Mister Know It All: A Hero Club Novel

by Amélie S. Duncan

“Can I tell Tam?” I asked, and he nodded.

  I ran all the way and jumped up and down in front of her. “Tam, you won’t believe what just happened.”

  I told her about the articles and the new position.

  “That’s great. Something to fill your resume with since you left your teaching assistant job. Look at you totally winning at the summer of me. See? Putting yourself out there was an excellent suggestion, my friend.”

  “Yes,” I said and touched my smile. “Despite this acknowledgment not something to do with academia, I still feel so excited.” That was a surprise.

  “You should feel proud. Go you!” She gave me another hug, and I felt such overwhelming support from my friend. “Now, can you please explain? What was up with Martin?” Tam asked.

  I grimaced. “Ford took a photo of me that Martin clearly liked. I’m not nude, but I’m on my back on the bed, and it’s intimate. Ford promised he’d never show it.”

  “Then Martin needs to back off.”

  We both slumped on the couch. “I’m kind of glad we’re not going out. I’m exhausted.” She had her suitcases open for packing that she moved into the living room.

  “Martin squeezed a lot into our afternoon. The Dakota was amazing. I met a bunch of beautiful artists and musicians and even did a sing-along.”

  “What about Martin?” I asked, propping up on my elbow on the couch.

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s fun, but I got the feeling he’s a flake. One minute he’s

  inviting me to Paris for the weekend, and then two seconds later, he’d invite someone else.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “How rude.”

  “He’s harmless, though,” Tam said. “A fun friend, but pushy. You don’t have to agree to anything you don’t want to do. But my afternoon was nothing like what’s going on with you. I can’t believe his ex. Are you okay?”

  “I am,” I said. “I felt weird, like the other woman.”

  “She left him,” Tam said. “He broke it off, so she has no one but herself to blame for him moving on.”

  Tam went over to her suitcase and picked up a plastic bag from the Boston College bookstore from my kitchen’s recycling. “Now, it’s time, Jasmine. You put it off long enough.” She held up the envelopes. “You’ve got mail.”

  A million ants crawled under my skin. Why had I put off checking the status of my Ph.D. applications? Because I didn’t want the bad news or even good news? Working outside the academia bubble gave me a fresh perspective—a Ph.D. in sociology could lead to a career of nothing. However, there was a chance, and getting into a program was a huge life accomplishment I’d worked toward for years.

  I took a deep breath and pulled out two small but thick envelopes from Harvard and Boston College. Emirs College had a large flat envelope.

  “Big one first,” I announced, clutching the one from Emirs College.

  “Wait.” Tam picked up two spoons from the kitchen and played a drum roll.

  I pulled out the package and read the first line: “Congratulations. You have been accepted into Emirs College Ph.D. sociology program.”

  Tam screamed, and I grabbed her hands, and we jumped up and down.

  “Now the dreaded financial aid package.” I scrunched up my face. “One fellowship, a grant, and the rest would have to be loans. Yikes!”

  Tam lifted her shoulders. “So what? You’ll pay it back.”

  “With a sociology degree? There are many schools combining departments. I won’t make enough money needed to pay thousands back and with interest. I could end up smarter with nothing.”

  “You won’t let that happen. I believe in you,” Tam said, hugging me. “Anyway, before you go off the deep end about money issues, let’s check Harvard and Boston College.”

  I tore open the Harvard envelope and gasped.

  “I’m wait-listed for an incomplete application.”

  I ripped open the Boston College envelope and scanned the letter. I’m missing a reference letter from Professor Randall Seager.

  I cursed and handed the letters to Tam.

  “Guess who forgot to send the reference?” I grumbled.

  “Randall,” she said with disgust.

  You’re not seasoned. You’re too immature for a Ph.D. program. Randall had planned to fuck with me all along.

  Tam’s face fell. “According to this letter, you have less than three weeks to send a new reference letter. If I’d known—”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s mine,” I said and picked up my phone and dialed Randall. “I’m handling it.”

  After two rings, he answered, but before he said more, I yelled, “Thanks for fucking me over with references.”

  “Hello, Jasmine. I thought you called to congratulate me on my new book deal with Harvard Press, but you called about you. Due to the personal nature of our relationship, I thought it was unethical to write a reference for you.”

  “But you never bothered to let me know of your intention,” I gritted between clenched teeth. “You let me work all day, every day for you, and you never planned to hold up your end.”

  “I still believe you should enter a mentorship for a while and get published on your own before tackling a Ph.D. There are plenty out there with the degree who are under a mountain of debt with no job prospects. I’m not speaking as your ex-lover, but as an academic advisor.”

  “And who do you think I should mentor under?”

  “Me, of course,” he said. “But I see you’ve taken on a new job as an assistant to that pretty boy who ruined my last day at the conference.”

  “What are you babbling about? You met Ford?” I asked.

  “Only briefly, before I went into the hall. He ruined my lecture threatening me about you. I didn’t realize you had a lawyer on retainer, or are you his new assistant?”

  “What we are to each other is none of your business,” I said.

  “You’re dating him?” The shock in his voice was evident.

  “Goodbye, Randall.” I hung up. The phone clicked, and I heard my dad’s voice.

  “Hello, Jasmine?”

  I mouthed, “My dad,” to Tam, and she gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Hey, Dad, how’s the farm?” I asked.

  “Good,” he said. “Your mom had me call you because you’re not answering her calls.”

  I could hear the disappointment in his voice.

  “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been busy working. I got some news. I got into the Ph.D. program at Emirs.”

  “That’s wonderful news. How’s the financial aid?”

  “Dismal,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Sounds about right. How’s New York City?”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “I love it. I kind of wish I’d minored in business.”

  “Hmm. That’s quite the deviation. Maybe try an online course or two in your free time. Here’s Mom. No, she’s still in New York City,” he said, and the phone muffled.

  “I’m actually about to leave the house,” I said.

  “What’s going on now?” Mom said, her tone crisp.

  “I just told Dad I got into Emirs.”

  “Where is that?” she asked snottily.

  “It’s in Boston. It’s a smaller university but has a sisterhood with the top five and the same professors.”

  “I thought you called because you got into a real college program. You told me you applied to Harvard and Boston College. What happened with those applications?”

  I bit my cheek. “I’m wait-listed. Randall didn’t send his reference—”

  “That’s your fault. You should have gotten that reference in your hand from him last semester. Great,” she scoffed. “So, what’s your backup plan?”

  “I could contact the other professors on my list,” I said.

  “What do you mean could? Go to them in person. You don’t have time to delay your future.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure I want to go straight into another college program, Mom. I’m thinking of having them put my application on h
old and work for a year. I’ve been offered a chance to work on a research project at Morgan Financial, Soraya’s husband’s company, writing articles for their company global blog and newsletter. Maybe I could work here longer. There are so many people there with degrees doing jobs outside of what they studied. I’d be able to easily pay for the insurance on the house—”

  “Absolutely not. Who put that ridiculous idea into your head? You’re going for your Ph.D. now while the work is still fresh in your mind. You get out of academia, you lose direction, and you end up not completing your program. Those who want to be a professor stay the course. You still got Randall and the connections. You network until you get your first professorship.”

  Mom was saying the same things she’d said for years, but now it didn’t seem like a straight-forward path. I met many people at work in low-level jobs with humanities degrees.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said over her.

  “Sure, you have to go, because you don’t want to listen to common sense. After all we’ve done for you. I can’t believe you would throw your life away.” She hung up.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and dropped my head in my hands. When will my life be my own?

  “Forget parents,” Tam said. “Tell me your article ideas. I miss reading your writing.”

  Tam and I often picked each other up when things went bad with our parents. I went over to my computer and opened up a few draft articles I’d written:

  “Surrounded alone: Social Isolation in Metropolis.”

  “Cyberdating Phantom Fantasy Men.”

  “The Pitfalls of the Business Diet and the Social Construct of Food Rituals.”

  “Navigating Hierarchy in Business; Fighting Child Poverty; One Run At A Time.”

  Tam sat down and read every one of them.

  She beamed. “These are so great. You’re so talented. I see why Graham’s interested, but what about magazines?”

  “I have considered submitting for byline articles,” I said. “But I haven’t thought of what Soraya and Graham could do with my work.”

  “You can even ask Martin. He seems to know everyone and anyone.”

  “Probably not after I won’t give him a photo he wants.”

  But I liked the new possibilities. I’d thought my articles as more for research journals, but there could be some tweaking to make the work mainstream. I decided to send the articles to Graham like he asked. What did I have to lose? I had a bigger chance to gain.

  “But still, Tam, I’m not so sure I’m ready to give up my academia.” It was how I’d defined myself for most of my life. I just wanted time to decide.

  “You don’t have to decide this minute. You keep your backup plan should you change your mind. We fix your applications now. You open up the list of reference contacts, and you call. I’ll check with the admissions office at Harvard and Boston College tomorrow. When you hear back, I’ll collect the sealed references and drop them off in person at the admissions office. Problem solved. You’re not alone here.”

  I hugged her tight, and we sat down with our laptops and started operation “get a new reference.” I checked my shortlist and made the calls to professors. One was in Fiji, and another was teaching at Emirs this summer.

  We both sat on the couch afterward.

  “What do you think of the year off idea? The admissions are rolling, so I can still get into Harvard and Boston College Ph.D. programs, but I’m not sure if I want to start another program so soon.”

  “You do what’s best for you. But it’s easier if you have something to fall back on, like getting these references done and deferring for a year.”

  I nodded. My phone buzzed, and I shook my head. “No more calls.”

  Tam picked up my phone. “It’s in New York City.”

  I glanced over and recognized the number from work. Quinton came on the line when I answered.

  “Hello, my lucky star. Can you come help with gathering notes on the work weekend? We need to see productivity charted. You can have Monday morning off.”

  “I love the way you negotiate. I’ll be there. What time tomorrow?”

  “Three-ish,” he said. “After, there’s a private designer sale and sushi.”

  “Can’t wait,” I said and told Tam.

  “And I can see why you’re considering staying here,” Tam said. “It’s heaven.”

  “Considering. Would you ever consider Columbia Medical school?” I asked her.

  “NYC is fun, but not me. Too many distractions here. I love visiting and all the fun I had, but I’d lose focus.”

  I sighed. “Kind of like I have, but it’s not just the fun stuff that I enjoy. I love working there.”

  Tam’s phone rang, and she smiled. “Martin is torturing me with a photo of Gio.”

  She showed me the hot male model influencer that Tam follows online. “He couldn’t make it to the Dakota, but he was up for their private party tonight.”

  I grinned. “Go for it.”

  “Nope. We’re ordering food and watching movies while we work.”

  “New York City adventures don’t come around that often.”

  “Neither do best friends,” Tam said.

  I choked up and hugged her tight. “I love you.”

  We ordered pizza, and I typed out a reference request. Later, we binged The Queen’s Gambit again and ended the night watching Emma.

  Oh, how I secretly wish I could live a Jane Austen-esque life: fancy dresses and parties, marvelous muttonchops suitors, and best of all, happily ever after.

  Halfway through the movie, my phone buzzed again.

  Ford.

  Ford had sent a photo of himself working on the painting he’d made of me. My heart swelled at the softness in his face. It was the look he gave me so often that I started to think of it as mine.

  Ford: So you know, you’re on my mind.

  I showed Tam.

  “Wow, you look like you’re in the middle of afterglow. Starry-eyed.”

  My face warmed, and I blanked the screen. “He’s just a bit too talented.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell Ford your good news about college?” she asked.

  I hadn’t intentionally not told Ford about college, but my stomach muscles twisted, wondering what he’d think. Would we start planning to see each other long distance? I wasn’t sure I was ready to define anything since we were both just out of relationships and just made up. Still, Ford treated me like he thought of me as more than a friend. Even when Cecile showed up, Ford came straight over to check how I felt. He put me first. On the other hand, it would be weird for him to hear from Graham and Soraya that I got into the programs and not from me.

  Jasmine: I’ve been accepted into a Ph.D. Sociology program today at Emirs. Not Ivy League, so my mom isn’t pleased. I’m wait-listed at the moment at Harvard and Boston College, long story.

  Ford: I want to hear all about it, and your mom is wrong. It’s terrific news and an impressive accomplishment. I’m proud of you. I also have news. I’ve got to leave town again for part of the week. But I will return, and I’ll be using some of my time off. You plan the days.

  Jasmine: Anything?

  Ford: Within reason

  I decided to mention what happened with Martin.

  Jasmine: I’m not thrilled you showed Martin the private photo.

  Ford: It got mixed in with the rest. I was trying to inventory to make sure Cecile didn’t try to destroy more of your photos. What happened?

  Jasmine: He tried to pressure me in a weird way to relent.

  Ford: He had no fucking right to pressure you. I’ll deal with him. I’m sorry, and I won’t go back on my promise. The picture is not for show or sale.

  Jasmine: I miss you.

  Ford: You won’t have to miss me. I’ll pick you up the second I return.

  Jasmine: After work. Quinton needs help with our Overtime Jams. How is the apartment?

  Ford: My maid came over and cleaned up.

  Jasmine: What abo
ut Cecile?

  Ford: She’s staying at the Hyatt Hotel. I’ll meet up with her in public. Nothing will change. I’m done.

  Jasmine: I miss you, Ford.

  Ford: I miss you too.

  Working wasn’t the only reason I wanted to stay here. I wanted to be close to Ford. Even though it was fast, I wanted to spend more time with him. But could I change my academia life and work in New York City? I didn’t know, but it seemed more of a possibility.

  FORD

  A body lighter

  My phone chimed.

  “I forgot to ask you yesterday. Did you go see Randall?” Jasmine asked. It hadn’t been long, but I’d missed the sound of her voice. Strong yet quiet.

  “Yes, I did,” I said. “He had no right to threaten you.”

  “Let me take care of my own battles.”

  “Not if he touches you. If you’re not pressing charges, then I’m pressing him.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “I am when I’m inside you.”

  “No dirty talk. Quinton is looking right at me, and his gossip radar is about to go off. But seriously. No more going rogue with exes.”

  I laughed, and she joined in before we hung up. As long as that asshole doesn’t bother you, he’s fine.

  I had just walked up to St. Tropez. The smell of beef meatballs and ratatouille hit my senses on the way inside the restaurant, and my mouth watered. I’ll get takeout for Jasmine and me to have next time she’s over.

  Cecile was already seated with a bottle of white wine open and poured.

  Before I could sit down, the waitress came over to take my drink order.

  “Nothing for me,” I said, stopping on the opposite side. My brows lowered as I gazed over the lunch setup with flowers and lit candles like we were here on a romantic date. As if she hadn’t left.

  She waved her hand. “You never pass up ratatouille from St. Tropez. I know you like the dining room, but the barstools back here make it easier to sit and eat comfortably. I’m almost ready to stop using the brace. The physical therapy has been a godsend, and I—”