QUINN
JUNE — TEN WEEKS TO WIN OVER THE FACULTY
This is morerewarding than I expected.
Three classes in, and I’m loving it. This isn’t my first experience in front of students. Between undergrad and grad school, I’ve been a teaching assistant half a dozen times, but this is the first time I’ve run a classroom myself. I’m responsible for it all—the lesson plans and the classroom management and the learning outcomes—and it’s a beautiful experience watching the ideas I jotted down in my little polka-dot notebook turn into active learning for my students.
I’ve never doubted my decision not to get my PhD. It wasn’t the right field for me, and I’d have been miserable if I spent my life living for others. The one-on-one student interactions I get every day in Boston have always been my favorite, but I can’t deny how exciting it is to be in front of a group, watching them learn from and with each other.
The students file out of the room, animatedly chatting about their internships as I call out a reminder that their journals are due by midnight. I’m buzzing as I gather my things.
Inez pops her head into my tiny classroom. “Oh my god, is that the brilliant professor, Quinn Riley?”
I laugh, tossing a crumpled up piece of paper her way. “Fuck off.”
“I heard her students love her.”
“Everyone loves me,” I say, lifting an eyebrow in challenge.
Inez drops her voice low, affecting a Bostonian accent. “I heard she has a perfect score on Rate My Professors.” Her voice lifts into a high, squeaky voice. “I heard all her students refuse to study with any other professor ever again because they were so inspired by her.”
“Damn right they were inspired,” I say, looping my bag over my shoulder. I step close, dropping my voice lower. “It’s going so well, Inez! I think this might actually work.”
“So you’re ready to admit I was right?” she asks, the sweetest little smirk on her face.
“I’ll admit,” I say, dragging out the words, “that there was… some value in your plan.”
“Stubborn little shit,” she says, hip checking me as we head down the hallway.
We’re about to turn the corner into the school’s shared lounge when we hear voices.
“How is it going, Anthony?” Dr. Guarino says from around the corner.
“Great! Probably one of my favorite classes I’ve taken.”
Heat radiates through my chest, spreading through my limbs like the Roman sun warming my body. I gesture toward the room, widening my eyes at Inez, who does a little happy wiggle. Dr. Guarino grumbles something I can’t hear as Anthony exits the lounge, giving us a little wave as he heads out of the school. Inez is about to step into the room when I hear another person speak. I grab her wrist, tugging her back before she comes into view.
“You didn’t expect her to do so well, did you?” someone elseasks. It has to be one of the other professors, but they haven’t spoken to me enough for me to pick them out.
“One student said one positive thing,” Dr. Guarino says. “That doesn’t mean the class is actually going well.”
The woman tuts. “I doubt my first students would have spoken so positively about me. I know it’s been a while for you, but think about how hard your first classes were.”
“Was that an old man joke, Andrea?” Dr. Guarino asks. The easy camaraderie between them, one that I’m not welcome in, digs deep.
“If the geriatric slippers fit,” she answers with a laugh. “The real question is if how well she does actually matters.”
“I agree,” another disembodied voice says, and I stifle a groan when I realize this is a group conversation between most, if not all, of the professors. “The staff are a systemic issue. One person doing well in the classroom doesn’t change that.”
Dr. Guarino grunts. “The faculty agreed to this littleexperimentto appease President Munchen. Once the summer is over, we won’t have to worry about this again.”
My vision swims. I knew this was a possibility, but to hear them say that they aren’t taking this seriously, that the decision is already made and the hard work I’m putting in is pointless, feels like the ground has been ripped out from under me. In an instant, all of that joy and optimism I was carrying from the class turns to lead in my hands, dragging me to the ground.
I’m not enough. I’llneverbe enough.
Inez is gripping my arm, squeezing tight and whispering something in my ear, but the words don’t register. When I finally look up, her face looks as devastated as I feel. I’m failing her and all the other staff members who are relying on me to fix things.
“Professor Riley?” I look up to see Colton, just through the front door of the school. His students filter in behind him, blessedly turning down the hallway toward the classroom.
