Lie.But I’ll skewer myself on the nearest umbrella stand before I let him know that the biggest night out I’ve had this winter involved a trip to Babies R Us to help Marianne pick out a breast pump.
“I take it you’ve finally settled on a direction for your dissertation,” he says as he surveys the prominent stone phallus on the book’s cover.
Asshole it is, then.
Predictably, my vocal cords choose this exact moment to go on strike. I wouldn’t exactly call myself a catch—my sister is the looker in the family, and while I’m tall and curvy enough to fill out a pair of jeans, I’m a few haircuts and at least one eyebrow wax away from my personal best. But the look he’s giving me right now makes me feel like a two-week old ham sandwich.
I shovePrimitive Erotic Artback in the shelf to block my view of the stubbly dark beard that he thinks disguises his shapeless chin. But he just slinks around the corner like a cat stalking its prey.
“You know, Stella,” I can feel my cheeks heating as Dr. Dingleberry hits me with a condescending leer that makes him look evenmoremuppet-like. “We don’t have to be awkward around each other. Beth and I aren’t your enemies, here. I meant it when I said I hope we can all be friends someday.”
Friends?Did the asshat who derailed my life for a girl who’s never seen a landline seriously suggest we could all befriends?
“I have to go,” I say tersely, resisting the urge to knock those stupid hipster glasses right off his face. “I have a… meeting.”
Dammit, Stella. If history is anything to go by, I’ll come up with the comeback to end all comebacks in about two hours when I’m staring at the alarmingly blank screen of my dissertation. Why did I have to say that like I was making it up?
“Ah. Another time, then,” he says weakly. “And Stella?”
I clench my jaw and try to muster something resembling apathy as I turn back to face him.
“We—” (of course he’s a ‘we’ man, now) “—found some of your old tees when we were cleaning out the closet last week. I left them in your office, but Beth says you haven’t been in in a while.”
It’s hard to believe there was a time when Iwantedthis man—when I let him convince me that our shared love of Neoclassicism and abhorrence of small talk was enough to build a relationship on. But how is it that he’s the one planning a fairytale wedding in the Catskills while I’m getting alarmingly familiar with the department’s service entrances?
I straighten my spine and attempt to channel my best Elle Woods fromLegally Blonde,but succeed only in knocking my emotional support scarf askew.
With sudden horror, I follow his eyes down to the newly visible stain across my chest.
He shifts his gaze to the bookshelf before he adds, awkwardly, “Seems like maybe you could use a change of clothes.”
Keeping my cool while walking away from him feels akin to slow-stepping out of a burning car. But as soon as I’m positive I’m out of his sight, I abandon all pretense and sprint down the hallway like a rabid raccoon. This new role can’t come soon enough. Starting next year, I’ll no longer be subjected to Professor Pompous and his reign of terror. I’ll finally have my own parking space. My own office. My own schedule on the other side of campus.
Suck it, Dr. V.
I round the corner and screech into Dr. Rivera’s office like a getaway car, practically slamming the door behind me. My advisor looks up from her laptop, mouth half full of muffin.
“Stella,” she says flatly, pushing her turquoise horn-rimmed glasses onto her head. “Is it noon already?”
“11:58!” I chirp cheerfully. Dr. Cynthia Rivera is an academic legend and one of the world’s leading experts in Chicano art. She also happens to be the chair of the Art History Department—and the advisor responsible for championing my dissertation.
“If you’re ready to get started,” I begin, as if I haven’t rehearsed this nine-billion times, “I thought we could kick off with my ideas for new course content.”
“Stella, sit down.”
I pull the colorful stack of pages I’ve prepared out of my bag and set an identical copy on her desk. The edges are a little crumpled, something of a trademark of mine, but at least I’ve managed to avoid spilling anything on either folder this time.
“I took the liberty of going over Dr. Nazari’s syllabus for Modern American Art and pinpointed a few key areas for improvement,” I start. “I was thinking that to add an element of sociopolitical awareness, I could speak to some local galleries about getting the students involved with art initiatives in the community. The?—”
“Stella.” Her voice is heavy. “I’m going to stop you right there. You’re not getting the interim position.”
The stack of paper falls from my fingers and scatters across the floor. This must be some kind of mistake. Beth and Angela are too inexperienced. Greg’s lectures are more effective at putting students to sleep than melatonin. Even if I have been lagging a little this year, there’s no one else who’s even remotely equipped to handle three upper-division courses.
I drop into the chair across from her. Maybe this a test—some sort of final barrier to make sure I want this as badly as I say I do. To make sure I’m ready to battle for it. If I still have the chance to convince her I’m right for this position, I’m not going down without a fight.
“Cynthia,” I tell her with what I hope is the confidence of a straight white male, “you and I both know I’m the most qualified fellow in this program.”
“Last year, that may have been true,” she counters. “But you’re alarmingly behind on your dissertation. And frankly, the freshmen are scared of you. One of them told me you were holding office hours from yourcar?”
