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“Most of them.”
“There you go. You’ll be fine.”
Allison shook her head, her stomach tightening. “Reading them isn’t the same as studying them. I don’t know the common interpretations ofGulliver’s Travelsor the historical influences of Shakespeare. What am I supposed to do if a student asks a question and I don’t know the answer?” The thought ramped up her heartbeat enough to leave Allison dizzy.
She didn’t know how to be wrong. It was a reality she refused to accept. Not out of pride, but because being right made her smart. And Allison had to be smart.
That adjective had defined her whole identity since her mom had taken her on a trip to visit her cousin at Bates College when Allison was ten. From the minute she’d stepped onto her first college campus,it had felt like home. Like there was a small space in it that was perfectly Allison-sized. Her soulmate wasn’t a person—it was a place, a state of mind, a goal—the Academy, academia, the title of professor.
Her father had laughed at her excitement when they’d gotten home. Not in a teasing or affectionate way—Jed Avery was neither of those things—but to cut her down low enough that she’d abandon her dreams before they were fully formed.
He’d gone straight from high school to an electrician’s apprenticeship and he made good money, so to his (very narrow, very conservative, verywrong) mind, that experience was universal. College was a waste of money. Daycare for young adults so they didn’t have to grow up. Over and over he’d promised his daughter that not a cent of his money would pay for college.
For the next eight years, Allison had tried to change his mind by proving how smart she was. She’d won spelling bees and writing contests and academic bowls, earned a 4.0 every quarter (even her awful junior year of high school that had been mostly online due to the pandemic), was awarded scholarships and trophies and plaques. Made high school valedictorian and got accepted to an Ivy League school. And she hadn’t stopped after he divorced her mother four years ago, either. Allison still worked herself to the bone at Brown, earning perfect grades (except for that one semester derailed by Colin’s assholery) and graduating summa cum laude.
Their entire second-floor hallway at home was a shrine to Allison’s academic achievements. And her father, when he’d lived there, never went upstairs.
Her acceptance to Claymore was the first accolade Allison had chosen not to share with him. It was for her, and her alone. But instead of relieving the pressure, it had only been intensified. Allison had to be smart, she had to be the best, she had to be perfect. Because if she wasn’t, this all might get pulled out from under her. And if she wasn’t excelling at school, if she wasn’t the person who’d “read every book in existence,” who was she?
She dropped her head to the table. “What if I suck? What if they hate me? What if they boo me out of the room or throw tomatoes and stuff?”
Sophie laughed. “First of all, you aren’t Fozzie Bear. You really need to stop streaming those old shows with your mother.”
“The Muppets are underappreciated by our generation,” Allison muttered into the glass. “Fozzie knows my pain.”
“You realize you’re identifying with a puppet, right?” When Allison groaned in reply, Sophie’s voice softened. “Did you ever boo or hiss at a teacher?”
“Of course not.”
“These kids are like three years younger than us. They’re not going to be any different than we were in school.”
“Yeah but this isClaymore.They’ll expect a certain level of education. What if I can’t give them that?” Allison sat up and dragged a hand through her mussed hair. “I need a WCS.”
Allison and Sophie had been playing WCS (Worst-Case Scenarios) since the first week they’d met and Sophie accidentally spilled nail polish all over a pair of her friend’s favorite jeans. For both of them, problems were easier to face if they were prepared for the worst possible outcomes.
Monty popped up on the lounger and set himself in Sophie’s lap. She stroked his ears, her lips pursed in thought.
“Okay.” The chair creaked as she shimmied straighter. “One: they spend the entire fifty minutes on their phones. Two: they challenge everything you say. Three: they refuse to participate in discussions.”
Allison flinched with each scenario. Sophie might as well have cracked open her skull and culled them straight from her worst nightmares.
It took her a second to formulate some strategies. “Um…,” she mumbled, fiddling with the cover of her notebook. “One: I use Claymore’s campus-wide chat app to spam them information on the readings.”
“Nice.”
“Two: F’s for everyone. I’m Oprah but with failing grades.” Already, she could feel the tension in her muscles uncoiling. WCS was like a good snowblower after a blizzard. It carved her a path forward through all the static and fog that worry blanketed over her thoughts.
Sophie snorted. “I doubt your professor would go for that, but I love the draconian flair.”
“Three: I put them in groups or find a topic they do want to talk about to break the ice.”
Sophie’s dark curls bounced as she nodded. “See, you’ve clearly got the instincts. You’ll learn the rest.”
That was the problem. Allison didn’t have time to learn. She needed to already know. “Not before next week.”
“Okay, that’s it.” Sophie jumped to her feet and clapped her hands. “It’s almost five o’clock on a Friday and you’re way too in your head. We’re going out.”
“What? Where?”
