Chapter 9 Quinn
QUINN
JUNE — TEN WEEKS TO WIN OVER THE FACULTY
This is more rewarding than I expected.
Three classes in, and I’m loving it. This isn’t my first experience in front of students.
Between undergrad and grad school, I’ve been a teaching assistant half a dozen times, but this is the first time I’ve run a classroom myself.
I’m responsible for it all—the lesson plans and the classroom management and the learning outcomes—and it’s a beautiful experience watching the ideas I jotted down in my little polka-dot notebook turn into active learning for my students.
I’ve never doubted my decision not to get my PhD.
It wasn’t the right field for me, and I’d have been miserable if I spent my life living for others.
The one-on-one student interactions I get every day in Boston have always been my favorite, but I can’t deny how exciting it is to be in front of a group, watching them learn from and with each other.
The students file out of the room, animatedly chatting about their internships as I call out a reminder that their journals are due by midnight. I’m buzzing as I gather my things.
Inez pops her head into my tiny classroom. “Oh my god, is that the brilliant professor, Quinn Riley?”
I laugh, tossing a crumpled up piece of paper her way. “Fuck off.”
“I heard her students love her.”
“Everyone loves me,” I say, lifting an eyebrow in challenge.
Inez drops her voice low, affecting a Bostonian accent. “I heard she has a perfect score on Rate My Professors.” Her voice lifts into a high, squeaky voice. “I heard all her students refuse to study with any other professor ever again because they were so inspired by her.”
“Damn right they were inspired,” I say, looping my bag over my shoulder. I step close, dropping my voice lower. “It’s going so well, Inez! I think this might actually work.”
“So you’re ready to admit I was right?” she asks, the sweetest little smirk on her face.
“I’ll admit,” I say, dragging out the words, “that there was… some value in your plan.”
“Stubborn little shit,” she says, hip checking me as we head down the hallway.
We’re about to turn the corner into the school’s shared lounge when we hear voices.
“How is it going, Anthony?” Dr. Guarino says from around the corner.
“Great! Probably one of my favorite classes I’ve taken.”
Heat radiates through my chest, spreading through my limbs like the Roman sun warming my body.
I gesture toward the room, widening my eyes at Inez, who does a little happy wiggle.
Dr. Guarino grumbles something I can’t hear as Anthony exits the lounge, giving us a little wave as he heads out of the school.
Inez is about to step into the room when I hear another person speak.
I grab her wrist, tugging her back before she comes into view.
“You didn’t expect her to do so well, did you?” someone else asks. It has to be one of the other professors, but they haven’t spoken to me enough for me to pick them out.
“One student said one positive thing,” Dr. Guarino says. “That doesn’t mean the class is actually going well.”
The woman tuts. “I doubt my first students would have spoken so positively about me. I know it’s been a while for you, but think about how hard your first classes were.”
“Was that an old man joke, Andrea?” Dr. Guarino asks. The easy camaraderie between them, one that I’m not welcome in, digs deep.
“If the geriatric slippers fit,” she answers with a laugh. “The real question is if how well she does actually matters.”
“I agree,” another disembodied voice says, and I stifle a groan when I realize this is a group conversation between most, if not all, of the professors. “The staff are a systemic issue. One person doing well in the classroom doesn’t change that.”
Dr. Guarino grunts. “The faculty agreed to this little experiment to appease President Munchen. Once the summer is over, we won’t have to worry about this again.”
My vision swims. I knew this was a possibility, but to hear them say that they aren’t taking this seriously, that the decision is already made and the hard work I’m putting in is pointless, feels like the ground has been ripped out from under me.
In an instant, all of that joy and optimism I was carrying from the class turns to lead in my hands, dragging me to the ground.
I’m not enough. I’ll never be enough.
Inez is gripping my arm, squeezing tight and whispering something in my ear, but the words don’t register. When I finally look up, her face looks as devastated as I feel. I’m failing her and all the other staff members who are relying on me to fix things.
“Professor Riley?” I look up to see Colton, just through the front door of the school. His students filter in behind him, blessedly turning down the hallway toward the classroom.
Instead of following, Colton walks down the hallway to meet us. I make a dramatic shushing motion with my hands, pointing towards the door to the common room.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his eyes flicking between me and Inez.
I rub my hands back and forth over my face, hoping it’ll help me focus on something other than the tears trying to escape. I open my mouth, but saying it out loud will push me over the edge.
He runs his hand up my arm. “Talk to me.”
I want to talk to him, but I can’t force the words past my lips. How can I admit how useless I feel, how utterly defeated, when I know he’ll want to make it better? That the only way he can make it better is by putting himself in direct opposition with one of the most powerful professors on campus?
I shake my head, and push past him. Both he and Inez call after me, but I don’t turn back as I rush down the steps and push through the heavy wooden door to the street.
I start walking toward the Piazza della Rotonda.
Sitting in front of the Pantheon always helps center me, reminding me of how small my troubles are in the grand scope of history.
But halfway there, I remember the way my best friends called after me.
Inez usually gives me space when I’m upset, but Colton won’t.
If he plans to check on me, that’s the first place he’ll head, and I need space.
So I change tack and cross the river to another spot I love.
I climb the Janiculum Hill, letting the strain of my legs from the incline burn away all my thoughts of how terrible I am at my job.
I walk through the park at the top, quieter than most parts of Rome.
This isn’t one of the seven ancient hills, so fewer people go out of their way to come here.
The people who are around me almost exclusively speak Italian.
The overlapping conversations are impossible to make out, but I allow myself to sink into the cadence of speech, to enjoy the time I have here before I have to go back to Boston and face how I failed.
Gravel crunches under my feet as I wander the paths lined by busts of Risorgimento freedom fighters, men who fought and died for a unified Italy in the nineteenth century.
Every five feet, there’s a new bust, each face more judgmental than the last. They seem to say, We united an entire country, and you can’t even unite six people.
I can’t say how long I’ve been walking when I reach the monument to Anita Garibaldi, wife of the famed Italian revolutionary leader and a legendary figure in her own right.
I sit at the lone bench in front of the massive structure, staring up at this wild, brave woman.
Shame creeps under my skin. People like her exist, and yet I’m so easily cowed by a few closed-minded professors.
The phone in my hand feels heavier than usual as I look down at it, realizing I’ve pulled up my father’s contact without consciously choosing to.
It must be some long-buried instinct to seek his guidance, and for one solitary second, I let myself consider calling him the way I would have when I was younger.
But his name, big and bold at the top of my screen, doesn’t give words of encouragement.
It spews negativity, a lecture about how I’ve wasted my time on my graduate program and how I’d have a place with the professors if I’d listened to him years ago.
I stare back up at Anita for god knows how long, until something flies over my shoulder and plops into my lap. A bag of M&M’s sits on my legs, and I don’t need to look up to know who’s in front of me. I keep my eyes cast downward as Colton drops onto the far end of the bench.
“How’d you know where I was?” I ask, eyes still glued to the statue.
“I didn’t,” he answers, and I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. “Went to the Pantheon first, and you weren’t there, so I figured I’d try here.”
My lips twitch against my will. “I was going to go to the Pantheon but I knew you’d look for me there.”
His breathy chuckle warms me, even as I fight to stay cold and numb. “I guess we’re both predictable.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then we won’t talk,” he says.
Colton holds his tongue, the two of us listening to the noises of the park around us.
Children laugh from behind the wall of a nearby school.
Cars fly down the street in the middle of the park, unconcerned with pedestrians.
A cannon booms, and I distantly register it has to be the daily shot the park sets off to mark noon with more reliability than the clock on my cellphone.
I continue to ignore Colton’s presence, settling back into my self-loathing, when something small and hard hits my cheek.
“What the hell, Colton?” I spin toward him. He’s turned his body to face me, back braced against the arm rest and another M&M poised in his hand.
“Sorry. Hard to aim without you facing me. Try two.” This time, the M&M hits me square on my closed lips, and he scowls. “You’re supposed to open your mouth, Quinn.”
“I’m not in the mood for your ridiculous fucking game, Colton.”
He narrows his eyes and tips his bag toward me. “Actually, it’s your ridiculous fucking game.”