I struggle to find my words, but finally settle on, “Thank you, Dr. Aguilar.”
She chuckles. “I think you can call me Andrea. We’re all practically living together this summer.”
“Tell that to Dr. Guarino,” I mumble.
Andrea continues. “Sydney told me you were the one who coached her student through what field she wanted to intern in this summer?”
I shrug. “That’s what I do. There’s a lot more you can do with an art history degree than people think, so we talked through some options to figure out which aligned more with what she likes about her major.”
Andrea’s brows raise. “I’ll be honest. I thought your office mostly maintained a list of internship opportunities for students.” I physically bite my tongue to keep from making a snippy comment about how my job is a lot more involved than that. “But after hearing what you did for Catherine, I was thinking we could talk about how to collaborate on internships for the English department.”
“Oh,” I say. “Of course. I don’t know if this class will run in Rome next year since… well, you know. But I can start compiling ideas.”
“I meant for back in Boston. Our students are so bright, but they struggle to figure out what they want to do after graduation. I’d like to change that. Maybe some workshops in our junior seminar on different jobs that you can use an English degree for?”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish. I’ve been trying to get partnerships like this set up for eight years.
“Yes!” I say, too enthusiastic, and both women shift back slightly in their seats. “Sorry, yes, I have a lot of ideas. You can do so much with an English degree. What field are most of your students interested in?”
“Publishing is the most common one, but that may be because it’s the most visible option related to English.”
“It can’t hurt to start there. We could also sit down with the alumni office to identify some alums in the field who can share about their experience and maybe help students get a leg up. We’ve done something similar with the architecture department, and it’s been a huge success.”
Andrea hums. “I never thought about working with the alumni office. I always thought of them as the people who bug old students for money.”
My smile is tight. I get why that’s what she thinks—it’s what the faculty see—but we’re so much more than their limited knowledge. “Well, they’re that, too, but there are so many ways the other departments on campus can support the academics if given the chance.”
My voice is bordering on desperate and both Andrea and Sydney know it, but there’s a spark of interest in their eyes.
Andrea nods. “Great, if you wouldn’t mind setting up a meeting when we get home?”
“Of course not. I’d love to,” I say, and Andrea chuckles at my overly enthusiastic response.
“I look forward to it,” she says, going to stand.
“But Andrea,” I say quickly, and she settles back into her seat. “If the initiative separating faculty and staff on campus passes, this project—and a lot of others that would benefit the students—will be a lot harder to figure out. You do recognize that, right?”
She shares a quick look with Sydney before facing me. “You have my tentative support. My tenure review is in two years, and I can’t risk losing it after working toward it for so long. If you get all the Rome professors on board, I’m more than happy tosupport this, but I’ll be honest. Sticking my neck out alone makes me nervous.”
I nod, slipping my hands underneath the desk so she can’t see the nervous way my fingers twist around each other. “Then let’s get everyone on board.”
Getting Sydney’s respect at the Borghese was a great step, but this is like an Olympic long jump in comparison. It’s what I always hoped for our campus, taking all these incredible offices and unique skills to best support our students. I had given up hope that this type of large-scale collaboration was possible.
I log off the computer, too hyped to sit and read student journals. This is my shot, and I need to celebrate. I pull my phone out of my bag, ready to text the group chat that Colton labeledQuinn’s Knightsin a fit of unexpected whimsy, but when I open my phone, I have a dozen missed calls and a half dozen texts from Inez. I read them as I started walking toward the door.
Inez
Hey! Can you give me a call?
Did you see my text? Call me
Where are you? I need to talk to you
Quinn, please call me back as soon as you see this
Are you at the school? I’m on my way to you now
I hear voices from around the corner in the living-room-turned-lounge, one so distinctly recognizable I can’t block it out no matter how many years I’ve spent trying. My legs are moving of their own accord as I walk right into my worst nightmare. I numbly glance down at the last text.
