Page 68 of Given Our History

Izzy pounces at the faintest hint of a male voice in the background. “Who’s that?”

“That was Teddy. We’re just heading to lunch.”

“Teddy, huh?” she echoes, a little too curious. “So, care to share what’s going on there?”

“It’s a long story,” I say mildly. “Let’s just say we have a lot of catching up to do.”

The scholarship committee meets for a final time the Thursday before finals week to review applications for the spring. It’s always a little begrudging, this last meeting of the semester—more so than our usual meetings, that is. And then we don’t talk. We sit around the table in silence, scanning essays, sorting them into piles: No and Yes and Needs further review. We steal things out of each other’s piles. Voice when we’re particularly impressed by an applicant. Gary yawns wide, an empty can of Red Bull sitting atop a stack of rejections. Trina absently presses the butt of her pen against the table, a rhythmic click, click like a metronome.

“This one’s not bad,” I say, passing an essay for The Samuel Chase Scholarship across the table. “Gary, if you want to take a look—”

We review the submissions anonymously to prevent any biases creeping in, sticky notes slapped over the students’ names and ID numbers, but depending on the application requirements, we sometimes still get a rough sketch of the person behind the paper. In this case, it’s a pre-law student who mentioned a minor in political science in his introductory paragraph, so Gary will double-check to see whether it holds up to scrutiny.

I’ve never been overly fond of this whole process—passing judgment on students, deciding which are worthy of financial help and which are not, but someone has to do it. This year it feels ickier than normal, though. Or maybe I’m just more attuned to it because I can empathize: my dossier is up for review any day now. There’s another committee somewhere on this campus who are going to be judging my merits, my contributions to the school.

I pick up the paper that Goodman just set in the Yes pile, scanning over the contents. Scholarship recipients are generally decided by consensus, though the opinions of committee members who work in the relevant department tend to hold a bit more weight. This one’s a critical essay submitted for The Lizette Woodworth Reese Award. A critical analysis of some work or another by Sylvia Plath. I’m inclined to trust Goodman’s opinion, seeing as poetry isn’t my expertise. I add a star to the sticky note and toss it back into the pile.

Julien emails me the Sunday before finals week to let me know that I have a meeting scheduled with the tenure advisory committee that Wednesday. I’ll admit it’s a little unorthodox for them to meet with you face-to-face, he notes in the body of the email, but all this means is that they likely have some questions they want to ask you, and that they haven’t ruled you out yet. Try to think of it like a job interview. Best foot forward and all that.

There’s no two ways around it: it’s downright intimidating, being interviewed by a panel of your would-be peers. The advisory committee comprises twelve tenured professors, tasked with providing guidance to the president on the granting of tenure. I spot a handful of familiar faces when I step into the classroom, but most of them I only know in passing. Andrew Greene in a cranberry sweater. Henry Nguyen, a lanky biology professor with ink-black hair and a permanent glower. Wendy McAllister from the Communications Department, who gives me a smile and a half nod. She can’t be all that much older than I am, her auburn curls cascading over an infinity scarf.

At least there’s no bench at this tribunal. We’re gathered in a classroom in the Franklin Complex, the committee members seated around a U-shaped table arrangement and a trigonometry problem still scribbled on the whiteboard. Teddy walked me to the room, but they asked him to wait outside. I take a seat at one of the ends, but there’s no escaping the twelve faces pointed at me.

“Good afternoon, Clara.” Andrew shuffles the papers in front of him. Looks like he’s going to be leading this interrogation. “Let’s not waste any time getting to the heart of the matter. I’m sure we’re all ready to get on with our holiday break.”

A couple committee members chuckle under their breath. I give a curt nod. Ready to get this over with.

“You come with an enthusiastic recommendation from Julien Zabini, Michael Jeong”—he lifts the corner on the paper in front of him, double-checking something underneath—“as well as a number of your colleagues on the scholarship committee.” The page flaps back down. “Your dossier is more or less satisfactory. The problem, unfortunately, lies not in what you have to recommend you, but in your relatively young career. I can’t help feeling this application is a little rushed.”

Henry Nguyen nods his agreement, more to himself than to anyone else in the room, because his eyes remained fixed on the page in front of him. They all have papers in front of them. Notes.

“Julien suggested that I apply for tenure early,” I explain.

Andrew scratches his brow with the eraser of his pencil as he flicks through the papers. “It’s not unheard of. But you have to understand that it’s made tricky by your lack of prior experience, save this brief position while you were in grad school—assistant professor?” He glances up for confirmation and I nod. “I also wanted to ask you about your high school education. It’s listed here as a charter school. Does that mean it was private?”

“More like independent study,” I say.

One of the older professors clears phlegm from his throat. “I think we can all agree that a homeschooled education is often—” He looks to his colleagues for input, though no one is forthcoming. “Well, it’s often a little subpar. There’s no curriculum, and the parents are incapable of imparting information to their children that they don’t fully understand themselves.”

“My homeschooling program was accredited,” I explain, a little irked. I can’t quite believe I’m still arguing this, after all these years, with everything else I’ve accomplished. “My mom had a degree in early childhood education. Not to mention I graduated from University of Maryland summa cum laude, I hold a doctorate from Notre Dame, my research has been published in the Tudor Quarterly Review—”

“It’s no matter,” Andrew interrupts with a wave of his hand. “More just a curiosity. There was also a question about one of your recommenders—Theodore Harrison?”

“What about him?”

“He’s visiting, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but we worked together on the gala subcommittee, which I highlighted in my—”

“But you knew each other prior,” Andrew interrupts.

“Yes,” I say, hesitant. I’m not sure where this is going.

“For how long?”

I glance at the other committee members like someone might rescue me from this odd line of questioning. As soon as Wendy McAllister meets my gaze, her blue eyes flick downward, and she pretends to scribble something on the paper in front of her. “Does it matter?”

Andrew holds up a hand, placating. “Curiosity.”