Chapter 1 #2
My unimpressive chest flattens with my sudden exhale as I throw myself behind the nearest bookcase.
I can feel my heart rattling off like a pinball machine.
He is not supposed to be here—I specifically scheduled my meeting during his office hours to avoid a run-in like this.
But pasting a flyer on the announcement board, no doubt a shameless promotion for another one of his pedantic faculty lectures, is the corduroy-wearing, five-year plan-ruining, neck-bearded dragon himself.
Not today, universe. Not today.
I pull out the first book I can find and use it to hide my face as I sneak a look around the corner.
At first glance, I think there might be enough potted plants for me to duck behind if I make a run for Dr. Rivera’s office.
But the clock hanging above the armchairs tells me I’m running out of time.
I don’t have ten minutes to wait for a maintenance cart or group of sophomores to conceal my escape.
For the first time since his new engagement, I’m going to have to face him.
I’m going to have to gather all my courage and woman-up. I’m going to have to—
“Stella?”
I’m going to have to throw myself out the nearest window.
I jolt up from the book, which horrifyingly turns out to be something called Primitive Erotic Art, to see my bespectacled nemesis staring at me from the other side of the bookcase, his left eyebrow raised like a cartoon villain.
I always thought staring at a man through a gap in the shelves would be like a scene from a romantic comedy, but this definitely feels more like a horror film.
“Doctor Vandenholt,” I manage to eke out, emphasizing his title to remind him just how little he means to me. Because I am a professional. And professionals do not dissolve into panic-flavored jello when speaking to their tenured ex-boyfriends.
“This is a nice surprise. I haven’t seen you around much, lately,” he says in a lofty tone that makes me wonder if he’s oblivious, or just that much of an asshole.
I hold the book against my chest like a shield as I say, mechanically, “I’ve been very busy.”
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 shove Primitive Erotic Art back 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 even more muppet-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 be friends?
“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 I wanted this 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 from Legally 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 your car?”
I stiffen. That was the day I caught Dr. Evil borderline fondling his new flame in our shared broom closet.
“That was one time!” I protest.
“That’s not the point, and you know it. I’m sorry, Stella, but I can’t in good faith add to your workload while you’re clearly treading water.”
You try sharing an office the size of an outhouse with your ex’s fiancée, I want to scream at her. But Cynthia didn’t leave me for a tiny Texan who says things like “bless your heart.” She didn’t cheat on me after two years together and have the nerve to blame me for being avoidant and unreachable.
“You’re clearly distracted,” Cynthia says as she takes another large bite of the bran muffin on her desk. “And the quality of your work is suffering. The last thing you need is more responsibility on your plate.”
Wrong. More work is exactly what I need—it’s why I applied for the role in the first place.
I need a distraction. A motivator. A transfer to a new part of campus.
Anything to get me back in the game after four months of wallowing in my own self-pity.
Because I am not the girl who folds in the face of a set-back.
I’m the one who works her ass off. Who doesn’t let anyone get in her way.
At least, I used to be.
“So what, you’re going to give it to Greg?” I nearly whine. “The guy whose desk is covered in ultimate frisbee trophies?”
“Look, this is as hard for me as it is for you.” Doubt it.
“And trust me, if I could do something about the blatant injustice of a tenured male professor working his way through our female fellow pool, I would. But you’re slipping, and it’s getting harder and harder for me to advocate for you.
I think it’s best for everyone if you take next semester off. ”
I blink at her. Blink a lot. Suddenly I’m in one of those action film scenes where a bomb goes off and the dashing, pleather-skirted secret agent can hear nothing but the ring of her own obliterated ear drums. Semester… off?
“You’re pulling my fellowship?”
“Suspending,” she reiterates as if she isn’t simply sugarcoating what I just said.
“Just temporarily. The department can’t keep paying you for a job you’re not doing.
This will give you time to focus on actually finishing your dissertation.
And, you know, put this Dr. Vandenholt business behind you. ”
I cringe as she says Dr. Voldemort’s name. Five minutes ago I thought I was coming in here to receive my class roster for next year. Now she wants to pull my funding?
“Please,” I beg her, my Elle Woods persona crumbling faster than Cynthia’s muffin. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll get you new research pages. I’ll send that kid an apology!”
“Stella, I’m sorry. It’s already done.”
My whole body sinks into the chair like spent candlewax.
It’s not even the suspension that kills me.
Not the embarrassment of failing at the thing I’ve dedicated every waking moment to for the last four years.
It’s that everything I’ve worked for, every concert I’ve skipped and holiday I’ve spent bent over a laptop, disappeared in a blink because of a man.
One I stayed with two years longer than I should have because it was convenient.
One who’s now engaged to a woman he’s known for less time than it took me to choose my car insurance provider.
I can practically hear Georgia O’Keeffe rolling in her grave.
Cynthia reaches over her desk, her petite arms barely making the trek to pat me condescendingly on the shoulder. I shrink away.
“Stella, this doesn’t need to be a punishment,” she says pityingly.
“Think of it as a reset. Why don’t you use this time to do something for yourself?
Go on a vacation! Hit the reset button on some hot sandy beach before you have kids and dogs and other responsibilities to slow you down.
I saw United’s having a sale to the Bahamas! ”
Fantastic, Cynthia. I can’t wait to be broke, miserable, and sunburnt. But I just smile at her, like a sociopath, while everything I’ve worked for the past four years shrivels faster than the neglected basil plant next to my sink.
“Awesome. Great. I’ll check it out.”