They Never Learn, page 6
We’re not even halfway through the semester and Mikayla has already been agitating to lock in her spring course load. I have to chase down most of my other advisees—or send Jasper after them. I don’t know whether it’s his harsh grading or his height or that unsettling gaze of his, but the students seem far more scared of him than they are of me. If only they knew.
“Of course,” I say. “Although it’s too nice outside to stay cooped up in my office. Coffee?”
Mikayla nods eagerly, following me into the hallway. Jasper brushes past, his long strides overtaking us. He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers graze my hip. I tense, glaring after him. Mikayla doesn’t seem to notice, but someone else might have.
Mikayla and I pass Dr. Stright’s office just as he’s ushering Ashleigh Lawrence inside. Ashleigh is in his honors writing seminar and already a better writer than he’ll ever be. I sincerely hope she’ll keep writing even if she goes through with her—in my opinion ill-advised—plan to marry her high school sweetheart next summer.
Stright eases the door shut behind Ashleigh, hand hovering near her spine, and my jaw muscles clench. He’s not as shameless as Kinnear yet, but it’s just a matter of time. In some ways, he’s already worse than his mentor. At least Kinnear doesn’t have a wife at home waiting for him while he fools around with his students.
“Are you still planning to apply for Stright’s honors seminar?” I ask Mikayla as we exit Miller out to the Oak Grove. It’s practically summery today, and the students are taking full advantage of it: stretched out on the grass with their jackets as picnic blankets, using the pretense of studying as an excuse to bask under the clear blue sky.
“I’d like to,” Mikayla says. “If you think I can get in.”
She can definitely get in—on the merits of her writing talent, of course, but also because Stright handpicks the seminar students every semester, and they’re nearly all pretty young women.
“I’d be more than happy to give you a personal recommendation,” I tell her. “But I have to warn you—”
“About Professor Stright?” she says. “Don’t worry, I know all about him. I still want to try for the seminar, though.”
I’m loath to praise anything Stright does, but I have to admit his seminar seems to be valuable. One of his students last year got into the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Others have ended up with internships at literary magazines, publishing houses, the New Yorker. I don’t want Mikayla to miss out on opportunities just because Stright is a creep.
But if he touches her, I’ll fucking kill him.
“I was planning to take your Victorian poetry class too,” Mikayla says. “But if you get that fellowship in London, I guess Dr. Kinnear will be teaching it?”
“Or Dr. Torres.” Drew’s already been reviewing my syllabus, just in case. “You should consider his gender-theory course too. He only offers it in the spring.”
“Do you think he’d take over as my advisor too?” Mikayla asks. “I mean, if you leave.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to. But I’ll still be available via email if you need anything.”
She smiles. “Good. I’ll really miss you, though.”
Our walk to town takes us past the cluster of dormitories sitting at the edge of campus. Mikayla waves at a student coming out of Whitten Hall—a girl I’ve never seen before, with frizzy brown hair, wearing a flannel and frayed denim ensemble that would have been stylish when I was her age.
“You’re in Whitten this year?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Mikayla says. “It’s the only place I could get a single as a sophomore.”
Whitten is one of the older, more run-down dormitories on campus, and so not a favorite choice of most students. But I’ve always thought it had a certain charm, with its white columns and leaded windows, the ivy covering the facade. In the afternoon light, the overlapping leaves gleam like the scales of a snake.
With so many students outside enjoying the sunshine, the coffee shop in Gorman’s small excuse for a downtown is nearly deserted. Mikayla and I are discussing options for her global literature requirement as we wait for our drinks—plain black coffee for me, a caramel chai latte for her—when a man comes through the door and walks right up to us.
I look up, already irritated, and my annoyance only grows when I see who it is.
“Afternoon, ladies!” Kinnear says. “What are you up to?” Then, without waiting for either of us to answer, he says to me, “I figured you’d be locked up in your office, hard at work on that fellowship application. My offer to review your materials still stands, by the way.”
“I’ve already submitted it, actually,” I say. “But thank you.”
As if I would ever make that mistake again. Two years ago, Kinnear read a paper of mine on Viola Vance’s rumored bisexuality, gave some insulting notes on the structure of my argument, and proceeded to present a trivialized version of the exact same thesis in a talk he gave at the ALSCW conference the next semester. Kinnear specializes in Victorian literature, including the work of Viola’s prominent novelist husband, Lord Douglas Vance. Even when Kinnear isn’t outright stealing from me, there’s an unfortunate amount of overlap in our research.
The barista sets our coffees on the counter. Mikayla picks up both and hands me mine.
“I’m sure you’ll hear something soon.” Kinnear smiles indulgently and gives me a squeeze on the arm. “They just reached out today to schedule my phone interview.”
“Your phone interview? For what?”
“For the fellowship, of course.”
Mikayla’s mouth drops open. “For the Women’s Academy fellowship?”
“It’s open to all scholars in the field,” Kinnear says. “The head curator is an old Cambridge chum of mine, actually. She encouraged me to throw my hat in the ring.”
I don’t understand. Why would he even want it? He’s been gunning for the department chair job for years, and now it’s almost in his grasp. Going to London for twelve months would almost certainly interfere with that—whereas it could make my career. Although I’m sure that little sycophant Stright would be more than happy to keep his seat warm for him. The idea of Kinnear in London, and Stright as my boss, no matter how temporarily, is too much to bear.
“Apparently there’s some good stuff about Lord Vance in those letters too,” Kinnear says. “You know, since they date from the early years of his marriage to Viola.”
The thinnest of justifications. Viola’s writing is already treated as an afterthought to the oeuvre of her more famous husband, and for decades now it’s been actively suppressed by his estate. Her poems are full of rage and desire, unapologetic and aggressive even by today’s standards. She’s never been taken seriously as an artist in her own right, but my work could change that. Those letters would amount to a footnote in Kinnear’s research. They could define mine. And he damn well knows it.
Mikayla watches us warily, like she’s afraid we’re about to come to blows. I’m trying to keep my face composed, but I can feel the rage bursting behind my eyes like firecrackers. I grip the corrugated cardboard around my coffee cup to keep from bashing his teeth in.
I can’t let Kinnear get to me like this. Not now, not when I’m so close. Besides, what does it matter if they give him the fellowship, when I can make sure he’s not around to take it?
12 CARLY
“ ‘I’ll always love you,’ ” Wes says. “ ‘Just not in the way you want.’ ”
I’m trying to pay attention as he reads his latest short story in class, but I’m too nervous knowing it’s my turn to read next. I pinch the stapled corner of my assignment, and one of the pages slices into the pad of my finger.
Lucky for me, Wes’s story is long. It’s overwritten, and sentimental too—a sappy account of a shy boy who spends years in unrequited love with a quirky, troubled girl from his hometown. But Alex seems to love it, and one of the girls sitting across from us has actual tears glittering in her eyes. I stick the papercut into my mouth, sucking some of the sting away.
Wes finally finishes reading, and Alex lays his hand over his heart. “Beautiful, Mr. Stewart. Thank you so much for sharing that with us.”
Now Alex looks at me. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“Ms. Schiller,” he says, “I believe you’re—” He cuts himself off, glancing at his watch. “Actually, we’re running a bit short on time. So let’s end there, and we’ll pick up with Carly’s story first thing next week.”
I make a mental note that next Monday would be a great time to ditch class with Allison again. The writing part I’ve been getting more comfortable with as the semester wears on, but I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with reading aloud in front of people. If Alex weren’t so nice, I’d swear he was doing this to torture us.
Wes waits by the door, slouching in the oversize corduroy sport coat he’s been wearing every day since the weather started turning colder. His eyes are naturally squinty, like he’s smiling all the time even when he’s not, but now there are deeper crinkles at the corners, just visible behind his glasses and the shaggy hair spilling over his temples.
“Saved by the bell,” he says as we move into the hallway.
“What?”
“I could tell you were dreading it. Reading your story.”
“Yeah, it’s…” I look down at the scuffed toes of my Doc Martens. Allison found them for me last Saturday, at the Goodwill in the strip mall out by the Gorman Walmart. The boots were too big on her, but they fit me perfectly. “Well, it must be easier for you. Since you’re a theater major.”
Wes chuckles. “No, I totally hate it too. There’s a reason I stay backstage.”
He holds the door for me as we exit Miller Hall out to the Oak Grove. Autumn has fully taken hold now, turning the trees into a riot of brilliant reds and rusts.
A muscular guy in a letter jacket nearly bumps into us, and Wes moves closer to me to stay out of his way. I’m struck suddenly by the thought that people might see us together and assume we’re a couple. As soon as the path is clear enough, I sidestep so I’m a few inches away from him. It’s stupid; I don’t know why I care.
Suddenly my vision goes dark.
Someone’s behind me, covering my eyes. Their elbows digging into my shoulder blades. My pulse starts pounding, and I wrench to the side to get out of their grip. I’m shaking, my breath coming in shuddering gasps, as I turn around to see who it is.
Allison. Who else.
She’s still laughing, her eyes lit up with cruel glee. But once she sees the look on my face, she stops.
“Oh my God, I really scared you!” She draws me into a hug, stroking my hair. “I’m sorry!”
I lean in, and her arms tighten around me. My heart rate starts to slow. “It’s okay.”
“What are you two nerds up to?” she asks as she pulls away. She’s wearing an outfit from our thrift store excursion too: a men’s houndstooth blazer over jeans and a black top that bares a strip of her midriff.
“We just left writing class,” Wes says. “We—”
“Want to get some lunch?” Allison’s asking me, not him. Her hand is still in my hair, playing with the ends.
I nod. It’s not quite noon yet, but my stomach is growling, the gnawing nerves giving way to hunger pangs.
For the first month of the school year, I only ate at the main cafeteria, which serves mostly room-temperature pizza and stale breakfast cereal. Allison’s the one who told me about Trocino, the dining hall on the other side of campus that’s set up like a mall food court, with options from bagels to burgers to made-to-order stir-fry.
We scatter as soon as we push through the big glass doors, Wes opting for his usual sausage-and-cheese calzone while Allison makes a beeline for the burger station. I wander around for a few minutes, weighing my options before deciding on the daily casserole special. Allison’s right that the food is much better here, but I find the number of choices overwhelming, and they’re always blaring some aggressively cheerful Top 40 broadcast over the sound system.
Lunch in hand, I set off in search of Allison and Wes. I spot them at one of the big tables in the center of the space, surrounded by a bunch of their theater department friends. Even though I’ve met some of them before, I can’t recall their names. They all seem to have some distinguishing, memorable feature, though: the girl with the bleached hair and nose ring, or the guy with the gauged ears and skull tattoo.
There’s nothing distinctive like that about me. My hair is a boring brown somewhere between curly and straight, I’m not particularly skinny or particularly voluptuous, I don’t have any tattoos or piercings besides my ears. Next to them, I feel impossibly plain, so it’s no wonder their eyes skate right over me. If Allison and I hadn’t been thrown together by the campus housing authority, I’d be just as invisible to her.
All the seats at their table are taken. Should I go sit somewhere else? More and more students are arriving after their morning classes, and soon all the tables will be occupied. My stomach twists, anxiety edging out the hunger. I try to catch Allison’s eye, but she’s too busy laughing at whatever the boy beside her just said.
It’s Bash Waller. His dark hair is tucked under a knit cap today, black Henley unbuttoned partway down his sternum, and he’s leaning back in his chair so far it looks like the legs might snap. Allison is contorted toward him, ignoring her food as completely as she’s ignoring me.
“Carly.”
Wes stands in front of me, gesturing to the spot opposite his half-eaten calzone.
“Here, sit down,” he says. “I’ll pull up another chair.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, sinking onto the warm red plastic seat. I don’t know what I was thinking, getting the casserole. It looks disgusting to me now, like layers of wrinkly flesh.
Wes pushes an extra chair into the narrow gap next to me and resumes eating his lunch, his knee knocking against mine under the table as he chews. Allison flips her hair back and brushes her fingers over Bash’s forearm. The girl on her other side—the one with the nose ring—rolls her eyes, but she’s watching the two of them just as intently as the rest of us. They’re the stars of the show.
Bash looks bored, though. This is clearly an everyday occurrence in his world: girls fawning over him, flirting shamelessly. He’ll bask in her attention like a snake sunning itself on a rock, but he clearly doesn’t give a shit about her.
He’s already finished his food, leaving a smear of ketchup and a small pile of chicken bones behind, but he reaches for Allison’s plate, grabbing a french fry without asking.
“Hey, those are mine,” she says, but she’s still smiling, her voice full of sugar.
As he chews, his eyes rove over her, pausing on her waist. I can’t see her stomach from where I’m sitting, but I don’t miss the little gasp of breath she takes as she sucks it in. My fist tightens around my fork.
“You’ll be performing half-naked in front of a bunch of strangers soon,” Bash says, already reaching for another fry. “Better watch the junk food.”
What an asshole. I glance over at Wes to see if he’s as disgusted as I am, but he’s barely paying attention, picking at the few stray bits of calzone crust still on his plate.
Allison takes Bash by the wrist and draws his hand toward her mouth. “You’re the one who has to show your bare ass onstage,” she says, then bites off the tip of the fry he’s holding.
He watches her lips as she chews, her throat as she swallows.
I stab my fork into the top of the casserole. I’m definitely not hungry anymore.
13 SCARLETT
My favorite thing about men like Kinnear: they’re so fucking predictable.
Every Friday evening, he goes to get a drink (or several) at the Gorman Tap—the only bar in town that caters to the faculty rather than rowdy students. He sits at the same table every time too: right in the window, so I don’t even have to go inside to spy on him. With the early setting of the sun, I’m another shadow in the mouth of the alley across the street.
I’ve stepped up my surveillance over the past few days, trailing two blocks behind him on his walk home from campus, tailing his car to the organic grocery store the next town over. Watching from the trees behind his house while his latest undergraduate conquest stumbled down the back steps this morning, her lips still swollen red, her jacket buttoned wrong.
He brought her to this place a few nights ago too, although she was almost certainly too young to be in a bar. He sat in the front window like always, didn’t even try to hide what he was doing. Tonight, though, he’s sipping his overpriced red wine alone. Angling his Joyce novel just right so the cover is visible to anyone who might walk by the window. I’m not sure I’ve seen him turn a page yet; it’s a prop, part of his performance of Erudite Tenured Professor.
Kinnear doesn’t really want the fellowship. He just doesn’t want me to have it. The Women’s Academy did finally contact me to set up a phone interview, but I can all too easily imagine Kinnear pouring poison in the ears of the selection committee during his own call, framing his work as superior to mine, undercutting my accomplishments. That’s what he’s been doing since the day I was hired at Gorman.
Gorman University wasn’t my first choice, but tenure-track positions are hard to come by, even for someone with my stellar academic record. I worked so hard to get ready for that interview, accounting for every detail down to my outfit: a blazer and pencil skirt I’d had tailored precisely. It made me feel formidable, capable—the kind of woman I’d worked so hard to become during my years of graduate school.
But the way Kinnear stared at me as I took my seat in the interview room immediately punctured my confidence. Later I overheard him commenting on my “great legs” to one of his older male colleagues, and I deflated entirely. I took the job, but I never wore that outfit again.
I should have killed him years ago. He’s held me back, tripped me up, screwed me over in more ways than I can count. I’ll never know for certain where I might be today without his malicious interference in my career, but I do know that fellowship is going to be mine. Come January, I’ll be in London doing career-defining research, and Kinnear will be rotting in his grave.
