“So would completing your degree,” Maeve said.
According to Glenda, Maeve had questioned my commitment to the program from the start.
“You’re always saying in class that we shouldn’t base our characters on books. That we need to get out in the world and observe people in real life. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I can’t imagine working in the stacks will give you many opportunities to interact with other people.”
I crossed my fingers in my lap, where she couldn’t see. “Does this mean you won’t be a reference?”
“I informed library services that I’ve found you to be hardworking and reliable.”
Not talented. Not creative. Still... a recommendation! I beamed at her. “Thank you.”
“Make sure your academic work doesn’t suffer.”
“It won’t,” I promised.
“It’s more difficult to balance job obligations and writing than you might imagine,” she said dryly.
She was a working writer. She would know. I thought of Sam, who had given up his chance at college to take over his father’s shop.
“Dr.Ward.” Unlike most of the faculty, she had never invited me to call her by her first name. “If a student didn’t finish their degree at Trinity, how would they, like, reregister? Asking for a friend,” I added hastily.
Her heavy eyebrows rose.
“No, really,” I insisted. “An undergraduate. Say they had to withdraw for financial reasons.”
She pursed her lips. “Assuming they took an official leave of absence... How long has it been?”
“Nine years.”
“They’d have to start over. Reapply.”
I gnawed the inside of my cheek. “But they could still get in, right? I mean, if they made good grades before...”
“It’s not that simple. Even applying as a mature student, they’d have to prove they kept up somehow. That they’re still reading and writing.”
“I think he is. I’m sure he is. Sam always has a book behind the register.”
“Sam?”
“Sam Clery. He used to be a student here. His family owns a newsagents on Abbey Street.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do?”
“I didn’t ask you in here to gossip about former students. I’d like to talk with you about your assessment for the Structure in Fiction and Poetry class.”
The orphan train story. “I turned it in,” I assured her. On time. A week ago.
“Yes. Noel sent it to me.”
Noel Dalton, novelist and poet, the instructor for the course. He was tall, thin, and kindly, all bones and angles, like a crane with a comb-over.
“Was there... Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Why do you assume there’s a problem?”
