Winter Jacket: New Beginnings (17 page)

She looked at me with such intensity and apparent desire, that I wanted to say yes. But I could only give her halfway. “I’ll think about it.”

+++++

I had submitted my new course proposals to my boss, Bob, on the Monday we’d gotten back from Spring Break. But now, a month and a half later, I still had not heard back from him. On the final week of the semester, I finally summoned enough courage to knock on his
open office door.

“You have a minute?” I asked, poking my head into the room.

Bob paused, mid-bite, and set his sandwich back on its wax-paper wrapping. “Sure.”

I hesitated with my hand on the door, not sure if I should close the door or not. I opted for leaving it open. I had nothing to hide, after all.

I sat down heavily on the chair opposite his desk and crossed my legs. “When do you think I’ll be hearing back about those course proposals? It’s been a while.”

Bob’s eyes dropped fr
om my face down to his desktop. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Elle.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “
You’re rejecting them?
Both
of them?” I couldn’t believe it. I’d known I’d kind of thrown them together last minute, but I hadn’t thought them so bad that Bob would reject them altogether. “Can I make some revisions and you’ll re-evaluate them?”

Bob frowned. He turned in his chair and pulled out a metal drawer from his st
orage container and produced a thin folder. He set the folder on his desk and pushed it toward me.

Inside t
he folder were hardcopies of my proposed course syllabi. I turned the folder to read the handwritten note scrawled across the top of the first syllabus. I didn’t recognize the handwriting; it didn’t belong to Bob. I knew his writing well. His was a small, precise script that always looked as if he’d used ink and quill. This was a sloppier, nearly illegible print, more reminiscent of a physician’s writing on a prescription pad.

I was pretty good at decoding handwriting from grading thousands of Blue Book exams
over the years. Despite the near illegible handwriting, I could just make out the following statement:
Based on the required book selection, I do not recommend adopting this course.
I flipped to the second syllabus and found the same sentence, in the same handwriting, tattooed across the top.

I looked up at Bob. “Who made these recommendations?
” At a larger school there would have been several levels of bureaucracy, but at my small, liberal arts college, course selection was generally left up to the Chair of the Department.

Bob cleared his throat. “
Turn to the required reading section.”

I grabbed my syllabus on the Minority Voice in American Literature and flipped to the third page where the required readings were listed. Claire Morgan’s
The Price of Salt
was highlighted. I immediately reached for the other syllabus, the one on American coming-of-age stories, and scanned until I found the required reading listed there. Rita Mae Brown’s
Rubyfruit Jungle
was similarly highlighted in a bright neon yellow. Both books dealt with lesbianism.

I slapped my hand on the file folder in frustration.
“Merlot.” The name came out like a growl. “So academic freedom doesn’t apply at this school anymore.” It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation.

Bob squirmed in his seat. He probably never imagined when he’d accepted the position of Chair of the Department that he’d have to be the middleman in this kind of campus politics. I still didn’t feel sorry for him though; he was allowing this bullying to happen when he should have had my back.

“How did she even see this?” I asked. Another accusation. There was no reason for Bob to be sending the Dean my course proposals unless he was in on this, too.

Bob cleared his throat. “It’s a new policy; I have to send he
r everyone’s course proposals. She wants to be updated on the content of courses our students are being exposed to.”

I felt the anger slip through me. “This is all because of me, isn’t it? All this new red tape?” I rubbed at my face.

Bob gave me a sympathetic smile. “I wouldn’t say that; rumor has it, Doug Witlan in the Biology department is a Socialist.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like Witlan’s going to be assigning
The Communist Manifesto
in Biology 101.”

“Probably not.”

“What if Emily had proposed this course? Would it have gotten Dean Merlot’s approval?”

“Emily wouldn’t have proposed this course; she teaches British literature.”

“You know what I mean, Bob,” I growled. “I can’t teach queer literature because I’m gay. Dean Merlot thinks I’ve got some gay agenda and I’m going to corrupt my students.”

Bob opened his hands, palm
s up, and looked like the man he truly was – helpless and powerless.

“Then I guess I
’ll just have to take this up with the Dean,” I clipped. I snatched the printed copies of my syllabi from Bob’s desk and stormed out.

I couldn’t remember if I technically said goodbye to Bob or not. My flight across campus was a blur, too. If anyone had tried to stop and say hello
, I ignored them, blinded by indignation and beyond frustrated by the roadblocks this woman had put up between me and job satisfaction. It was time I met Dean Merlot, face-to-face.

Unfortunately for me, I should have called ahead.

“She’s out of the office today,” her administrative assistant told me, “but you’re more than welcome to leave a message, and she’ll get back to you right away.”

It was probably for the best. By the time I’d stomped
across campus from the English department to the building that housed the administrative offices, I was practically foaming at the mouth. It had taken every ounce of willpower not to take my frustrations out on the Dean’s executive assistant.

So i
nstead of complaining to the Dean about her new neo-Nazi regime, I did the next best thing – got loaded and called Troian to vent.

“It’s got to be karma. The university is taking a giant crap on me this year for all the bad things I’ve ever done,” I complained to my best friend. As soon as I’d gotten home, I’d poured myself a generous serving of bourbon and had called Troian. I was thankful that even though we lived in different time zones now, she’d been available to listen to me rant.

“I don’t know if I can take anymore rejection this year, Troi.” I sat at the kitchen island and pushed my unruly hair out of my eyes. “I’ve had all my ego and my heart can take. And the rejection doesn’t get easier; I just get more numb.”

“Just remember that everything happens for a reason,” Troian tried to rationalize.

“You’re about as helpful as a fortune cookie,” I glowered.

“That’s racist.”

“It has nothing to do with you being Asian – it’s a known fact that fortune cookies are useless.”

“
Just for that,” Troian sniffed, “I’m not going to tell you my news.”

“Is it good news?” I drank deeply from my tumbler. The alcohol burned the back of my throat.

“
I
think it is.”

“Let me guess,” I said snidely. “
You did such a great job that they want you to be CEO of the Studio now.” It was annoying sometimes to have such an accomplished friend.

“No,” Troian clipped. “I’m getting married.”

I nearly dropped the phone. “
What??”

“
I got a ring. I got down on one knee. And I proposed to Nik.”

“And she actually said yes?”
I squawked.

“You’re such an asshole,”
Troian scowled over the phone. “Why did I even tell you?”

“Because you’
re freaking out about planning a wedding, and you need your Best Woman,” I said matter-of-factly.

I could practica
lly hear her shake her head. “There’s got to be a better name for that by now.”

“I don’t
care if there is.” My desire to get drunk dissipated with Troian’s news. “We’re totally going with Best Woman.”

“
What says I even want you to be my Old Maid of Honor anyway?” she scoffed.

“Whatever. Don’
t kid yourself. I’m your Best Woman.”

“That’
s still not a real thing.”

“Uh huh,”
I said, dismissing her complaint. “So tell me everything,” I urged. “I want all the gory details. You seriously got down on one knee?”

“Of course I did,” Troian huffed. “You know I’
m a romantic.”

“I know you are, but isn’
t it a bit redundant? I mean, you just standing up is like a normal person on one knee.”

“I don’t need this abuse.
I should just ask my cousin to be my Best Woman.”

“See? We’re totally making that a thing,” I couldn’
t help but crow. “So when do you want me out there so we can start planning?”

“I don’t know. When can you get out here?”

“How about after Hunter’s graduation?” I suggested.

“Really?”

I shrugged even though I knew she couldn’t see me. “It’ll be summer and my new classes got rejected, so I don’t have any course planning to do. What else do I have going on?”

“See?” Troian smiled through the phone. “Everything happens for a reason.”

“You’re an idiot.”

I could hear Hunter’s voice
outside with someone else. She’d probably gotten trapped on her way inside by the little old lady who lived next door. She was a sweet woman, but she had the tendency to talk your ear off. I was able to evade her in the winter months, but now that the weather was getting warmer, she’d be unavoidable. She was always very friendly, if a tendency to over share. I didn’t think she knew that I was gay – there was really no reason for her to think that – it’s not like I flew a rainbow flag from my front porch. I did wonder what she thought of me, though – the university professor who lived alone with her cat, but was never short of female friends.

“Hunter’s home,” I told Troian.

“I’d better let you go properly greet your woman then,” came my friend’s reply. I could practically hear the waggle of her eyebrows.

“Let’s talk soon about me coming out there,” I said. “And give Nikole my condolences.”

“You’re such an ass,” Troian said, but I could hear the amusement in her tone. Nothing, not even me, was going to ruin this day for her.

Hunter tossed off her shoes when she came in through the front door. “I’ve got news,” she
announced.

“Me too,
” I said, pouring the rest of my drink down the sink. I was done with that for today.

Hunter bounced into the kitchen, but the hop in her step faltered when she saw the bottle of alcohol on the countertop. “Were you drinking?” She picked up the bottle and inspected the label. “Alone?” Concern troubled her features. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s your news?” I deflected.

Normally she wouldn’t have let me distract her so easily, but her
face couldn’t contain her grin. “I got offered a job, full time, at the hospital. I start right after graduation.”

“
You did? That’s
amazing
, Hunt.”

I would have hurdled the kitchen island to hug her if I were more athletic, but I had to settle for walking around it. I wrapped her up in my arms and drew her close.

“It’s not really that big a deal.”

I pulled back. “Not a big deal?” I echoed, raising my voice. “Hunt, don’t be so modest. These days
no one
gets hired straight out of college doing something they actually went to school for. Plus, you haven’t even graduated yet and you’re set. This
is
a big deal. I’m so proud of you.”

She smiled then, still shy, but I could tell she was proud of her accomplishment
as well.

“So what do you want to do to celebrate?” I posed.

“Switch.” Her answer came without pause
.

She hadn’t hesitated, but I did.
I hadn’t been expecting that response. “I was thinking more along the lines of a fancy dinner or a long weekend away,” I said carefully.

Her shoulders visibly slumped and she looked disappointed. Acting quickly I grabbed both
of her hands and brought them up to my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I apologized, letting my lips brush against her knuckles. “I know we’ve been flirting with the idea, but I didn’t know you were serious about wanting to do that.”

She gave me a half-heart
ed smile, and I felt like a jerk. “What’s your news?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah.” I shook my head, remembering.
“It’s kind of mixed. My proposed classes got rejected and Troian proposed to Nik.”

Hunter’s
face fell. “Oh no.”

“Troian’s not
that
bad,” I said with a forced laugh. “I’m sure she’ll be a great wife.”

“That’s not what I meant,”
she said crossly.

“I know,” I sighed.

“What did they say about your classes? I mean, did they at least give you any explanation for why your new courses got rejected?”

I hated to show vulnerably and this failure made me look and feel weak.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I deflected. “Not right now, at least.”

“You’re really good at avoiding topics you don’t want to talk about.” Hunter folded her arms across her chest. “First Switching, and now this. We
are
going to discuss this,” she asserted.

My whole body sagged. “It’s the gay thing again. Dean Merlot rejected the classes because I had queer literature on the list of required readings.”

“If you took those books off the syllabi would she let you teach the classes?” she stated reasonably.

“That’s not the point, Hunt.” I shook my head hard. “I shouldn’t have to censor material I want to teach. I’m a university professor – having Academic Freedom is like, I don’t know, our version of the Hippocratic Oath.” I struggled to find an appropriate comparison that would help her understand. “And it’s not like the books are even pornographic. They just happen to have main characters who are gay.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t say more. I wondered if she thought I was being unreasonably stubborn.

“So besides
Switching
,” I changed the topic with a meaningful look, “what else do you want to do to celebrate the new job?”

“
Well, I kind of organized an impromptu party – nothing big, just the girls in my program – and I want you to be there.”

I opened my mouth with a protest ready on my lips.

“Before you say no,” she quickly interjected, “I’ve already checked with my friends, and none of them have you as a professor this semester.”

“But there’
s still Loryssa,” I reminded her.

“
Who is actually older than me, so it’s not like you’d be condoning any laws getting broken if she drinks. Plus, I don’t even know if she’ll be there. She has a weird schedule.”

“I don’t know…” The semester was almost over, but I was still reluctant to put myself in that situation.

“
Please
, Elle.” She grabbed both of my hands and her thumbs stroked my palms. “I really want you to meet my friends before we graduate and everyone moves away. Can you bend your rules just a little this time?” She batted her heavy eyelashes at me.

“Okay,” I relented
with a heavy sigh. “I’ll come.”

She squealed
in excitement, but it felt like I’d just made a big mistake.

+++++

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

I’ve ne
ver felt so awkward in my life. Loud rap music thumped out of the speakers of Hunter’s laptop which sat on the kitchen table where we’d made a meal of homemade pasta just a few weeks ago. I didn’t mind the music – I liked most genres, including rap and hip-hop – but it struck me as odd. Hunter preferred indie bands and singer-songwriters.

I nursed my beer and watched the house party unfold before me. It brought me back to my own undergraduate years. I hadn’t been a big partier; I
had predictably spent more time in the university library than on Fraternity or Sorority Row. I did have a high alcohol tolerance, however, which had earned me a reputation for being able to out-drink even the most seasoned Greek-life student.

I tried not to hover around the alcohol station
in the kitchen because I didn’t want to look like the disapproving parent every time one of Hunter’s friends refilled their party cup. At first blush, Hunter’s friends didn’t strike me as particularly sophisticated or mature, but I tried not to judge them too much. They were early 20-somethings I had to remind myself, and even though Hunter was their peer, she was the exception to the rule.

I reached for my phone
when the awkwardness consumed me. “Help me,” I sent out into the ether.

My screen fla
shed with a text message from Troian: “I’m sitting poolside in Hollywood. Where are you?”

“
I’m at a house party with about a dozen co-eds,” I replied.

Her response was prompt: “Keep it in your pants.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Are you serious about being at a party?” Troian’s next message asked. “Because WORST IDEA EVER.”

I couldn’t agree more, but since I wasn’t yet ready to Switch for Hunter, I saw this as a compromise. I tried to reason with myself that the school year was practically over and Hunter had assured me that, with the exception of Loryssa, none of the people in attendance were my students.

“
Is there shrimp cocktail?” I texted back, trying to block out the party around me. Some of the girls were dancing on each other and it made me feel more awkward than ever. “It’s not a Hollywood party without prawns.”

“
How does your girlfriend put up with your weirdness?”

I smiled at the phone in my hands. “Must be my talented tongue.”

“Gross, Bookie. You’re not allowed to talk like that.”

“You still cool with me coming out there after graduation?” I wrote her.