A few years ago
“Professor Hendrick!”
I turn around to look at the person shouting my name. Why are they being so loud?
“My name is Flynn, not Professor. Professor is a character on Gilligan’s Island,” I tell the short, fat woman with lipstick on her teeth. Her name is Imogen Wells and she runs the art department. She’s the one who gave me my job. She’s nice. Even if she smells like sweat and her breath stinks of coffee and cigarettes.
Imogen laughs. I didn’t think I was being funny. She really should brush her teeth. Maybe I should remind her.
Or is this one of those times I should keep my thoughts to myself? I figure I will this time.
“Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to speak to you about something,” she says. I have forty-two minutes until my class starts. I like to spend that time reading over my notes. I don’t like speaking in front of people but Kevin, my therapist in North Carolina, says I should push myself out of my comfort zone. I told him that sounded stupid and didn’t make any sense.
He doesn’t laugh when I say things like that. He told me I was being rude and I listened. Because he seems to be right about a lot of things. I don’t mean to be rude. But I don’t like lying either.
“You have lipstick on your teeth. Here’s a tissue,” I say to Imogen, handing her the packet of tissues from my messenger bag. Looking at the pink smear on her tooth is bothering me.
She makes a strange noise and takes a tissue from the pack. “Thanks,” she says but she isn’t looking at me. She is looking at the floor. I look down, wondering what she’s staring at. I don’t see anything.
“Is there something down there?” I asked, bending over to have a closer look.
Imogen makes that odd noise again and turns to the side as she wipes the lipstick off her teeth.
“So, Professor—I meanFlynn—do you have a minute to talk?”
I look at my watch and nod. “I have eleven minutes. Is that enough time?” I ask her. She smiles.
“That’s more than enough. My office is right over here,” she says, indicating the door to my left.
“I know. This is where I had my interview,” I tell her, following her into the office. It smells like her. Sweat and peppermint and really old coffee. I don’t really like the smell but this time I don’t say anything. I remember Kevin telling me that some thoughts don’t need to be said out loud.
So I keep that one to myself.
“Have a seat, Flynn,” Imogen says, indicating the scratchy looking chair in front of her desk. The upholstery is dirty and I don’t want to sit on it. It looks uncomfortable.
“I don’t want to sit there. I’ll stand,” I say. She gives me a look that I don’t understand before sitting at her desk. She pulls out some papers and looks at them.
I don’t like waiting. It makes me feel anxious. I start to rub my hands together but then remember that I don’t need to do that if I’m feeling uncomfortable. I’ve been trying to learn better ways of dealing with that feeling.
I clench my hands and put them in my pocket so I don’t rub them together.
“I only have nine more minutes,” I remind her. Maybe she’s forgotten.
Imogen smiles. She reminds me of my mom. She has eyes like my mom had. Dark and nice. I like her.
“I’ve gotten a lot of great feedback about the course you’re teaching, Flynn,” Imogen says, looking down at the paper she’s holding. I wonder what it says.
“What’s that paper?” I ask her, pointing to it.
“It’s comments I’ve gotten from some of your students,” she says, handing the paper to me.
I take it, careful not to touch her. I still don’t like touching people I don’t know that well. It makes me feel weird.
I read the words on the paper. Someone said I presented the topics in a clear and pleasant manner. Another person said that I was interesting to watch while I demonstrated the different techniques.
I hand the paper back to her.
“Well, what do you think?” Imogen asks.
