Divine: A Novel

by Jayce, Aven

  “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.

  “Margaret,” I say, totally perturbed, with my hands on my hips. She turns holding a tray of cookies, then ignores my words and places it inside an oven, closing the front and setting the timer. Her class is fucking making cookies? The open door to the back exposes a group of students sitting in lawn chairs, drinking sodas. Just chillin’. No readings or tests, no work being produced or discussions, just cookies.

  “Div, what can I do you for?”

  If we were friends that expression would be a joke, but I’ll take it as a warning.

  “You know that big football player, the freshman?”

  “Scott?”

  I nod. “Yeah, he’s not doing well in my class; he’s probably not going to pass.”

  “I know. He came to me and said you gave him an F.”

  “My students get what they earn,” I respond with tightened fists.

  “He’s doing well in my class.”

  Well loddy-fucking-dah. That doesn’t surprise me. “Do you think you could stop talking about me and my classes with your students?”

  “My door’s always open if they have problems.” She puts on a pair of rawhide gloves and takes a tray of cookies out of another oven, then places them on a plate, and calls out that they’re done. In less than five seconds the plate is empty and the students are back outside. “They eat ‘em faster than I can make ‘em,” she mumbles to herself.

  “You’ve created a culture of gossip and...”

  I stop, holding back as a student enters the room. Margaret and I smile while she walks past us to join the others.

  “She’s a good student,” I whisper.

  “She hates you,” Margaret responds.

  My heart sinks. If the bitch and her Greek party house in disguise weren’t here, I’d be respected. At times, I haven’t a clue as to how to respond to her comments. She hates you. Why? What did you say to her, Margaret? How do you know?

  “Do you say those things just to hurt my feelings?” is all that falls out of my mouth. Wimp.

  She has no response at first, focusing on another tray of cookies coming out, then another. I stand and wait. The students pile in and out, laughing, giving her high-fives; telling her how amazing she is. Vomit, vomit, bleh. Isn’t it funny that no one ever checks in on what she does over here? Fucking tenured faculty.

  “Div, I don’t know why you think I’m against you.”

  Why the hell did I come over here again? Oh yeah. “Do me a favor, don’t worry about what happens in my classroom. As a matter a fact, mind your own business, alright? We have two very different programs and I don’t even know why our classes are grouped in the same department. Your program started back in the day when women attended college to get an MRS degree. I think this is the only university in the country that still offers Home Economics.” Yes, take that. I’m standing up for myself. Richard’s gonna be pissed. “I never say anything about you and your cooking projects to my students, so keep your opinions about my digital classes and grading to yourself. This army of yours needs to be dismantled. As a colleague you should be sticking up for me, not poking my eyes out with a stick.”

  She stands beside an open oven; her hands mitted, while the scent of peanut butter and chocolate float through the air.

  Her response is “uh-huh,” with a blank stare. “There was a time, Div, when we used to do national searches for faculty members. I guess the school saved money by bringing in a lesser known from off the streets.”

  Bitch. Next time I’ll just send an email.

  The bell has rung. Round one is over. Fighters, go back to your corners.

  I leave before our back and forth jabs turn nastier than they already have. Margaret Cole has created an anti-learning culture and she’s loved because of it. Cookie parties and gossip are on the wish list of every student, along with taking breeze-easy classes. Everything she offers in her Victorian cesspit.

  I walk back to my office with an hour until class; enough time to check the stats of my books and chill out. Damn it, only twenty have sold this morning. Twenty. Not enough to quit my job. I think I need a new marketing strategy, or to chan
ge my book blurbs, or update my covers. Isn’t that what people do when their books don’t sell? It’s the cover, right? Maybe I should think about moving them to another genre? Erotica has novels coming out the vagina; lubed with thousands of books that are free. Damn it. Think, Div.

  My office phone rings. Now what? That better not be Margaret calling, or worse, she went to Richard to complain that I was in her space.

  “Good morning, this is Professor Hallowell,” I say in a pleasant voice. Could also be the Dean.

  “Div.”

  Whoa. Love that deep and sexy voice. That brings the life back into to me after visiting with Margaret.

  “Dan, how’d you get this number?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. You said you taught at the university, and there’s that thing called Google. Just search for the university site, click on your department, and there you go, Divine Hallowell comes up; pretty face, class schedule, office number, and all.”

  Hell yes, he said I was pretty... again.

  “You’re spying on me?” Like I don’t do the same.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I laugh at his interest and spirit. The guy’s got taste too, coming after me when I was the one who started this interaction. “So you’ve got a crush? You wanna get it on with a girl named Div?” My stomach tightens and my palms sweat. Those were definitely Violet’s words coming out of my mouth.

  “Yep.”

  “I like you too,” I whisper. There we go. That was me. Stay in control so you don’t lose him.

  “I have to ask you something.”

  “Go for it.” Ohhh, ask me to go on a romantic get-a-way. Please, please.

  “You feel like going to the mall tonight?”

  The mall? The fucking mall? Do those things still exist, and if so, is anyone there over sixteen? I thought everyone did their shopping online these days. The mall?

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Great, pick you up at six.”

  “I’ll meet you outside my...” He hung up. I’ll be outside... at his place... front stoop with five minutes to spare.

  God, I need to get out more, I didn’t even realize there was a mall around here. Must be on the other side of the downtown area, where I heard they built that new Walmart. So, what does one wear to the mall these days? When in doubt, Google it. Google everything. With Google, one never has to think for oneself ever again. Ask Google how to brush my teeth properly, how to make a decent cup of coffee, ask it why my toe hurts and then do a search for bunions to see if I’m going to die because of the ailment Google insists that I have.

  What to wear to the mall.

  Shit, I can’t believe there’re so many sites and articles on this subject. And images... alright, it looks like a lot of people sport the Han Solo look when they go shopping; black skinny jeans, white blouse, army jacket on top and a pair of tall brown boots. Total Han Solo.

  I’m heading out in style tonight, and if I plan on getting closer to Daniel during our second date, I better dress appropriately and shave my muff, which always looks like a full-grown Chia pet after the winter months; totally unsexy.

  I wouldn’t want to fuck it.

  Han Solo, check. Shave Chewie, check.

  Div Hallowell

  I’ve got a second date with Daniel Keller and we’re going to the mall!

  0 people like this.

  Violet Cuddlecock

  I’ve gotta shave my muff so it’s fuckable for my new man, Dan! (Sorry, not book related).

  182 people like this.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The mall. An out-of-the-ordinary-crazy-ass-place to go on a second date. This one’s small, with only two anchor stores and a three-screen movie theater.

  Yes, and as expected, the evil Cinnabon stand has tossed a hook and lured me in with its mouth watering aroma. Come on, Cinnabon people, just the smell of your sugary rolls on their own, without even taking a bite, adds five pounds to my hips; not to mention the white frosting that gets stuck on the side of my mouth is going to make me insecure for the rest of the night. I keep asking Dan if I have any on my face and he just laughs. I don’t know if that means yes or no.

  And why is he dressed like Han Solo? That was my look for the night. Black jeans, white shirt with a brown vest? Zip ankle boots? We look like twins, or those psycho couples who buy matching Christmas sweaters. Shit, I’m freaking out. This is all too bizarre. I feel like I’ve just smoked a bowl with my high school friends and we’re heading to Hot Topic to buy Pokémon beanies, but not before the munchies have kicked in and...

  “What’s on your mind? You seem nervous.”

  “Just a bit,” I exhale. “I don’t get out much, well, not to the mall. I’m experiencing information overload. Why are we here anyway? Do you need something? We came for something specific, right? You need shoes? Or a new shirt? Is it cologne? Luggage? A watch? Lord, are we seeing a movie? What’s playing?”

  He takes my hand and gives it a firm squeeze so I chill the fuck out.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Then he leads me into Banana Republic, grabs a shirt off a rack, walks into a fitting room with me in tow, and locks us securely in. A moment later his hands are on the wall above my head and his frame confines mine. Our eyes lock as his warm cinnamon breath enters my mouth.

  “You like me, right? You said you did,” he whispers.

  I nod. Yes. Yes, I like this guy. He’s unpredictable.

  “Then you don’t have to be nervous. Just relax. Otherwise the sex isn’t gonna be any good. Taut and tense in bed is like fucking a wooden plank.”

  See, unpredictable.

  His hand sneaks under my shirt and I wonder if he’s gonna try it now; the fucking. We came here to do it in the Banana Republic fitting room, that’s the reason we’re at the mall. I just know it. He has some weird fetish. He’s gonna pull out his...

  “Give me your lips, Div,” he says softly.

  I close my eyes and wait, my breathing slows but my heart quickens while his body moves closer and his hips push at my waist. I want to touch him, but my arms won’t budge and my hands are glued to the wall behind us.

  Two fingers lift my chin and his warm pink lips brush lightly against mine.

  Tease. He’s getting back at me for last night. I want him to press those fine lips of his into mine, hard, like he’s going to devour every inch of my body, but we barely touch. He’s hovering, not kissing me; consuming my mind instead. Oh, my oppressor, kiss me!

  “My mother told me years ago that women will always remember a first kiss if it’s one that’s been delayed. I’m supposed to set this up so you desire me. But my father,” he whispers. “He said I should charge a woman like a bear; change the game to be the hunter and not the hunted then see if she can handle my weight. So what are you thirsty for? Do you crave sweet lemonade, or do you want a drink that’s going to knock you on your ass?”

  “I think I want a drink that’s not going to mention its parents when I raise the glass to my lips,” I respond.

  He backs away with a grin and un-tucks his shirt, for obvious reasons. “So be it. I can wait too.”

  Damn, no sex in the fitting room. That could’ve been fabulous.

  “I brought you here because I want to spend time with you, that’s all. I joke about sex sometimes, but that’s just my nature. I’m not looking for anything specific today except to get to know you a little better, but so far, besides what I learned at dinner the other night, all I’ve figured out is that you like cinnamon rolls and enjoy sniffing every body lotion and perfume that we pass.” He reaches his hand for mine. “I’m fascinated by you, Div. Now let’s continue our date. The more open you are with me, the closer we are to that kiss.”

  For a moment, a brief, short-lived, fleeting moment, I daydream about exposing my tits, his eyes widen, and he says, that’s... that’s being open. Good thing I left Violet at home.

  “Okay, Dan. Where to?”

  “I want to play another game while we’re here. A guessing g
ame based on subject matter.”

  I give him my ‘corner of my eye’ sideways glance. The one I give my students when I know they’re about to cheat on a test.

  “The discount bookstore,” he says, pointing to the store across from Banana Republic. “There’s a sale going on, get three books for ten bucks.” He takes a ten out of his pocket and puts it in my hand. “Buy three and only three from your favorite genre but don’t tell me what they are. Make sure the cashier puts them in a sack so they’re hidden then meet me out front. Take your time, I’m doing the same, so if I’m not here when you’re done, wait for me.”

  He winks then disappears behind a wall of books, real books. I love my Kindle, but yeah, I can definitely go for some old school paperbacks now and again.

  The category signs that hang from the ceiling are bizarre. Robotics? Wait. I’ve never heard of Robotics as a genre. New Weird? Soft Creatures? Where’s the non-fiction sign? Or Romance? How about History?

  I walk down the aisle labeled ‘Amish and Centaurs,’ thinking this could lead to something interesting, but no, it doesn’t. It’s actually books on the Amish and books about Centaurs. Fuck, an author really needs to combine the two. That would be brilliant. No, even better, books about Amish Centaur Roller Derby Queens. Genius.

  Oh. There it is, along the back wall, a section labeled Pride Meat and Squish Mittens. That has to be erotica. Whoever owns this store has been blessed with comedic wit. Either that, or the owner has a sixteen-year-old son who created the signs and his parents never caught on.

  Squish Mittens is sorta cute and would make a good nickname. Where did Dan go? He did say I should be open with him and I suddenly have a burst of courage that’s not going to last for long.

  “Hey Daniel?” I call out.

  “Yeah,” he answers from the aisle labeled Road Trips from Hell. His head pokes around the corner as he hides a book behind his back. “Need a genre translator?”

  “Beautiful Div Squish Mittens.”

  “What?”

  “I think it would make a good nickname. Will you call me that a few months down the line if we’re still hanging out together?”