I emerged at the end of a long hallway broken only by closed doors spaced at odd intervals. As I crept along the hall, trying to muffle the sound of my heels as I searched for room 332, snippets of lectures leaked out of the classrooms. In one, a woman suffering from sinus troubles was encouraging a debate between two students arguing over the symbolism and subtext of T.S. Elliot’s The Wasteland while in another, a rich male voice was reading one of Shakespeare’s sonnets aloud. I found myself slowing to listen, transported back to my own college days. A deep yearning to stay and learn stirred within my soul.
After what felt like an eternity—though the clock on the wall said it was only two minutes after noon—I found the room I was looking for. Alex didn’t appear to have an assistant, so I was going to have to announce myself. As I raised my hand to knock, I caught sight of Alex sitting at his desk, casually sprawled in his chair and engrossed in a book. He brushed his left eye with his hand. At first I thought he was just scratching an itch, but when he did it again, I realized he was crying. I sneaked a peek at the cover—The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. No wonder. That book would have made even the most hardened criminal blubber like a baby.
Not wanting to embarrass him, I took a few steps back, made sure my footsteps made more noise as I reapproached, and knocked. “Professor Grantham? I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
He looked up, momentarily dazed, then seemed to remember where he was and why I was in his doorway. “Yes, Annabeth, come in. And call me Alex. I think we know one another well enough to be on a first-name basis.”
He flashed me a smile so full of warmth I thought I would melt into a puddle, leaving only a stain behind on his faux Persian rug. I took a seat in one of the chairs near the west window of the tiny office, hoping the glare from the sunlight would distract me from my two biggest temptations: staring at him and allowing my eyes to wander over the bookshelves crammed two deep. Some were sagging tomes peeling with age, others crisp and eagerly awaiting their inaugural read.
But as Alex adjusted the wooden blinds to shield me from the shafts of light, I caught sight of him and was momentarily undone. His look was classy and reminded me of a 1930s newspaper reporter—tan slacks held up by old-fashioned beige-and-mauve suspenders over a pink Oxford shirt with a white collar and cuffs. Gold and black cufflinks glistened at his wrists.
Instead of taking a seat behind his desk—and putting a barrier between us—as I’d hoped he would, Alex pulled up a chair just opposite mine. We were sitting so close I could have touched his knee. You are here to work, I reminded myself. Get to it.
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry I was late, but I got lost trying to find the building. I appreciate your patience. You didn’t seem surprised to see me though.”
“No. Laini phoned this morning and said you would be coming in Jenna’s place. Please tell Jenna I hope she gets well soon.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m actually glad Laini sent you.”
My heart fluttered into my throat. “You are?”
“Yes, I want to discuss our plans so far. From our initial meetings, I get the impression your heart is in this much more than some of the other members of our team.”
Jenna. He meant Jenna. I smiled to myself, thrilled beyond measure he saw her for what she was.
“Passion is what will get us where we need to be. Like attracts like, right? If we aren’t in this recruitment effort one hundred percent, the students will see that and react accordingly.”
Alex’s enthusiasm was infectious, and despite my best efforts to remain professional and rigid, I found myself leaning toward him. I placed a sheet of paper on the small, round table between us. “I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I’ve put together a list of possible scenarios for events, keeping in mind your principle of meeting students where they are.”
He bent over the page, a thick wave of hair falling forward over his right eye and glowing gold in the muted sunlight. Silently, he read through the list. “I like what I see. Tell me more.”
“Well, in addition to having a presence at recruitment events that take you into the high schools, you need to draw students here so they can experience the campus for themselves and get a feeling for what it would be like to be a student here. I know you do tours, but we need to think beyond those. Nearly every month has some sort of event we could capitalize on. For example, you said the desire was to launch in September. That’s perfect timing to start with a bang because that’s when Banned Books Week is held. Miles and I mocked up a sample brochure, web page, and a few social media examples for you to look at.”
With the theme “We Don’t Ban Books,” the proposed event would be a daylong exploration of the juxtaposition of freedom of speech and rules of conduct in a private university setting. The event would include a few authors of recently banned or challenged works but would also go beyond the books themselves to cover censorship, the reasons used to justify banning, and the roles of parents, teachers, and students in the consumption and constriction of controversial works.
I set down another paper. “Here’s a list of nearly one hundred banned books from the American Library Association, as well as those considered controversial over the last several years. As you can see, many of them are books you personally use in your curriculum. I’m sure your students would love to be involved. Perhaps some of your fellow professors could offer credit for appropriate participation. When prospective students hear from their peers, they’re more likely to receive the message.”
Alex nodded. “Yes, I see where you’re going with this. In years past, our library has held staged readings of banned books with a local theater company, so I know the administration is open to the idea of participating in the week’s activities. We’d of course have to get permission to expand it, but I see great potential here, especially for media coverage, which will extend our reach even more. What do you have planned for the rest of the year?”
Over the next two hours, I went over with him the ideas Laini had endorsed for National Novel Writing Month in November, the National Book Festival in January, Read Across America Day in March, and National Poetry Month in April. In the months between, we would hold workshops and events focused on well-known Chicagoans, university alumni, and competitions for current and potential students alongside ongoing calls for suggestions to curriculum and future events via social media.
“One thing I just thought of,” I added. “You should consider inviting student journalists to cover the event. Give them special press passes and everything. That way, even those who don’t attend have a chance to hear about it.”
Alex was glowing with excitement. “I love that you’re focusing on participation. From what my research has shown, that’s something most schools don’t do a good job of incorporating. We’re all experts at talking to students, donors, and the like but don’t often want to hear back. I think this has real potential to shake up the laissez-faire system and infuse some life into our stodgy old department.”
“Oh, I’d say it’s anything but stodgy with you around. What was it you were reading when I came in?”
Alex looked away, probably covering his embarrassment that I may have seen his unguarded moment, and reached for the book. He plopped it in my lap. “I’m just starting a six-week series on mortality and the choices we make. I’m also including Sophie’s Choice, Macbeth, and in a twist, requiring my students to see the opera La Boh�me.”
“Again with the Rent reference. What is it with us and that musical?” I teased, expecting he would know that Rent was a modern retelling of the famous Puccini opera.
“I hope it isn’t some sign from the universe that we’re all doomed,” he said, pitching his voice low to mimic a sinister force.
I laughed. “Seriously though, two novels, a play, and an opera in six weeks? That’s more than we covered in a semester in some of my college classes.”
“It’s tough, but these kids worked hard to get in here. We accept on average less than eight per
cent of the students who apply, making our rate not much higher than Princeton’s or Yale’s and more competitive than Dartmouth’s or Cornell’s. I want my students to be on par with the Ivy League schools. That they chose not to attend those institutions should be irrelevant to the level of education they receive.”
“Very well stated,” I said, marveling once again at his determination to do right by his students.
A small clock with spinning crystal orbs chimed on his desk, followed shortly thereafter by a bing from his phone. Alex sighed and silenced the alarm. “That’s my cue to depart for the dean’s office. I’m meeting him between classes.” His arm brushed a stack of papers, sending them floating to the floor like autumn leaves. “Oh, hell!”
I crouched to help him retrieve the fallen mess. One paper in particular caught my eye—a list of band names with a smattering of lyrics.
Alex caught me looking at it. “It’s a rough sketch for a class I’m developing for the first spring term—Poetry and Storytelling in Modern Music.”
“Interesting. But if you’re looking for poetic lyrics, there’s a band from right here in Chicago that you’re missing.”
“Who is it?”
Instead of answering, I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone. “May I?” I gestured toward his computer.
“Be my guest.”
Less than two minutes later, he had two Kill Hannah albums on his laptop. “Give them a listen. If you don’t like them, no harm done.”
“Thanks.” Alex tossed the untidy stack back on his desk then picked up the pages we had been discussing. “I’ll go over these plans with the dean. I have a full teaching schedule tomorrow, but let’s say I’ll get back to you on Thursday?”
I rose as he put on his blazer. “Of course.”
“Did you take the Metra in?”
I nodded.
“I’ll walk you out. I’m headed in that direction anyway.”
“A girl could get spoiled by this personal attention,” I joked.
Alex merely smiled.
As we walked in silence, I mentally chided myself for making such a stupid remark. Great, Annabeth. Open mouth and insert foot. I had probably overstepped my bounds. What must he think of me now?
We reached the crossroads that led to the Metra in one direction and to his destination in the other.
I reached to shake his hand, determined to keep things cool and professional. “Thank you again for meeting with me. I’m pleased you liked our proposal.”
He shook my hand as he would any other colleague’s. “Miles says you’re going to the baseball game on Saturday.”
I shielded my eyes against the sun. “You’ve been in touch with Miles?”
“Yeah. He invited me.”
Briefly, I wondered if that could be considered a conflict of interest, but I shrugged it off. “Oh.” I couldn’t hide the disappointment in my voice. “I can’t make it. I’ve got deadlines to meet and then plans that evening.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. He doesn’t need to hear about your date with Victor.
Was it my imagination, or did his shoulders sag a little?
“Well, I hadn’t made up my mind yet. It’s not half as appealing now.” With that, he walked down the opposite path, leaving me staring after him.
CHAPTER SIX
The whole time I was working on my essay for the Huffington Post, I was wishing I was at the baseball game with Alex. Why, why did I always have to be so dependable? Why did I always have to do what was right? Because you’re you, Annabeth. Oh, great. Now I was answering myself too.
I rubbed my face with the heels of my hands and tried to concentrate. With a sigh, I went back and reread the introduction I had written.
Waiting for Love: A 21st Century Spinster Speaks
Tell me if this sounds at all familiar. You aren’t even at a family event for five minutes when the questions start. “Where’s your boyfriend?” “How’s it possible that a pretty girl like you is still single?” “You aren’t getting any younger. When are you going to start having kids? Tick-tock.”
That last one is always my favorite.
I don’t know about you, but I find myself immediately on the defensive, wanting to yell, “I don’t have one, and you know what? That’s my choice.” “Damned if I know. Ask all the single guys in Chicago what’s wrong with them.” And, “First, thanks for the reminder. Second, whether or not I have kids—and how—is my business, not yours.”
Believe me, it’s not that I don’t want to get married. I do. However, I don’t want to marry just anybody. Many people have theorized that my standards are too high, but you know what? At least I have them. I have so many friends who married young and are now on their second or third failed marriage, sometimes with kids or bankruptcy trailing in their wakes. That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. If I know you aren’t likely to be husband material, why would I waste my time and yours and risk growing attached to the wrong person?
However, that hasn’t stopped me from putting myself out there. Earlier this year, I joined the Heart+Soul online dating service. Part of the application was an essay in which I had the chance to tell potential matches anything I wanted.
A lot of girls probably would have used this space to make themselves appear as attractive as possible by telling men what they think they want to hear. And that’s probably a very successful strategy. But it’s not what I chose to do. My theory was that if you want to date me, I want you to know exactly what you’re in for, warts and all. So I wrote four hundred brutally honest words and let the chips fall where they may. Heart+Soul was kind enough to allow me to reproduce my essay here, complete with the picture referenced within.
I skipped over my essay, which I’d read so many times by now I had it memorized. My thoughts were flowing as my fingers flew over the keys to type the conclusion.
Amazingly, my candor didn’t make every guy run away screaming. I’ve even gone on dates with a few. But one was so impressed he asked me if he could share it on his blog. With great surprise, I found it resonated with so many people. That’s how this column was born.
Nearly a century separates me and the women who first redefined standards for what was acceptable for women—the flappers of the 1920s. Yet we’re still facing the same sort of attitudes. In the time between, we’ve seen working women become the norm, the Pill revolutionize sex, and feminism give us a greater voice in all aspects of life, yet the questions we’re asked are still the same. Why is that?
Single girls, I feel like it starts with us. We need to be bold, be open with our opinions. That’s never going to stop a concerned mother or grandmother from asking when you’re going to start popping out kids, but maybe it won’t be her first, or only, question. If we don’t stand up for ourselves, no one else will. I’m not advocating saying exactly what you’re thinking, but you can redirect the question to a different subject. If someone asks if you’re still single, you could reply, “Yes, and I don’t mind. It gives me more free time to focus on [insert your interest here]. And when the right guy comes along, I can’t wait to share it with him.” That shuts down their arguments in a respectful fashion.
As for everyone else, if they don’t want you for who you are, there are plenty more fish in the sea.
Here’s hoping all of you find your ideal mate.
I looked up from my laptop and blinked myself back into reality from the writer’s trance. This was actually pretty good. Now all I needed was to proof it one last time. But first I needed to get some distance from it.
I glanced at the clock and pulled out my phone to check the MLB app. The Cards and Cubs were only in the fourth inning. I still had my ticket, and I had plenty of time to make it to Wrigley and catch some of the game.
When I opened the door to our company suite half an hour later, all eyes turned to me. Kendra, Angela, Miles, Christine the intern, Jenna, and Rick were all there along with Alex and a guy I vaguely recognized as Jenna’s boyfriend.
“Hey, you made it,�
�� Miles called from the front row of seats. “What about the essay?”
“Finished it early.”
“Well, I was hoping you’d change your mind. We saved you a seat.”
I glanced at the empty chair next to Alex, where his date would have been sitting had he brought one. I took that as a good sign. Now he was in for some good-natured ribbing.
“I see you decided a game without me was worth your time.” I made myself comfortable, and Miles passed me a beer.
“It was a calculated risk. Miles told me you hardly ever miss a game, so I took a gamble.”
I eyed him warily, trying to decide whether or not to believe him. It was true I was a huge Cubbies fan, despite their abysmal track record, so I decided the best course of action was to pretend it didn’t matter. “Well, you seemed to be having a swell enough time before I arrived.”
“Swell? What is this, Prohibition?” He paused a beat. ”In which case, you won’t be needing this.”
“Hey!” I squealed as he tried to take away my beer.
“No, no, no, doll. We can’t let the coppers catch you with this contraband hooch. They’ll send you up the river for sure.” He was doing his best gangster impression.
I managed to free my wrist and get my drink back, but not without spilling some on his T-shirt, effectively ending our game. “Sorry.”
“No worries. It’ll wash out.”
We spent the next few minutes in silence, watching the Cubs strike out one Cardinal after another.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Kendra yelled, doing a little dance of joy as the inning ended.
“Hey, Miles, where’s Mia?” I called.
“Tokyo, I think.”
“No, that was last weekend.”
“Amsterdam?”
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