.”

“Jinkies,” I say. “Tell them to set up in the great room.”

She peers at me over the top of her fake glasses, disapproving. “I know that’s what you said, but Goodman is complaining about the acoustics…”

I sigh, glancing over at Teddy. “I should go handle that.”

“I think I can manage without you for a couple minutes,” he teases.

I find the members of Eleventy-One Elephants standing around in the foyer. Their black instrument cases are flecked with rain and they’ve dressed up as—what else?—elephants. Goodman’s wearing a loose gray onesie, a rubber trunk affixed to his nose with a string, but he has the audacity to look me up and down and ask, “Who are you supposed be, vampire Martha Stewart?”

I fold my arms over the apron. “I’m helping in the kitchen. What seems to be the problem here?”

He waves a hand at the great room. “There’s too much clutter. Going to mess with the sound quality.”

We cleared a space for the band while we were decorating yesterday, but there’s still plenty of furniture for people to sit, the coffee table already littered with paper cups and plates. “You’ll just have to make do.”

It takes some back-and-forth, but once I’ve made it clear to the members of Eleventy-One Elephants that the great room is the only room large enough to host their six-person band, they relent. The rest of the night goes off without a hitch. I split my time between the kitchens and the rest of the party, shaking hands and thanking people for coming. Music drifts through the halls, mingling with conversation, but things quiet down when the president of the Alumni Association stands on an ottoman to make a brief announcement about the raffle. Afterward, Eleventy-One Elephants plays an alternative cover of “Thriller,” but with the exception of a possibly drunk group of older alumni dancing out of step, it’s not much of a crowd-pleaser.

We’ve nearly run out of food by the time Teddy unties his apron and joins the festivities. He wanders over to where I’m standing in the parlor, sipping water from one of the paper cups. “So,” he says. “All this for tenure.”

“For the scholarship fund,” I correct him. “The possibility of tenure is an added bonus.”

“Is it worth it?”

“What do you mean?”

He waves around the room, paper cup in hand. “This school. The job.”

“It’s tenure,” I say, like that should be the end of it. “It’s everything I’ve wanted. Everything I’ve worked for.”

“That’s like saying you’ve always wanted to get married. You don’t just marry the first person who comes along.” He fixes me with a serious look. “So, why Irving? There must be a reason.”