Chapter Forty
We’re all sitting in Lowry’s classroom, waiting. It’s happened like this so many times, a full class but no professor, in the weeks since she and Mrs. Jacobs had a … discussion.
“Well.” Hayes sighs. “Last day. How does it feel?”
He’s asking me if I feel a breakdown coming on. He’s noticed the pattern, and so have I. As soon as I get a break from school, my entire life falls apart.
“I’m okay, I think,” I tell him. I don’t know for sure, but that impending breakdown feels pretty distant for the moment.
I think of the holidays, and uninterrupted sleep, and time with Hayes, and our Beta Club convention trip as soon as we get back from break.
None of that feels daunting, or draining, or even really scary, and I can’t picture myself obsessing about it negatively over vacation. It all sounds kind of nice, actually.
Hayes kicks his feet up on the table. I roll my eyes, because I do still have some respect for the classroom, despite everything we’ve been through here.
None of us know what’s going to happen with Lowry or our grades.
We’ve barely seen her throughout the back half of the semester.
Her appearances in her own class have been few and far between, and she’s been …
distant at best, even when she physically shows up.
Today is our open-book final that makes up the other half of our grade, and it was supposed to start five minutes ago.
“What do we do if she doesn’t show up?” I ask Hayes in a worried whisper.
“Not our problem.” He shrugs. His damn feet are still on the table. I know he’s right. But I can’t walk away from this without closure … and without knowing whether we’re all going to fail.
“What about our grades?”
Hayes is about to respond when the room falls silent. I look away from him toward the front of the room.
That’s the dean. Of the entire college.
Oh, shit.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone.” He unbuttons his oversize gray blazer and sits down behind the desk that’s usually Lowry’s. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Dr. Lehan. I’m the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences.”
I hear the collective intake of breath from everyone else in the room. Hayes has discreetly placed his feet back on the ground at some point, smoothly enough that I didn’t even notice.
“I’m here this morning to talk to you about Dr. Lowry’s class, if that’s alright.
” He seems alarmingly casual. He’s framing it as a question, as if we could politely ask him to leave at any point.
Like that’s the way this academic chain of command works.
“We’ve heard that y’all haven’t had the best experience this semester, and we regret that.
I’m afraid that you do still have to take your final today, and I’ll get out of your hair as soon as possible so you can get started. ”
So we are taking the test today. But Lowry’s not coming. The tension in the room starts to rise, and I shift my posture until I’m sitting up as straight as I possibly can in my chair. It’s deeply uncomfortable, but I need the reminder that I actually have a spine.
“I won’t go into all the details, but we’ve done a thorough review.
All the other professors qualified to teach this course regraded your midterm projects, and they’ve determined that you all passed.
In fact, they said you should all be commended for how you’ve responded to the challenges this semester presented. ” He glances toward my face.
Oh my God. I think that was a compliment. From every English professor in this place, except for the one that violently sucks. And it was almost directly to me.
“You could’ve responded to Dr. Lowry’s … approach … by writing this class off as an easy A from a less-than-interested professor. Instead, you worked to meet the learning goals and teach yourselves.”
He meets each of our eyes, and I feel the tension in the room start to seep away. It drifts out the air vents to the frigid breeze outside.
“Rest assured that you’ll all receive credit for this class. Your individual grades will depend on the final exam, but it will be administered and graded by a different professor. Dr. Fazio should be here shortly, and you’ll have plenty of time to complete your exam.”
There’s another intake of breath, this one of sharp relief. We’re all going to pass. I didn’t fuck this all up. All that stands between me and freedom is one measly open-book test.
“I want to apologize for the undue stress you’ve all been put under, but I want to reiterate that you all did a remarkable job this semester.
To be frank, we could’ve been forced to have you all repeat the course, if a concern of this magnitude was raised and the investigation proved that the learning objectives weren’t met. ”
Several gasps ring out from each corner of the room.
I think … I think he’s saying my doing too much and inserting myself into Professor Lowry’s world saved this entire class from repeating a semester of work.
“I know it may not feel like it”—Dean Lehan stands up, pushes his chair in—”but Dr. Lowry’s failure has been your success. You should all be proud of that.”
“Dean Lehan?” I ask, raising a hand at the same time.
“Yes, Nova?” His gaze is kind and patient.
“Is Dr. Lowry … all right?” I just have to know.
He hesitates. “In the strictest sense, yes, she is fine,” he finally says.
“She is just very tired, we believe. Perhaps this can be a lesson to the class in what burnout looks like. I sincerely hope you will all take care of yourselves to the best of your ability outside the classroom. It’s hard, because of all the responsibility, and all the demands on your time.
But if you don’t … you can lose perspective. On everything.”
He leaves the room like he just dropped a mic, and we all kind of linger in the silence he left behind.
Someone smacks me on the back. I’m completely unprepared for that. I turn around, and it’s Olivia.
“Thank you,” Olivia says. Oh. Well. She could’ve said it without the unnecessary physical touching, but I appreciate it anyway. There’s a chorus of other thank-yous throughout the room, and I manage to smile.
“Hello, everyone,” comes a sing-song voice.
Dr. Fazio turns the corner in a flash, like she’s on roller skates rather than kitten heels.
“So sorry I’m late.” She sets her bag down on the desk, a sleek black-leather tote.
She has a riot of jet-black curls, and she’s wearing an actual blazer and slacks.
“Novella,” I hear Hayes hiss. He’s looking at me and pointing at her and trying to communicate something with his eyes. I’m not getting the message. He points at her again, less discretely this time. So I look at her and try to see what he’s seeing.
Then I spot it. And I giggle. I’m in a final exam worth 50 percent of my English grade, and I giggle.
She’s wearing a fucking Poe shirt. With her prim, professional suit, she’s wearing a black T-shirt with Nevermore written over Poe’s eyes in white ink.
It’s undoubtedly the nerdiest thing I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes. I love it.
“Okay, we’ll get started in a minute, but I just wanted to say that if any of you need another English credit, or have any remaining interest in the study of literature after this experience, I’m teaching the sequel to this course in the spring.
I promise to take into account the … introduction to American Lit you had with Dr. Lowry, and I would hope you’d have a much better time in my class. ”
Hayes kicks my shin under the table. I know I’m not the best at appreciating subtlety, but that was uncalled for. I get it!
Dr. Fazio passes out each packet of papers herself, and as she starts explaining instructions and telling us not to rush, I realize this is one last time to shine. Because that’s what I did in this class, ultimately, isn’t it?
I shined.
I take a deep breath and open up the test. By the time I look up again, it’s been half an hour. There’s one ice-pick stab right behind my left eye that tells me I squinted too hard and focused too much, and I better get migraine meds stat before this thunderstorm blows into a Cat 5 hurricane.
Then I do the thing I always do: I wait. While I work more quickly than people think I should be able to, I am never, ever the first one to finish a test. Even if I’m 100 percent done and 100 percent sure I don’t need to change anything. I sit, and I wait.
Maybe two minutes later, Hayes gets up. Of course he doesn’t mind being the first to finish the test. I put my anthology away and hand Dr. Fazio my test. She smiles at me, and I finally let go of this entire class.
Dr. Lowry. My introduction to American Lit that wasn’t actually an introduction to American lit.
Teaching people literary analysis. I feel it all drain away.
I follow Hayes out the door. I feel so light and free that I jump on his back right there in the hallway.
“Whoa!” He wobbles a little bit, but he doesn’t stop walking. I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, and I kiss the top of his head. “That was delightfully unexpected.”
“What was?” I ask, because everything about the past hour was unexpected.
“You jumping me in public. And … everything else. Was it me or was that test super easy?”
“No, it was.” We reach the door, and he shifts so I push it open with my hip, since his hands are kind of occupied. “I could’ve done it without the book.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, because I love you and all, but I’m never taking another lit class again.” He hikes me up higher on his back, and I feel my books jostle around in my backpack.
I love you. My heart pounds.
“That’s okay,” I tell him, resting my cheek on the crown of his head. “That’s how I feel about literally any science.”
He goes quiet for a minute, walking through the mid-December chill.
“Oh, I love you too,” I whisper. “Did I forget to say that?”
He takes one of the arms I still have wrapped around his neck, and kisses my hand. If we get caught out here like this, we’d be in for the most uncomfortable conversation of our lives. Principal Hinshaw is against any expression of joy, and he considers PDA a capital offense.
“I think you’d better put me down before we get spotted by someone old,” I tell him.
He laughs, but he lets me go anyway. I slide down until my feet hit the ground, and I can’t resist pressing the tiniest kiss to his shoulder blade as I step back.
“Let’s go turn our books back in so we can head out.” He takes my hand, pulls me in the direction of the front office.
“Do we have to?” I ask, my voice a pitiful whine.
“Do we have to what? Leave?” He opens the glass door, the one right in front of my spot. A wall of heat hits me right in the face. It’s more than enough to knock off the barely wintery chill.
“No,” I tell him, looking at that spot. “We can leave. I just don’t want to give the books back.”
I have all the notes we passed back and forth stuck between the pages, and I have to pull them out so I can save them.