Divine: A Novel (4 page)

I sign into Amazon and debate whether or
not to give her book a one-star review, but I’m not like her. I’m not going to
damage another author’s ratings. But, that was low, what she did was fucking
low. My street team appears and comments on her post.

I
really enjoyed Violet’s book.

Cuddlecock’s
book is one of my favorites of the year.

Where
are the admins? Someone should delete this post.

Her post disappears, either by an
administrator of the site or because my street team drove her away. Bitch.

A message appears while I’m signed in as
Violet. Shit, it’s Kimmy Firestorm. What the fuck does she want?

Hi
Violet! I’m an author on the Dick Sluts and I was wondering if you saw Hayden’s
post about your book? I found it very rude and inappropriate behavior for an
author to do that. I hope you’re okay and it didn’t hurt your feelings too
much! If you want a happy book to read to lift your spirits then here’s a link
to my new release - HOLDING OUT. XXOO!

Oh, my fucking Lord. These authors are
crazier than I am. I’d like to say go fuck yourself, Kimmy, for pimping your
books in a private message to my author, but unfortunately I have no choice but
to be nice to everyone; these are the women who buy my books, well, their fans
are, and one wrong move... one mistake, one enemy, and my career as a writer
could be over and then I’m stuck at the university forever. I’d have to change
my pen name and start again.

I need a publisher, damn it... and it’s
time to call it a night.

My final online activity at the end of
each day is to check my school email. Not my favorite thing to do, but it’s a
requirement to respond to students and colleagues in a timely manner. Sometimes
Margaret Cole sends me a dumbass question, like
Why don’t we have any majors?
Or
Do you think I should tell anyone that I’m going out of town for a
week?
I never answer, but I’ve received a few that have kept me awake at
night. One that mentioned she had heard my students weren’t learning anything.
But nothing, nothing could prepare me for the one I received tonight. It’s from
a student. Sorority girl.

Professor
Hallowell,

I
wanted to let you know that I find your classes too structured with no freedom
for creativity or expression. I’ve enjoyed making crafts since the first grade
and I believe I could do a better job teaching at the university level than you
have. I have brought my concerns to the attention of Professor Cole, and with
her help, I have crafted a petition to have you removed from your position. It
will be turned into the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences tomorrow
morning.

I
am documenting this in an email because I’m not ashamed to come forward and let
you know where the petition originated. It will not be anonymous.

I
am also requesting that a different professor, Professor Cole, grade my final
work of the semester and that the grade on my transcript come from her. This
seems only fair, considering the circumstances.

-
Hannah

Sorority girl Hannah is dead.

CHAPTER
FOUR

S
ometime past midnight I walked to
Daniel’s row house and looked in his bedroom window. The room was dark, no
movement, nothing. I slept sporadically, and now I have to go to school and
teach twenty pee-holes how to use some fairly complicated software.

I pace in my living room before I leave
for work, making animal noises once more. Mehhh, mehhh. You think I’m cracked,
I know you do, but it’s only to scare the shit out of people. I hope anyone who
hears me is afraid.

“Listen,
it’s coming from Div Hallowell’s place. It sounds like she has a dying lamb
inside.”

I don’t want anyone coming in or out of
my home.

I dress in blue, just in case I’m called
into the Dean’s office. In the land of color, blue gives people the sense that
you’re a calm, loyal, and honest person. So I have on my light blue sweater, my
dark blue skirt, and a pair of white Keds. I look as pure and wholesome as
Laura Ingalls. They’ll never fire me. I’m the pretty one.

After a trip to Starbucks (part of Dan’s
list was correct) and a ride through the overly expensive carwash, I approach
campus and see a crowd of students outside of one of the dorms as I park in the
faculty lot. That can only mean one of two things. Either someone’s passed out
by the front door after a night of heavy drinking, or a dryer vent caught on
fire and set off one of the alarms. Both happen on a regular basis.

But when a police car appears I know
something else is up. The real police, not campus security; an actual cop is
here. I walk over and take note of sorority girl Hannah, crying in the arms of
one of her friends. That’s odd, considering her sorority house is all the way
on the other side of campus.

There are plenty of whispers as I
approach and luckily I can tell that this time they’re not about my colleague
and me. I hear the words
bike ride
and
missing,
and then someone says
he left his cell.

Everyone knows only one student on campus
is an avid cyclist, Big Boy, sorority girl Hannah’s boyfriend. I call him that
because he looks just like that fast food chain’s advertising figure. Only he
has a mustache and he wears glasses. Add those two things to a Big Boy mascot
and you’ve got Hannah’s boyfriend.

The guy’s been in one of my classes, but
I haven’t a clue as to his real name. I’m just not very good with names. I have
nicknames for all of them, my students; it makes it easier for honest grading
without worrying about grade inflation. If I become too attached, get to know
them, where they’re from, what they enjoy, the music they listen to, then they
might end up with a higher grade. Grade inflation. I like you, so you get an A!
That’s asinine.

Hannah frowns when she sees me and then
starts to sob again. I notice her sweatpants have grass stains on the knees and
there’s mud on her ass and back. I’d say she probably gave her boyfriend or
some random guy head last night, or early this morning, then sat back and did
some dry humping.

I know I’m being a jerk, but that fucking
email was bullshit.

“Hallowell!”

My boss. The Chair of my department waves
me over to the side. He’s a nice guy, but a little naive. A man who’s got a
long blonde pony-tail and is shaped like a pear, always in khaki and plaid, and
often referred to as the
creepy uncle
by
the students.

“Richard,” I smile. “Do you know what
happened?”

We watch Hannah being led into a police
car and driven away.

“Campus security mentioned there was a
‘lover’s quarrel’ in the middle of the night and a student reported his
roommate never returned from a late night bike ride. From the way the girl
looks, I’d say she was assaulted in some way, and the guy knows he’s gonna get
caught so he took off.”

“Is that what you would do? You’d
disappear?” Oh Div, why do you ask such stupid questions? Is that what you
would do? Richard, thankfully, ignores my words as he watches the crowd,
keeping his hands in his pockets and his eyes everywhere but on me. He’s a man
who’ll never look a woman in the eye. I think we, women in general, terrify
him.

“Div? Have you spoken with any of your
colleagues lately? Anyone in or outside of the department?”

Why is he asking me this? Why now? “No.”

“Some friendly advice...”

Oh, here we go, the friendly advice
lecture.

“Stop hiding out...”

I fold my arms in defense as he speaks.

“You need to get out of your office and
classroom more. Why don’t you invite a colleague to coffee or lunch? Or go out
to the bar with some of us on Friday nights? A few people have come to me and
have mentioned...”

“People? And invite what colleague to
coffee? Anyone specific?”

“You and Margaret...”

Fuckin’ A, here we go.

“The two of you need to come to terms or
the Board of Trustees may consider
eliminating
the department. There can’t be so much tension between the two of you. The
students can sense that something’s
off,
you know? Remember, we exist in these positions because of them, and for them.”

“Trust me, I know.” My heart’s racing.
He’s heard about the petition. I just know he’s heard about the petition.

“I want you to try harder.”

I roll my eyes. I didn’t mean to, but I
did.

“Div, listen to me. You’re going to have
a hard time getting tenure if the two of you can’t get along. I’m trying to
help you out,” he sighs.

“Okay.”

He looks at me; he turns and actually
looks at me with a doubtful expression.

“You do realize that plenty of people
have quit because of her. I haven’t done anything wrong. She makes...”

“It’s her word against yours and I hear
different things from different people,” he says.

Fuck you, Richard. From now on, I’m
referring to you as dick. “I’ll try.”

I head to my office with my Grande Mocha
Frappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, frothy cream on my lips and
thoughts racing on how I could possibly make things work with my colleague.
She’s trying to take me down, Margaret Cole, but it won’t be a quiet collapse.
I’ll bring her with me if she doesn’t let up.
Making an effort
on my part is what I’ve tried for years... years
.

At least Hannah’s too busy this morning
to meet with the Dean.
A smile appears
and there’s a spring in my step.
This might turn out to be a good day.
I whistle while I work
.

My office is the only one on the top
floor of the oldest building on campus. A stone three-story with the American
flag flapping its pretty stars and stripes in the wind each day. Margaret once
joked that I should take the stairs to the roof, stand next to it, and call out
“I surrender.” Her British humor never amuses me.

The third floor also consists of my
classroom, just outside my office door, and the close proximity (no need to
leave the building) is why I never see or interact with colleagues. I walk in,
work, watch porn, teach, and then travel home. No one else is on this floor.

Richard’s right, I could make an effort;
ask someone to lunch, but my feeling is that people should make the effort to
come over and see me, and not the other way around. Do I have to do everything?

It’s that simple.

And if anyone ever did make their way
into my land, they’d see just how amazing I am. My office is decorated like my
home, full of oddities and rare books. I’m proud to say I own the largest
collection of erotic pop-up books in the world, keeping them spread out in my
spare bedroom with the pages open to my favorite three-dimensional displays.
These books are fucking awesome. Everyone should own at least one.

But I don’t think my pop-ups would go
over well at the university, so instead I’ve displayed a collection of over a
hundred vintage carnival chalkware figurines on the wall.

My office is dark when I’m alone. My two
windows are covered with grey velvet curtains. The only lights come from my
desktop and a candle that smells like Tunisian Amber. I also burn Nag Champa
incense on a daily basis in an attempt to maintain a calm state before I walk
into the classroom. It helps.

I think I have a scent-smell-sniff
addiction. My skin, clothes, and the spaces I live in are pleasant. Always. I
make sure of it. But if people around me give off an unpleasant odor, they’re
toast. I have many students who I never talk to or even go near because the
smell of shit flows out of their mouths or asses. They either eat shit, or they
don’t know how to wipe themselves after taking a shit.

“Professor Hallowell?”

A student. I smile as he opens my door
without asking. Everyone on this campus believes that after you knock, you’re
allowed to open the door and strut right in without waiting for a response. I’m
glad I wasn’t scratching my ass or anything like that.

“Professor, can I talk to you?”

I point to the empty chair in front of my
desk. A football player, one of our top freshmen recruits this year, and a kid
who’s failing my graphic design class.

“I want to talk to you about my grade.”

“Yes, you’re not doing very well. You
have an F.”

“Would you consider giving me a C? Or
maybe even a B? I can’t play football if you give me an F.”

“Well,” I let out a quiet laugh under my
breath. “You have to do the work to get a decent grade. You’ve only turned in
one assignment out of seven. At this point, I don’t see how you could possibly
pass this class.”

He stares at the chalkware figurines on
the wall, fidgeting in the chair, letting out multiple sighs.

“Can’t I do some extra credit?” he asks.

And there it is. Extra credit. Who’s the
fucker who invented
extra credit
?

“So, I have to spend
my
time creating more assignments for you, because you didn’t do
the work that you were assigned in the first place? And then I have to take my
time to grade these extra assignments? Why should I be punished for what you
did?” I shake my head. “No. I don’t do the extra credit thing. Your grade is
what it is. Welcome to college.”

I feel like a bitch after saying it,
watching him stand and walk out of my office in slow motion, shuffling his feet
with his head hung low. Sorry, but I think it’s horse-pucky that some students
get through college without doing any work. I wish students today were graded
as they were in the fifties, when the average grade was a C, and only a small
percentage received A’s. Now, A’s are the norm. Enrollment is one of the
reasons, filling the seats, making sure classes are full. Keep the students,
retain them, make sure they have good grades, whether they deserve it, earned
it, or not. The other reason is student course evaluations. Course evals are
part of what determines tenure, and faculty members are terrified to disappoint
or fail any student.

Case in point, football guy will give me
a sour course evaluation now because it’s my fault he didn’t pass. Right? It’s
my fault he didn’t complete the assignments. The blame generation. Everyone’s
at fault except you.

I know it probably seems like I don’t
have any
good
students, but that’s
not the case. The students who are doing well and have A’s are never in my office.
Why would they be?

He’s back. Football guy is at my door.

“I just wanted to let you know that I
showed my assignment from your class to Professor Cole yesterday, and she said
it was worth a B.” He moodily disappears. That’s it. Damn that woman.

I grab my keys and head out the door,
walking hurriedly across campus and stopping on the curb of the street across
from her front door. Look at that gingerbread Victorian she’s housed in. I
doubt any other faculty member in the world has her own building, one with a
swing on the front porch, or a second floor bedroom she can use for a nap. I
want to burn it down and blame it on the faulty wiring of the 1890s structure.

Students line the porch and smoke
cigarettes with their eyes glued on me. Do I cross?

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To beat the shit out of the professor on
the other side.

I cross and the students gasp then
whisper. Margaret and I never enter one another’s spaces, not anymore. Not
since she came into my classroom with her face the color of menstrual blood,
spitting fire in an accusation that this or that was missing from her building.
That
I
took whatever it was for my
classroom.

She disrupted my class and my report to
the Dean mentioned my disgust with her ongoing verbal abuse. We were told to
take a break from one another for a while, to take our concerns up with our
Chair, instead of with each other.

But right now I’m wearing my big girl
panties. I’m going in.

I walk through the front classroom that
was once a living room then down a hall to the back where the former kitchen’s
been gutted and remodeled into a gorgeous new chef’s dream. Six gas ovens,
three kitchen islands, pots and pans galore, and fresh air that flows in from
the back door that’s been propped open.