“Hello, everyone,” she began.
Connor elbowed her, “It’s just Mr. McCoy.”
She sent Connor such a withering stare that he subsided in an instant.
“Hello, everyone,” she repeated. “Today, the history club will be presenting our view on how pastfailures have shaped environmental policy today.” Her voice wavered as she glanced at her notes.
I leaned back against the counter, shock rolling through me. I’d expected to review an essay draft, not sit through a full student presentation. And yet, there I was, listening as they spoke with nervous energy, wondering how the hell I’d gotten myself into this. Megan continued, her voice gaining a little more confidence. “With reference to the Dust Bowl years of the 1930s, we’ll explore how unsustainable farming practices and drought combined to devastate the Great Plains. Families were displaced, communities shattered, and government policy was forced to change. From there, we’ll be looking at how those lessons—or the lack of them—resonate into today’s debates about climate change and environmental responsibility.”
She glanced up from her notes, and then it was her turn to elbow Connor, who fumbled and rolled his eyes. He launched into his part, then Luis, then Jamie, then back to Megan. They took it in turns to present convincing arguments, albeit a little one-sided, given with the enthusiasm of youth who thought they could save the world one school project at a time.
Christ, since when did I become so cynical?
“In summary,” Megan concluded after ten minutes of earnest presentation. “We have learned that theDust Bowl wasn’t just an environmental disaster; it was a failure of planning and foresight. Communities paid the price when warnings were ignored, and policies lagged behind reality. Our takeaway is that history isn’t just about the past—it’s a warning system. If we pay attention, we can use what we’ve learned to make better choices about today’s environmental crises and tomorrows. Thank you for listening. Any questions?”
Silence. They stood there, staring at me expectantly. They’d spoken so eloquently, covering everything that made history feel alive to me—the Dust Bowl, policy failures, the lessons we were still ignoring. This was exactly why we studied the past: to make sense of the present. Some of my undergraduates back at the university hadn’t had half the sense these kids were showing me. And yes, they were seniors, on the cusp of deciding their futures, but I could see it—potential, curiosity, drive. If I nurtured this, if I gave them even the smallest push, maybe they’d step into history with the same love I’d carried for it my whole life. I felt a tug of responsibility, tangled up with the passion that had made me the professor I once was, the one I still longed to be.
“I uhm.” Shit. I couldn’t think of anything to say. “There’s a history club?”
All four of them glanced at each other, confused.
“Didn’t Mom tell you that?” Jamie asked.
“No, she said you needed help with a project, I thought it was a senior essay or something.” Fuck, I sounded like an idiot.
“No, we all love history,” Megan said after everyone stared at their feet. “So, Jamie made a club.”
“And we joined,” Luis added.
“You didn’t tell me that?!” I said to Jamie.
“I didn’t think you’d want to hear our kid’s stuff,” he said and tilted his chin, one hundred percent stubborn and defensive. The pang of guilt hit me hard. Maybe I hadn’t been the most approachable, maybe too grumpy, too pissed at the world. Jamie had worked part-time for me since the start of summer, and not once had he mentioned he loved history—to me, a history professor. That had to be on me. Shit.
I went over to the door, turned the sign, then faced them. “Okay, this needs drinks. What does everyone want?”
When we all had drinks, three milkshakes, one water for Jamie, and a coffee for me, I pulled out chairs and encouraged them to sit at the largest of the tables in here.
“That was an excellent presentation to start,” I said, leaning forward, letting my professor voice take over. “I’m very impressed. You spoke clearly, covered the big picture, and tied it to today in a way thatmatters. I just have a few thoughts. Have you considered,” I tapped the table for emphasis, “how much the migration patterns out of the Dust Bowl influenced the growth of cities like Los Angeles? The environmental crisis didn’t just change farming; it reshaped the demographics and labor markets of the entire country. That connection could make your argument even stronger.”
Jamie raised his hand with caution. I gestured for him to go ahead, and he jumped in with more confidence than I’d expected. “And that the migration patterns didn’t just change demographics, right? But also, music, food, even the politics of California were influenced by the Dust Bowl refugees.”
I couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at my mouth. Smart. Very smart.
That opened the floodgates—Connor leaned forward, jabbing his finger at his notes. “And labor unions, right? Because there was a surge of new workers.”
Luis added quickly, “And the way federal aid programs were reshaped. We could link that to modern disaster relief.”
Megan gave a firm nod, scribbling furiously. “Yes, that ties everything together.”
Suddenly, they were all talking over each other, debating, arguing, connecting dots, and I sat back, heartpounding with something I hadn’t felt in a long time—excitement. They were thinking critically, they werehungryfor it, and damn if I didn’t miss this more than I cared to admit, but that wasn’t what they needed me for—they needed to think critically, and oh my god, I was loving this. When was the last time I’d had a roundtable with students?
I’d missed this, and my resolve not to be a managing freaking barista was set.
We worked on the presentation and, over the next week, they polished it, refining their arguments and learning to balance each other’s enthusiasm. They even roped in Wesley on one of his flyby visits; he sat patiently, listening to part of it, and asked a thoughtful question at the end that had them all scrambling through their notes. The kids thrived under the attention, and I felt something in me spark I hadn’t felt in a long time—purpose. It filled the week right up until the interview with North Hollow University.
I’d spent an extra hour in the bathroom, shaving close, worrying over what I was wearing. Was the designer suit my ex had insisted I buy too much for a small college? Should I go with my cheaper suit? Did that give the right message of a successful history professor? Was this saying, Dr. Hunter McCoy? Or was it serving a desperate coffee store owner with self-esteem issues? What about jeansand a smart shirt, even? Fuck, I was a mess. I opted for the more affordable suit: a pale pink shirt and a dark tie. Called it done.
They wantedme, or they didn’t.
