Even though he’s settled in Florida and I was getting my PhD in Chicago, both of us have spent plenty of time in Rome over the last decade. Whenever our time overlaps, we get together, spending the whole time talking shop and very noticeably avoiding the elephant in the room. I haven’t heard him speak Quinn’s name once since she decided not to go into our field. It isn’t like she was dead to him—parents of deceased children still talk about them. It’s like she never existed to begin with.
“Sounds great,” I say, knowing there’s no point in avoiding the inevitable. “But I don’t have my exact schedule yet, so I’ll have to let you know. Send over the dates.”
A lot of my summer plans are dependent on how Quinn’s presentation goes, but I’m not going to bring that up with him.
He grumbles on the other line. “I’ll never understand why you chose a liberal arts college over the research institutions that were interested in you. A university like mine would never leave the schedule to the last minute like this.”
I thought long and hard about what direction I wanted to take my career, and going back to a small college like my undergraduate experience felt right. Eighteen-year-old Colton’s decision to go to Chadoin University was based on nothing more than the fact that they gave me the most money. No one in my small town in West Virginia had gone to college, and my priority was getting the most practical degree possible so I could start making money for my family. It was pure luck—or destiny, if I want to get real Italian about it all—that I was randomly assigned to a Roman history elective, where a chaotic girl dropped into the seat next to me, talking a million miles a minute. By the end of the semester, I was equally in love with the girl and the subject.
Unlike when I was choosing my undergrad, Ididhave the luxury of choice this time around. Money’s still a consideration—and likely will always be, if the bills piling up from my mom are any indication—but it isn’t theonlyconsideration anymore. Despite my first impression, I found myself at Chadoin, and I think I’ll continue to grow at Billings.
Dr. Cassia understands that, even if Richard thinks I’m throwing my potential away. It’s mind-blowing that I had multiple tenure-track offers when so many of my colleagues didn’t have any. But when I saw an open position at Billings, I knew in my gut it’s where I’m meant to be, and only half because Quinn’s here, too.
But rather than explaining that—again—I mumble my agreement and wrap up the call. If this presentation works out and Quinn comes with us to Rome, we’ll have to talk about her dad. She won’t be able to avoid seeing or thinking about him like she normally does.
I slip back into the room right as Inez kicks off the presentation. Her light brown skin has gone ashen as she stumbles a bit over the words she rehearsed so perfectly in Quinn's apartment yesterday, but she gets it all out.
I looked over the materials sent to the senate and helped them practice their presentation, starting with the explanation for the last-minute change, followed by why Quinn’s so qualified, before they hit them with the ultimatum that they refuse to call an ultimatum.
Their argument is sound. Still, they’re fighting an uphill battle.
Billings’s Faculty Senate is small. The large auditorium’s only a quarter filled with about thirty faculty representatives, plus President Munchen and the deans of each college. These meetings are open to anyone, but no one except the senators show up, until me. I know Quinn worries about me, and I know there’ssome truth to what she’s saying, but I’m not going to leave her without support.
The lines deepen on Quinn’s face as Inez wraps up, and I can practically hear her running through her proposal as she takes in the tired, bored faces in front of her. One professor yawns loudly, making no attempt to cover it up. Quinn pretends not to notice as she starts on her portion of the presentation.
My college experience was dedicated to studying each side of Quinn. I loved them all—the wild enthusiasm when she was working through an idea out loud, the loopy, sleep deprivation-driven humor when she procrastinated on a paper, the soft, sleepy smiles when she woke up after crashing on my futon during a study session. But there’s something particularly magical about this side of her. Strong, composed. Driven by passion. I can’t imagine denying her anything.
“Since this situation clearly demonstrates what staff bring to campus, I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking this role, only for a rule to pass a few months later that would cut me and any other employee on campus off from potential ways to help students,” Quinn finishes, chin held high as she stares down the audience.
There’s silence for three seconds, and then a dozen professors jump in all at once.
“Are you truly saying…”
“How dare…”
“The audacity…”
Quinn lifts her hands, and the professors shockingly fall silent again. “If we could have one question at a time, please, I think that would be more productive.”
The red that creeps over some of their faces shows exactly how they feel about Quinn’s command, but everyone in the room can recognize that screaming over each other accomplishes nothing.
Dr. Richardson from the marketing department is the first tospeak up. “Students needthis class, Ms. Riley. Are you really going to hold their futures hostage?”
Quinn flinches. The first question, and they went right for the jugular. “That’s not my intention. Iwantto teach them. I’ve dedicated my career to helping students, and I believe this summer will change those students’ lives. But tell me what would have happened to these students if your initiative had passed last year? I wouldn’t beallowedto teach, or to consult on the KMG internship program you’re all so passionate about, or any of the other ways I’ve served campus over the past eight years. I’m taking a gamble that bringing this conversation to you will lead to us all coming to the same conclusion.”
“And what conclusion is that?” asks a professor I don’t know.
“That our students deserve a campus that provides them the best support possible, and shackling our employees will prevent that from happening.”
Dr. Richardson nods thoughtfully. He’s always been one of the more open-minded professors on campus, even if he is a bit of a conceited prick. A few of the other professors murmur to the people beside them, and while I can’t understand the words, it seems positive.
Then Dr. Yoder stands, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose as he clears his throat. I’ve had a few interactions with him—he sits on my tenure committee—and none of them have been particularly pleasant.
“Why,” he starts, a sneer taking over his wrinkled face, “are we having this discussion to begin with? Let’s find a professor from any department to step in for this class and be done with the drama.”
Quinn’s smile is viscous as she walks up the stairs and hands him a sheet of paper. “Sir, would you mind telling us what the highlighted portion of the Billings bylaws states?”
“In order to teach a course, one must have…”
