by Leigh Perry
Now, having sat through a number of department meetings at FAD, I was starting to miss the memos. Sure, we sometimes got into a spirited debate over the use of the Oxford comma, but most meetings were so dry that I needed two bottled waters to get through them. It didn’t help that they were first thing Wednesday morning, one of the rare times when none of us taught a class. I’d asked Caroline why we didn’t meet on Fridays—another time when nobody had classes and when we wouldn’t have to get up so early—but her guess was that either Professor Waldron wanted us to be available to students all day, or she wanted to be able to sneak off for wild weekends in New York or Vegas, possibly taking along Mr. Perkins as arm candy. I thought the former was probably the real answer, but the latter was a whole lot funnier.
That day we actually had an interesting topic: the use of plural pronouns for gender fluid people, trans people, and anybody else who preferred to avoid binary gender usage. Professor Waldron came down hard on sticking with traditional usage, and I’d expected lively debate from the rest of the department. Instead they all nodded, not quite in unison. I couldn’t help wondering if they really agreed, or if they were just sucking up for tenure. Since I had strong feelings because of some of my daughter’s friends, I argued for the other side.
I said, “I went to a talk by Dr. John O’Neil, the linguist, a couple of years ago, and he had a very persuasive argument. If a gender neutral pronoun is needed—”
“Is it needed?” Professor Waldron asked.
“A lot of people think so—and not just people who feel excluded. At any rate, first person and second person are gender neutral. Why not third person?”
She nodded slowly.
“That means we can either make up a new pronoun and try to convince people to adopt it, or we can repurpose an existing one.”
“If they were to become singular, what would we use for plural?” Dahna said with a tinge of horror in her voice. I hoped that meant she was really expressing an opinion as opposed to echoing Professor Waldron’s thoughts to get ahead in the tenure race.
“You is both plural and singular,” I pointed out.
“Except when y’all are in my part of the country,” Caroline said with a grin.
Professor Waldron didn’t seem convinced, but she said, “I will research the issue further. In the meantime, the language has not evolved yet, so remind your students that he—or she—may have to adopt traditional usage in most circumstances.”
“Understood,” I said.
She closed her notebook and said, “I believe that’s all for today. Have a productive week, and we’ll see everyone here again next week.” She swept out with a rasp of tweed. Mr. Perkins, as usual, was right behind her.
Since the meeting had been a little shorter than normal, nobody else was in a rush to leave, and it gave me an opportunity to check on something. Maybe I could save Sid some drudgery in going through files in the Writing Lab database.
“Owen,” I said, “do you remember a student named Indigo Williamson? You had them for Expository Writing last year, and they wrote a paper about having their designs pirated?”
“It sounds familiar. Why?”
“I was wondering if any of your students this semester wrote about it happening to them. Or if any of you guys have had papers turned in on similar subjects.”
“You think somebody plagiarized a paper about intellectual property theft?” Caroline said.
“Funny, but no. I’ve been hearing some rumbling about other kids having their artwork copied.”
Renee scoffed. “Kids believe every thought they ever think is original, so if somebody says anything like it, it must be theft. It never occurs to them that they had an obvious, wholly unoriginal idea.”
“Granted, but I think this case goes a bit beyond that,” I said. “I’ve seen some suspicious duplications of art and it does look like something might be going on.”
“Here at FAD?” Owen said. “That’s not good.”
“I know, it’s terrible. I’ve been trying to find—”
“If that rumor were to circulate, it could discourage people from coming here, and if enrollments go down, the dean might decide we don’t need another tenured position in the department after all.”
“I was thinking that it’s terrible because students are having their work stolen,” I said.
“That kind of thing cannot be stopped,” Dahna said, waving it away as unimportant. “Once a piece of artwork is on the Internet, of course people are going to copy it. This is known.”
“But it’s not legal or right,” I said.
“No, but it’s hardly FAD’s fault if people want to put their artwork online. They must learn to take responsibility for their choices.”
“Sure, but—”
“Is this another one of these mystery things you do?” Caroline asked. “Like at Joshua Tay?”
I glared at her.
“What mystery things?” Dahna wanted to know.
“Georgia’s got a strange hobby. She goes looking for criminals,” Caroline said.
“I don’t—” I started to say.
Renee added, “Yeah, I heard something about that. Didn’t it have something to do with that skeleton she brought to campus?”
“Is that why she had to leave McQuaid?” Dahna wanted to know.
“Excuse me—I’m right here!”
But Renee talked over me. “There aren’t any criminals here, and I don’t like the implication that there could be.”
“Look, I just want to know if anybody else has had a student whose art has been stolen.”
“Georgia,” Caroline said, “can’t you find a better way to spend your time?”
Dahna added, “Perhaps you aren’t likely to get tenure here, but please don’t ruin it for those of us who do have a chance.”
“Maybe she’s trying to draw attention to herself again, like with the skeleton writing prompt.” Renee smirked. “I didn’t see anything about skeletons in the syllabus.”
The other adjuncts actually laughed at that. Or rather, at me.
I was shocked into silence, but as it turned out, I didn’t need to answer.
“What in all that is holy is going on in here?” Professor Waldron was standing in the doorway, her abundant eyebrows making her indignation all the more intense. “I heard your ruckus halfway down the hall, and students could, too!” She closed the door firmly behind her. “Now what is the cause of this unseemly behavior?”
The other members of the department exchanged glances, then all turned to me. Apparently they had appointed me spokesperson, or more likely, the scapegoat. I said, “This is kind of complicated—”
“I’m sure you can clarify it for me.” She resumed her seat at the head of the table.
I took a deep breath and did my best to summarize my theories about the theft, ending with, “I’ve been asking around to see if I can find out more.” I looked at my see-hear-speak-no-evil buddies. “My colleagues think I’m opening a can of worms that will just make FAD look bad.”
“Of course it makes us look bad,” Owen said. “What student is going to want to come here if he thinks his artwork is going to be stolen? These kids post their whole lives on social media, and then complain when they have no privacy.”
“Work posted online is still protected by copyright,” I reminded him.
“Then let the artists take it up with their lawyers,” he shot back. “It’s not our problem.”
“Maybe it should be!” I said.
Professor Waldron held up one hand to silence us. “Let me recap. Dr. Thackery has found that the work of some of our students has been appropriated.”
“That’s what she thinks, anyway,” Renee said, “but I don’t find her ‘proof’ to be all that conclusive.”
“I’m trying to find more proof, which is why I brought it up with all of you.”
Professor Waldron held up her hand again. “And you others are concerned that her investigation could harm FAD’s reputa
tion?” She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps your chances for gaining tenure here or at other institutions?”
There were nods all around the table.
“So in conclusion, you are more concerned with FAD’s appearance of integrity than our actual integrity?”
Dahna and Owen started to nod again, but Renee nudged them and Caroline looked abashed.
Professor Waldron went on. “Moreover, you are willing to let your students suffer as victims of intellectual theft so that you can pursue your own ambitions. Is that correct?”
“It is not that simple,” Dahna said.
“It seems that simple to me. Dr. Thackery, doesn’t it seem that simple to you?”
It was my turn to nod.
“Look, these are our jobs I’m talking about,” Owen said.
“Teaching in a university is not a job, Dr. Deen. It is a vocation, a sacred trust. As academics, your allegiance should be to the truth and to your students, not to your paychecks.” She nearly spat out that last word.
“Maybe you don’t need this job to eat, but—”
“If you want a job, go sell shoes or insurance! Go work at any of a thousand other careers where chasing the almighty buck is acceptable, even encouraged. This, sir, is a place of teaching truth as best we can determine it.”
Normally, I would bristle at such an old-fashioned argument. It had been used too many times in the past to justify paying faculty members a pittance rather than a decent wage. This time, I kind of wanted to cheer.
“But Georgia doesn’t know the truth,” Owen whined.
“Then it is our obligation to help her find it, or at the very least, not to impede her in her search.” She glared at the quartet of thoroughly cowed instructors. “Have I made myself clear?”
There was no response.
“Good. Dr. Thackery, I trust you will let me know if there is any aid I can give.”
“Of course.”
“Then our meeting is once again adjourned.” She stood, and for once she wasn’t the first to leave. Instead she waited for us to file out before following us, and turned out the lights behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Though I was gratified by Professor Waldron’s support, I was still furious at my colleagues. I retreated to the restroom for a minute to pull myself together. Well, more like ten minutes, but I was fairly composed when I left and went toward my office. I might have maintained my calm had Owen not picked that moment to approach me.
“Georgia?”
“Yes?” I said as civilly as I could. For somebody who was supposedly infatuated with me, he sure hadn’t bothered to defend me at the meeting.
“I hope you didn’t take my comments personally. I really am just looking out for the best interests of FAD. Tainting the school’s reputation wouldn’t do any of us any good, not adjuncts or tenured faculty. In fact, it won’t do anything for the students either if they graduate from a school that has endured a scandal.”
“It doesn’t do them any good to have their work stolen either.”
“Actually, nothing was really stolen. I mean, if somebody copies artwork, the original artwork is still there, right? There’s no real theft.”
“I disagree,” I said, not even bothering to argue further.
He blinked. “I mean, actually—”
“Owen, I heard what you said, but I don’t accept your position.”
“Maybe if we talked it out some more. Why don’t we grab lunch later and discuss it further. Or even better, how about dinner tonight?”
He’d gone from mansplaining to flirting in less than a minute. Sid was right. Owen was not a nice guy. “No, thank you.”
“Was that for dinner or lunch?”
“Both, and any other meal you might be considering.”
“Look, I know you’re angry that I don’t agree with you—”
“No, I’m annoyed that you mocked me at the meeting, but I’m angry because you refuse to take ‘no’ for an answer. I’ve told you repeatedly, as nicely as I can, that I do not want to date you. Period. Full stop.”
He squinted at me. “There was somebody at your house the night I called, wasn’t there? Why didn’t you tell me you’re seeing somebody? I wouldn’t have kept trying if I’d known you were unavailable.”
“So it’s okay to keep harassing me even when I made it perfectly plain I don’t want to date you, but not okay when you’re encroaching on another man’s territory? Coccyx, Owen, were you always this sexist, or did—”
“It’s not sexist to—”
“Don’t interrupt. My relationship status is entirely irrelevant. I could be single, I could be dating, I could be married, I could be sleeping with half the men and women on campus. It would make no difference in my feelings toward you. I am not interested in dating you. After this, I don’t even want to be your friend.”
“But—”
I’ll never know what Owen was going to say next because I went into my office and only resisted slamming the door because I didn’t want to rouse Professor Waldron’s ire again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I hid out in my office until a few minutes before my eleven o’clock class, which gave me just enough time to grab a hot chocolate beforehand. I was relieved not to see Owen around. I did spot Caroline and Renee in line at the snack bar and got in line behind them without being noticed.
I heard Caroline say, “I can’t believe she got her father involved.”
“Problems with helicopter parents?” I asked.
Caroline jerked around. “Oh, Georgia. I didn’t know you were there.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you. So is one of your students giving you a rough time?”
“Something like that,” she said, looking as if she wished she were somewhere else.
Apparently I’d intruded on a conversation that wasn’t intended for me, and though I was curious, I was going to let it pass until Renee said, “It’s not a student’s parents that are the problem.”
Caroline gave Renee a look.
“What am I missing?” I said.
“Hey, you don’t have to play innocent,” Renee said. “If you think having your father call Professor Waldron will help get you the job, then more power to you. It’s not something I’d do, but I guess all’s fair in love and tenure.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” I said stiffly.
Renee rolled her eyes as if she didn’t believe me. “Sure, whatever you say.”
“Maybe it was supposed to be a secret,” Caroline said, “but word has gotten out that your father called Professor Waldron.”
“There’s no secret that I’m aware of. My father does know Professor Waldron, and they’re both peer reviewers for a couple of the same journals, so if he called her, it may have been something about that.”
“Whatever you say,” Renee repeated. She got to the head of the snack bar line then, but I decided to forgo the hot chocolate and head to my classroom. I thought that was a more diplomatic approach than getting hot chocolate just to pour over both their heads.
My students, at least, didn’t seem to know anything was amiss, and I scraped up enough enthusiasm to do a passable job at the lecture. Then I wimped out and ate lunch in a different wing to minimize the chances of being ignored by anybody in the English department and made it back in time for my second class.
Then it was time for office hours, and fortunately I was busy enough that I was distracted. The brooding didn’t start until after the last student left, and after a few minutes of that, I remembered the hot chocolate I hadn’t gotten before. As it turned out, I got something even better and with fewer calories.
FAD arranges weekly visits from therapy dogs, with extra appearances during exam week. They’re intended to be available for comfort and anxiety relief for students, but I often availed myself of petting time whenever possible. Given my mood after the trio of unpleasant confrontations, I was delighted to see our usual doggie therapist, Huckleberry the beagle, wh
en I left my office. I was mature enough to give the two students nearby a chance to pet him first before swooping in for a belly rub and getting kisses in return.
By the time I let somebody else have a turn, I was feeling much more content. I hadn’t realized how much I missed Madison’s dog, Byron. I’d have to be sure not to tell Sid that, given his lack of affection for anything canine.
I headed to my office and worked for an hour or so, and by the time I remembered I still hadn’t gotten my hot chocolate and headed for the snack bar, Huckleberry and his handler were long gone. I was on my way back to my desk, steaming cup in hand, when I saw a student in a paint-stained, oversized sweatshirt standing in the middle of the Roundling, looking around. “Is he gone already?”
Nobody else seemed to be paying attention to her, so I said, “You mean the therapy dog?”
She nodded.
“You just missed him.”
She’d looked bedraggled before, but as I spoke, she seemed to deflate and sank down onto one of the chairs. “Oh no. I really needed a puppy break. I mean…I really needed…” Tears started to roll down her face.
“Oh, sweetie!” I said, and hurried over. “Are you okay? Is there something I can do?”
“No, there’s nothing.”
Other students were starting to stare, and I could tell the girl was becoming more and more distraught. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m bothering you. I’m bothering everybody. I’ll go… I’ll go somewhere.”
“Why don’t you come with me to my office? I’m Dr. Thackery. Georgia.”
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and followed me. I closed the door behind her, then sat her down on the guest chair and handed her the box of tissues from my desk. After a moment I gave her my hot chocolate, too.
Once she’d used the former and had drunk down half the latter, she seemed calm enough for me to ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”