Page 39 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

“I checked it yesterday.” I drop the eraser onto the ledge and reach for the envelopes she has pulled from the folder. Two are campus notices, one is a reminder about benefits enrollment, and the last has no purpose beyond making me regret paper as a human invention.

“Yesterday was ambitious of you.” Mara takes the marker from the ledge and uncaps it, circling one of the questions I almost finished erasing. “This was the class on institutional responsibility?”

“It was.”

“Talia talked?”

I look up from the mail. “She did.”

Mara’s smile comes slowly, careful around the edges so it doesn’t become too much. “Good for her.”

“She had the room for a while.” I tuck the mail into the front pocket of my satchel instead of the main compartment, mostly because I know Mara will check if I make it too obvious that I plan to forget about it. “Leon even listened.”

“That must have been disorienting for everyone involved.” Mara recaps the marker and puts it exactly where she found it. “I’m going to tell Hannah I was right about putting Talia in your section.”

“You assigned her to me?”

“I suggested.” Mara pulls a stapled page from the folder and slides it over. “I also suggested that Norris stop pretending your spring seminar wasn’t going to fill, which brings me to the part where I get to be irritating.”

The course number sits at the top of the page, followed by my name and the enrollment list beneath it. Every seat is taken. Three students are waitlisted at the bottom, their names lined up neatly below the course cap.

I read the list once, then again. Mara keeps herself busy fixing the crooked stack of handouts near the end of the table. She doesn’t look at my face while I fold the page and slip it into the inner pocket of my satchel, away from the mail and the papers I still need to grade.

“They may ask about adding another section if the waitlist grows,” she says. “I told Norris to figure out support before he tried to hand you more work with a smile and a borrowed classroom.”

“Thank you.” My voice comes out steady enough, though my fingers stay on the zipper after the pocket is closed. “I don’t know that another section makes sense yet.”

“It doesn’t without support.” Mara lifts her tote again and makes a face at the weight of it. “Sunday still works, right? Nine-thirty. Coffee first, then I’ll complain about my mother’s lunch plans until you regret knowing me.”

“Sunday works.” I pick up my coat from the back of the chair and shake one sleeve loose. “I’m not promising regret, though. You’ve set a high bar.”

Mara’s mouth twitches, but her eyes move past me toward the doorway before she answers. Dash is in the hall, one hand resting against the frame and my campus umbrella hooked over his wrist. I forgot it in his office yesterday, and the sight of it there makes my hand pause inside my coat sleeve.

“I’m early,” he says, staying outside the room. “I can wait downstairs.”

Mara looks at the umbrella, then at me. She does not perform a reaction. She only picks up her folder and walks toward the door, pausing long enough to take the tote strap from where it has slipped again.

“You should both leave before Norris finds either of you,” she says. “He’s still looking for someone to sit on that review subcommittee, and I’ve sacrificed enough people I like this week.”

Dash steps back so she has room to pass. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Do that.” Mara glances over her shoulder at me once more, her expression softening before she looks away. “Sunday, Callie.”

“I’ll be there.”

She leaves with the quick, purposeful steps she uses when she wants everyone to believe she isn’t tired.

Dash waits until her footsteps fade before he comes in. He is still dressed for campus, his dark sweater pulled over a collared shirt and his glasses sitting low on his nose. My umbrelladangles from his wrist while he bends to pick up the pen someone left beneath the front table.

“She brought enrollment numbers?” he asks, setting the pen near the stack of handouts.

“She did.” I slide my other arm into my coat and reach for my satchel, but Dash is already lifting it from the chair. “You saw the page?”

“I saw the course code.” He shifts the strap over his shoulder, then offers me the umbrella. “Your seminar filled faster than Norris expected.”

“Norris expects nothing good to happen unless he schedules it badly first.”

Dash’s mouth moves, though he turns toward the board before the expression becomes a smile. The last ghost of my handwriting still sits there, faint under the fluorescent lights.