Chapter 11
eleven
PARKER
Syllabus day—more like Syllabus week—happened at the beginning of a new term. The students would pile in and complain about the weighting of their essays and assessments as if this were a chance to air grievances. After, we’d set them free. I’d been teaching undergraduate seminars for several years. I rather liked teaching and loved our quantitative analysis seminars as they were more like a research lab.
Today, I picked up my assigned classroom form. I was co-teaching with a new recruit. As we had twice the number of enrolees, I was always seated with one of the newer students—usually a student in the MSc program. It wasn’t unusual to fly blind. My past co-teachers were competent. The name on the form said only A Deschamps. I assumed it was a male student from France or maybe Belgium.
I settled in with neat stacks of syllabi on the desk. I liked to hand out paper copies so they could never complain they couldn’t find it online. I knew how to manage things and had a system, and I was glad to teach this strategy to my co-instructor. As I finished preparing, I spotted a female student using the instructor’s work machine. All I saw of her was a blonde ponytail and painted-on trousers. I didn’t know what she was pulling.
“Miss,” I said. “This is an instructor machine. Can you please?—”
The girl turned.
I nearly gasped, whispering under my breath, “Latte Girl.”
She groaned. “Oh, what the fuck!? No! No! Wait, what?”
I cocked my head, trying to make sense of this situation. “I think you have the wrong classroom.”
“221?” She asked. “This place is not that much a maze.”
She had the room right.
“Roardon Hall?”
Latte Girl nodded. “Shit. Wait, am I stuck with you?”
Her disregard for polite conversation impressed me. Was she raised in a barn? How the hell did she think this was an acceptable way to talk in front of a classroom of undergraduates? Though political scientists had potty mouths while talking shop, we knew better in front of students—or so I thought.
“So, we’re teaching methodology together?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not even plugged in!” She bent to plug the machine in.
I was seething but remained professional. I loathed her. Worst, I’d managed to appreciate her arse as it hung in the air. It was impressive, and the trousers only made it better. Why did she have to be pretty ? And why did I recognise it?
“There!” She pulled her ponytail tighter. “Good?”
The computer booted, and the projector turned on.
“Good,” I answered. “We’re one minute late. Can you pass the syllabi out?”
“No. I’m going to get us online. Are your legs broken?”
It didn’t get better. In her defence, I still felt awful about the other night. I ignored my previous disgust for our stuck-up amateur. Our sole goal was educating the masses. She probably needed my help. I worked the room, passing out the papers as requested. I was about to speak when she pre-empted me .
“Alright. Parker is passing out our syllabi, folks.” Latte Girl didn’t wait.
I turned to see she’d logged in and was standing confidently in the centre of the lab. But Parker ? I was sometimes Lord Westfall, the Duke of Westnedge, or often Mr Westfall, but never Parker! What was she on? Moreover, how did she know my name, but I didn’t know hers?
“We’d like to welcome you to our methodology lab. As Professor Briggs said, this term, we will be working on quantitative methodology—including game theory.”
My favourite part! She’d read my syllabus, too. She left me annoyed, a little aroused, and even more confused. Who was this woman—A Deschamps? How dare she take over the room with such a commanding presence!
I jumped in. “I know this module is not everyone’s favourite. Your coursemates may have told you it’s impossible to pass and that you will hate your life, but take heart. I love this module and will do anything to help you all succeed.”
“As will I,” Latte Girl said.
I jumped in again. “So, do not fear. You will learn how to use the software, but more importantly, you will develop a thesis statement and research it effectively. The first test is to develop a theory and two hypotheses. Those blurbs are due in one week. Feel free to email us as needed to assess that.”
Some students rolled their eyes, while others smiled appreciatively. Ten per cent of our class would do well and thrive. Half would struggle but make it through with some help and improvement. Twenty per cent would struggle and barely make it out, and twenty per cent more would fail and claim we failed them .
We quietly let them sort through the syllabus details, deciding what they might want clarification for. I made it back to the front of the room, largely ignoring Latte Girl as she stood there, looking surprisingly authoritative for a noob. Did she even know calculus? I doubted it.
A student raised her hand.
“Yes?” Latte Girl asked encouragingly .
“Are you the Princess?” The girl asked. “Princess… Astrid?”
I wanted to ask the girl if she was on some mind-altering substance. Tongue-tied, I didn’t respond.
“Please, call me Astrid.”
It all clicked. I nearly toppled over. Princess Astrid was Latte Girl! Latte Girl was the princess everyone went on about—the one in the basement office toiling away. I was concerned. How could she manage this, and why was she teaching?
“Anyone have any questions about the class ?” I chimed.
No response.
“If you have no questions, let’s return on Thursday. We will begin our work—getting acquainted with the infrastructure.”
I had the last word.
The students filed out, more interested in the lack of work assigned than anything. They fled, assuming they’d gotten away with something when they hadn’t. I looked over at A Deschamps, Latte Girl, or Princess Whatshername. I couldn’t grasp it. Why was I stuck with this girl? Why did I have to keep running into her? Was there an invisible string which tied us together?