Page 8 of Given Our History

“I figured I’d stick with the theme.”

“History is my favorite subject. I’m going to be a teacher.” There was something about being taught at the kitchen table, my math homework indistinguishable from the chicken-scratch monthly budget Mom scrawled on the back of the electricity bill, that gave me a special appreciation for teaching. It wasn’t that my education was lacking, or that my parents weren’t good teachers; my mom had a bachelor’s in early childhood education and my dad was a blue-collar man of few words—but a whole heaping of proverbs—and eager to share the full breadth of his practical knowledge. Which often involved me standing stock-still over the open hood of his white Silverado, my arms sore with the effort of pointing the heavy Maglite at the spark plugs. But I had all this stuff in my head and no one to really share it with.

Teddy gave me a quick, assessing look that somehow managed to make me feel completely and utterly insignificant. Like I was a little girl chasing him around the playground, begging for a kiss. “Are we going to play trivia, or what?”

Warmth crept into my face. “I was just making conversation. You don’t have to be rude.”

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he didn’t get a chance to say it, because Izzy—probably in an effort to slice through the tension—read off a question about the Beatles, and then proceeded to bicker with Darvish over the answer. Something about Ringo Starr’s eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Teddy mumbled after a long moment. “I didn’t mean to sound rude. I just…” He trailed off, his eyes cast to the game board. “I guess I don’t have a lot of experience talking to—”

“Girls?” I offered.

“People.” The tips of his ears went a bit red, like he was embarrassed to admit it. “I mostly just talk to my parents. And Darvish, but he’s not allowed to have a cell phone, so we really only talk at camp.”

“It sounds like you could use some friends.” When he shot me a reproachful look, I quickly added, “I don’t mean that in a bad way! I just meant—”

“She means you could use some friends that aren’t Darvish,” Izzy translated. “You know, someone with a shred of—”

Darvish cupped his hands around his mouth and made an annoying wah, wah, wah sound, effectively drowning out whatever Izzy was trying to say. She tried to protest, raising her voice and saying something about maturity, but he wah, wahed right over that, too.

“What I was trying to say,” I said to Teddy, doing my best to tune out their squabbling, “is that I could be your friend. If you want.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what made me throw the offer out there. Maybe because it seemed like the nice thing to do. A small frown creased Teddy’s brow. Apparently, he didn’t understand it either. “You barely know me.”

“I’m pretty sure getting to know each other is part of being friends.”

He seemed to mull this over, narrowing his eyes. They crinkled at the corners in a way that made him look contemplative beyond his years, a deeply distrustful old man in a teenaged boy’s body. I pinched my lower lip between my teeth while I waited for his answer.

“All right,” he said finally. Even as he offered me his hand, he seemed wary somehow, like he was already fantasizing about dousing it in hand sanitizer later. “Friends.”

“Friends,” I agreed, and we shook on it.

CHAPTER4

PRESENT DAY

The first day of the fall semester, I arrive early and sit in the parking lot for half an hour, trying to work up the courage to head inside. The interior of my Volvo is a mess: crumpled-up receipts and straw wrappers are strewn around the passenger seat and stuffed in the center console. I stare up at the Hall of Letters and drum my fingers against my old Ed Hardy steering wheel cover. There was a time, years and years ago, when I thought that maybe I was impulsive enough to get a couple tattoos. I had a mood board on Polyvore and everything. But as much as teenaged me wanted to believe she was going to take risks and live life on the edge, it turns out I’m a lot more comfortable playing it safe.

Taking a deep breath, I grab my thermos of iced coffee from the cupholder and climb out of the car.

It’s not like I don’t have a say in the matter. I could have told Julien that I wasn’t comfortable sharing my office. But I’d already agreed to share it with a stranger, so to turn around and change my mind would’ve required me to disclose the exact nature of my discomfort, and something about that prospect felt juvenile—like when our cabin leader used to make us swap bunks because one of the girls complained. I’m by no means a social butterfly, but I’m at least amicable with my colleagues. As nerve-racking as it is to head into work this morning, I have to weigh that against my desire to be taken seriously. And professionalism always wins out. It’s not like I spend all that much time in my office, anyway. If it’s awkward—and I’m anticipating that it will be awkward—I’ll just schedule my office hours around his.

I pass by Andrew Greene while climbing the stairs to the third floor. He’s one of three distinguished professors in Irving’s Department of History, and the other two are retiring in the spring. His papercut-thin mouth flattens into something that’s probably meant to be a smile, but the end result is more of a lukewarm acknowledgment. Under normal circumstances, I’d spend the rest of the morning fretting about whether or not he hates me, but I’m too far in my own head at the moment to pay him much mind.

By the time I arrive on the third floor and turn down the hall toward my new office, I’m winded. My heart squeezes like a stress ball in my chest as I draw closer to the walnut door, marked by a 326 in hammered brass numbers. My hand settles on the cool metal handle and I take a deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth.

Get it together.

I push down on the handle and let the door swing open.

It’s empty.

Well, not empty, but there’s no one else in here. No dramatic confrontation with my erstwhile friend standing behind a desk, his face cast an ominous green by a banker’s lamp. There is an extra desk, which I suspect Julien asked someone to move in here, but it doesn’t look like it’s been touched. Rumpled cardboard boxes of bric-a-brac from my old office are stacked in the corner. I haven’t bothered unpacking yet. The whole room is small, claustrophobic. Maybe I should’ve insisted that Julien find someone else to share their office, someone who has more space to work with—but I doubt any of the tenured professors would’ve given up their solitude, and most of the adjunct faculty are already sharing with two or three other people.

I set my thermos on the desk and duck out from beneath the strap of my cross-body bag before settling into my creaky office chair. I don’t have any lectures until 1:30 P.M. on Mondays. I spend half an hour or so decluttering my inbox in preparation for the wave of confused student emails that will no doubt flood it by sometime next week. I pick up my half-melted iced coffee and take a sip, the thermos leaving a ring of condensation behind on the desk. I wipe it with the baggy sleeve of my sweater before setting the drink back down. The summer weather hasn’t ceded to autumn just yet, but they always crank the A/C until it’s freezing in the lecture halls, so I choose to dress accordingly.

After I finish with the emails, I lean back in my creaky desk chair, contemplating what else I can do to keep my mind occupied. I thumb my necklace, the silver coin tarnished with years of fidgeting—a reproduction of an Elizabeth I sixpence, but I always wear it flipped to the side with the quartered shield of arms. With a sigh, I push myself out of the chair.