Page 2 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I’m standing in my office (a.k.a. my “tiny little closet”), yanking books off my shelves while trying to decide which ones to keep, when Amelia Leung pops her head through my open door. She’s my favorite colleague, an English professor, and the only person at this school with whom I can even remotely claim a friendship. With her petite frame, cool retro glasses, messy black topknot that sits precariously atop her head, and librarian-chic wardrobe, she often looks like she’s about to bumble into a meet-cute with a hot billionaire or a sexy fireman who rescues flood-stranded puppies. She’s also one of the sharpest, most intense researchers I know.

“Tell me it’s not true,” she says.

I spin toward her, my arms full of books. “Actually, the Cubs won. I owe you a dollar.”

“I was at the game last night. I know they won.” She takes a seat in the folding chair that barely fits between my desk and the door to the hallway. I added a cushion to make it less austere, but that cushion never fooled anyone. “I’m talking about you giving Carl your notice.”

I drop the books onto a growing donate pile, keeping only one aside.

“It is true,” I say. “HR has been informed. T’s are crossed. I’s are dotted.”

“I had no idea you’d applied for another job.”

“I didn’t.” I sweep another stack of books into my arms and rapidly discard them with only a brief glimpse at each title. I might be edging toward manic, but only edging.

“But you will,” Amelia confirms, now looking more than a little concerned. “This is just a pause until academic job listings are posted in the fall and you see what your options are?”

I open my mouth to say of course. The words are right there, waiting, but I can’t say them, not when we both know how limited my options will be. Colleges and universities have been gutting humanities departments; tenure lines in all fields are getting carved into exploitive, grossly underpaid, part-time adjunct gigs; the job market has grown more competitive; and I’ll be less likely to get an entry-level position after earning tenure than I would be if I’d more recently finished my PhD. Also, and no less notably, my gut sinks at the thought of another academic job search. Enduring excruciatingly extensive interviews for positions I might not get. Starting over as an assistant professor without tenure, or as a poorly paid adjunct. Proving myself to another set of colleagues who cling to the way things have always been done and another set of students who expect me to answer emails sent at 3:00 a.m. the night before a class.

I don’t know how to do anything else. I’ve never wanted to do anything else. But do I still want to do this?

“I don’t know,” I tell Amelia. “I’m not sure what’s next.”

“But you’re the ultimate planner,” she says, and to her credit, she doesn’t make this sound like an insult. “I’ve seen your calendar. You have ten years of grant applications laid out. Five years of classes and curricular strategies. You even preselected your committee work.”

“Committee work I didn’t actually want to do.” I set an ancient copy of Molly Bunting’s Household Remedies from Bee Balm to Feverfew on my desk. That one’s a keeper.

Amelia gapes with astonishment. “What else would you do?”

I don’t know, I almost repeat, but it was terrifying enough the first time I said it.

“For now, keep myself stupidly busy or blindingly drunk to avoid a total breakdown?”

“Stick with busy. You get mushy when you’re drunk.”

I stop flinging books around, halted by a burst of indignation. “I do not!”

“You do.” She smothers a smile. Badly. “Last time we did shots, you danced with your eyes squeezed shut to Ed Sheeran songs and told the cute bartender he looked like a great cuddler.”

I resume sorting while muttering under my breath, “You have no proof.”

Amelia does an even worse job of smothering a smile, which I duly ignore while frowning at the growing pile of books I once coveted, each one reflecting countless hours spent devouring knowledge and distilling it into engaging and illuminating lectures. Then there’s the time I poured into my own education and the money, earned through competitive scholarships, the loans I’m still paying back, and the shitty part-time jobs I squeezed between seminars and late-night study sessions. Plus the scramble to prove myself so I could get a full-time job, then publish, then get tenure, always chasing the next stage of my career. Where does that effort go if I walk away? Who will I be if I’m not Professor Flynn, lover of obscure facts about stomachers and scurvy?

“How will you afford your apartment?” Amelia asks.

“I won’t—I can’t—so I gave it up.”

“You’re moving in with that guy you’ve been sleeping with?”

“Nope. I gave him up, too.”

“Wow.” She slumps back in the chair. “So, you’re just . . .”

“Yeah. I’m just . . .” I shrug, as if to emphasize the ugly uncertainty of the statement, not that it requires emphasis, but I’m still an academic at heart. I like a well-supported argument.

For several minutes, I continue clearing my shelves while Amelia watches from the folding chair, shifting occasionally to adjust the cushion so it doesn’t slide out from under her. I should’ve tied it to the metal legs, but the lack of comfortable seating has sped up meetings with students whose four, seven, or twelve grandparents died in remarkably quick succession or who claimed “not being a morning person” was a serious mental health reason they shouldn’t have to attend my 9:00 a.m. class, instead of being a reason they should take afternoon courses instead.

Amelia’s first to break the silence. “What about your grandma’s house? Or her yacht?”