Extra Credit

by Maggie Barbieri

  * * *

  After Christine left, Crawford took the money and put it into a larger sealed envelope. “I’ll get rid of this as soon as possible,” he said. “This week. I’ll go see him this week.”

  The sooner, the better, I thought.

  Three

  I love fall semester at St. Thomas University. Well, maybe not the teaching part so much, but the campus itself. That Monday morning, a couple of weeks into the semester, was a gorgeous sixty-degree day that made walking through campus a joy, not a chore, despite the hills and valleys that make winter treks treacherous. Today, the river was in front of me, the sun overhead, and the leaves on the trees beside me beginning to burnish gold and red.

  Plus, it was taco day in the commuter cafeteria. What could be better than that?

  Nothing, I tell you. Taco day has lifted me out of many a depressed state over my years at St. Thomas.

  I swung my messenger bag back and forth as I walked down the back steps to the office area; they had been fixed over the summer after a hundred years of neglect. Once, those steps had been my daily Waterloo, making it a challenge for me, a confirmed klutz, just to get from my car to the office without falling. Now, they were a study in pristine masonry. I still marveled every day at how having this one stress taken out of my work life had made things go so much more smoothly in this new school year. It’s the little things, my mother used to say, and in this instance, she was correct.

  I locked my office every night, something I hadn’t started doing until I got a talking-to from Crawford about regular theft, identity theft, the difference between robbery and burglary, and a host of other police things that I had no interest in but could happen if someone decided to let himself or herself into my inner sanctum after I left. These were the kinds of dissertations that he found fascinating and that put me to sleep; when all was said and done, it was just easier to do what he wanted. It was a good plan, if I put my keys in the same place every night, but I didn’t. Hence, part of every morning was spent digging around in the bottom of my bag, my pockets, and anywhere else that keys might be stored, all while greeting various nuns who also kept offices near mine. Sister Perpetua wanted to borrow my iPad to play Angry Birds. (I said no.) Sister Dolores Marie complimented me on my skirt; I suspected she wanted my iPad as well. Sister James Patrick thought that we were going to get rain based on her creaky knees. Sister Anna Catherine wanted to know if I was going to coach the basketball team again. (I wasn’t. My coaching days were definitely over.) Sister Louise, finally, wanted to know if taco day in the cafeteria was as good as everyone said it was. It was, I assured her.

  Finally, I unearthed my keys from my bag and entered my office, closing the door behind me. Out in the office area, I heard the booming voice of Sister Mary McLaughlin, my boss and occasional nemesis. Judging from the few words I could decipher and the sound of her footsteps on the ancient hardwood floor, I discerned that she was coming my way and that she wasn’t alone.

  The day was off to a good start, and nothing was going to ruin that, even a cranky six-foot nun with a penchant for assigning me really horrible tasks that supposedly would benefit our entire department. I didn’t see how counting the number of words in a particular stanza of an obscure poem was benefiting the entire department, but I did what I was told until I figured out that she was screwing with me, albeit in a very intellectual sort of way. Now I usually tried to make an end run around her if I could.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Max. When she answered, I said, “We’re having a very important conversation, and there will be times you don’t understand what I’m talking about, but just stay on the line.” I realized, too late, that I could have pantomimed this phone call without anyone on the other end, but I’m more of a Method actor when it comes to deluding and evading my boss.

  “You got it. Can I eat while you talk?” she asked, even though I could hear she hadn’t stopped eating since answering the phone. My guess? Bacon and egg on a bagel, one of her favorites. My mouth started watering, the quick-cook oats I had eaten an hour earlier a distant reminder of today’s latest culinary disappointment.

  “Of course,” I said, then raised my voice so that it could be heard on the other side of the door. “If you don’t submit the paper by day’s end, it could result in a failing grade for you. Let’s talk about what’s wrong with this paper.” There was a forceful tap on the door, followed by Mary calling my name. “I’m on the phone,” I called out.

  That meant nothing to her. She swung the door open, releasing the knob and allowing the door to swing into the bookcase behind it, causing a copy of The Elements of Style to plummet to the floor noisily. “Are you busy?” she asked, the implication being “You’re not busy.”

  I pointed to the phone.

  “How long will you be?” Mary favors an all navy blue wardrobe. If The Elements of Style offered sartorial advice for her monochromatic tendencies, I would surreptitiously leave a copy on her desk; alas, it was all about grammar. Today was no exception for her; she was in head-to-toe navy, right down to her sensible, one-inch-heeled pumps. Even the pendant dangling around her neck, a Miraculous Medal, was blue.

  I put my hand over the receiver. “At least twenty minutes.” I figured that would buy me enough time to get rid of her and cruise right into my first class, a place she certainly couldn’t bother me.

  She looked disappointed. Behind her was a woman who as tall as she was, but impeccably turned out in a black pencil skirt, silk blouse, and heels. Her bag alone probably cost a thousand dollars. Her hair was the quintessential rich-Westchester-lady cut: expertly layered with highlights that certainly hadn’t come from a bottle purchased at the local drugstore. I slid in closer to my desk so no one could see the run that had sprung from the toe of my pantyhose and now ran up the side of my leg; I dragged a hand through my own tousled mop. Mary turned to her. “Dr. Bergeron isn’t available right now, but I’m sure you’ll meet her at some point.” The woman poked her head into my office and offered a big smile; I gave her a little wave. Without saying good-bye, Mary pulled the door closed and went on her way with the mystery woman.

  Max was still eating. “What did the old hag want?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “She had a very attractive woman with her. Probably somebody looking to get her kid in here.”

  “More attractive than me?”

  How does one answer that question? “Completely different type.”

  “So not as attractive as me.”

  Okay. If you say so.

  “Kid with her?” she asked.

  “Nope,” I said, swinging my chair around so I could look out the floor-to-ceiling windows that took up one whole wall of my office, offering a view of the sisters’ cemetery in the distance. “You’d be amazed. A lot of people look at schools without their kids these days and just send them wherever they’ve chosen.”

  “Really?” Max asked between bites of whatever she was devouring with gusto.

  “I know. It’s strange. It seems to be the trend, though.” Outside, the woman who had been with Mary was making her way up the same steps that I had traversed just minutes earlier. From my current vantage point, I could see that she had a school catalog in her hand. Yep, definitely an interested parent.

  “You need me for anything else right now?” Max asked. “Because I’ve got a production meeting in about thirty seconds.”

  “Nope. We’re good. Talk later?”

  Max is the kind of friend for whom explanations are worthless and unnecessary. If I need her, she’s generally there. She acts first and asks questions later, and while a misstep or two isn’t uncommon in our dealings with each other, for the most part, she is true and loyal and our friendship is unwavering. I’ve put the time that she left me in the closet for a body to fall on top of me out of my mind.

  Almost.

  I packed up for my first class and was almost in the clear when I ran into Sister Mary on the landing between the fourth and fifth floors of the buil
ding, the smell of her Jean Naté enveloping me in the close quarters. Students flooded past us, pushing us closer together than either of us would have liked to be, with Mary backed up to the window that I wished weren’t painted shut. I wondered how long I could hold my breath.

  “Alison, it’s unfortunate that you weren’t available. The woman with me is interested in enrolling in a few courses, nonmatriculated, of course, with a concentration in creative writing.” She gave me a look that would indicate that I smelled particularly bad, but that’s just the way her face looks when I’m around, I’ve discerned. “Obviously, I thought of you.”

  Obviously. I had been handed the onerous task of teaching Creative Writing I this semester, a course that I had taught in the past and not enjoyed particularly. What was passing these days for creativity didn’t mesh with my own definition, and that caused much consternation among the students in the class, all of whom had eked out C’s with one exception. That kid had gotten a D.

  My grading had garnered me a good talking-to from Mary as well as a trip to the academic dean for my division. Parents had complained, seeing their children as creative geniuses whose efforts needed to be admired and graded accordingly. Now whenever I heard “creative writing,” my stomach did a flip; I much preferred Senior Seminar, where students were committed to their work and had learned how to write long before they got to me. “So she’ll be in my class?”

  “She’s still deciding between St. Thomas and Dominican College in Rockland County.” Then she said the words that struck fear in the heart of every creative writing teacher. “She’s writing a novel.”

  I tried to remain impassive. If I had a dime for all of the first-draft great American novels that I had read in the past fifteen years of teaching, well, I’d have a lot of dimes. “That’s great,” I said, the required hint of enthusiasm leaking into my voice.

  “I think it is,” she said, agreeing heartily. “She’s led a very interesting life.”

  I looked at my watch. “Look at the time,” I said, starting off. Mary called something after me, but I lost myself in the throngs of students streaming toward their respective classrooms, hoping that she wouldn’t spot me towering over the group I had the misfortune of falling in with, none of them over five feet tall.

  On my way to my classroom, I spotted Meaghan. She was in her usual uniform of pajama pants, hooded sweatshirt, and flip-flops, but curiously, that ensemble or lack thereof didn’t seem to faze the guy she was sucking face with right outside the classroom where I was about to teach a unit on Dante’s Inferno. What happened to making yourself look as nice as possible for your boyfriend or girlfriend? The guy was in droopy athletic shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt. The outfits they were wearing were the domain of married couples in my opinion, but what did I know? I recognized her make-out partner as a kid on the lacrosse team for whom the term “dumb as a sack of hammers” was a particularly applicable turn of phrase. On the plus side, he was taller than the almost-six-foot-tall Meaghan. On the minus side, he was what I call a “super senior,” a kid who should have graduated years ago but had returned to finish up the credits he had failed to amass as a result of either failure or neglect. From what I heard, he was a bartender at Maloney’s down the avenue and, even with a college degree, might not go on to anything more secure than a lifelong bartending career. To say that Crawford was a little disappointed in Meaghan’s taste in men was a serious understatement.

  As I walked past her, I loudly cleared my throat. “Good morning!”

  The couple broke apart quickly. “Oh, hi,” she said, nervously smoothing her hair back. Mr. Lacrosse Player bid us adieu and slithered off, not interested in a conversation that would take place between a professor/stepmother and his girlfriend/her stepdaughter. “I’m on my way to class.”

  “How’s Forensic Psych going?” I asked, having heard through a little birdie—namely her professor—that she had been late handing in one paper and had missed a homework assignment completely. So far, I had managed to keep this situation from Crawford, but the guy worked hard to keep his girls in school, Meaghan’s sizable academic scholarship notwithstanding, and he expected results.

  Her face took on that look that showed me what she must have looked like as a five-year-old. She didn’t necessarily go pale, but it was close. “Fine,” she said, packing a combination of defensiveness and nervousness into that one word, and letting me know that things were, indeed, not “fine.”

  “Listen,” I said, moving in close. “Here’s the deal: catch up on your work and turn everything in, and your father doesn’t have to know. However, if Professor Larkin and her cat sweater come by my office again complaining about how disinterested you are in her class and the work involved, all bets are off.” I didn’t enjoy parenting like Don Corleone, but there you have it. Sometimes, intimidation, threats, and recriminations are the best form of keeping everyone on the straight and narrow. “Do you need a study group? A homework tutor?” I asked, more gently, knowing that St. Thomas made provisions for everyone to do well, not just their student-athletes.

  Meaghan threw a thumb over her shoulder. “That’s who he is,” she said.

  “Mr. Super Senior?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Well, that explains a lot.”

  “It started out that way,” she protested, “but then … well … he’s cute.”

  Yeah, if you like your guys big, dumb, and unable to interpret a college catalog. “Whatever,” I said, realizing that I was late to class. “Get it together on Forensic Psych or you’re going to have your father bringing a large can of whoop-ass down on you.” I sighed more dramatically than the situation warranted. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “What’s whoop-ass?” she asked.

  I translated my eighties street talk for her. “A whole heap of trouble.” She still looked confused. “Like you’ll be living with us every weekend and be the saddest you’ve ever been.”

  That got her attention. She stiffened. I guess there was nothing worse than spending your weekends with your cranky detective father and his equally cranky professor wife while wondering what the difference was between symbolic interactionism and conflict theory.

  She decided to switch gears to throw me off the scent of her bad grades. “I still don’t understand why we can’t keep the money.”

  “Haven’t you been over this with your parents? You don’t need a five-thousand-dollar birthday gift from an uncle you haven’t seen in a decade,” I said, getting right to the point.

  “It’s my money,” she whined.

  “No, it’s really not,” I said. I was sick of talking about it and told her so. “Take it up with your father. He’s headed over there this week to give it back and explain to your uncle that while generous, it was completely over the top and unnecessary.” I reached around the back of her hoodie and tucked in the tag that I had spied sticking out when I originally approached her. “Look at it this way: He’ll probably get you something else. Something more appropriate to the occasion. Like socks! Or new pajamas that you can wear to school!” I said pointedly, full of fake cheer.

  Meaghan was not amused. She looked dejected as she slunk off to her next class. I guess she didn’t need new socks or pajamas. We were about the same size; if Chick took Crawford’s suggestion for a better gift, maybe I would make out, too.

  I went off and taught my class. After it was over, it was technically still too early for tacos, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t hungry. I was delighted to find my go-to guy, Marcus, behind the counter in the cafeteria. “Too early for tacos?” I asked, holding my hands together in hopeful prayer.

  He looked at his watch and then at me. “It’s ten thirty.”

  “Your point?”

  “It’s too early for tacos.”

  “Again, your point?”

  He smiled and reached to a shelf above the stove and took down a small package wrapped in tinfoil. He handed it to me across the counter and put his other hand to his lips. “Shhh. If anyone finds out that there w
ere tacos at ten thirty, I’m in big trouble.” He accepted the money I handed him. “Especially Sister Theodosia. She’s a taco addict.”

  I stuffed the packet into my messenger bag and told him that his secret was safe with me. I hustled out of the cafeteria and down the hall toward the staircase that led to the sisters’ residence, knowing that that part of the building would be empty at this time of day. I could eat my taco in peace, the only sign that I had procured it before the official lunch hour being the lingering smell of Marcus’s perfectly seasoned ground beef in the convent stairwell. I climbed up a few steps and sat just below the first landing, unwrapping the steaming packet of Mexican goodness, touching it with my tongue to gauge how hot it really was before diving in. A previous, unfortunate dining experience—thanks to my inability to exhibit any patience whatsoever—had given me a tongue so burned that I had conducted my afternoon classes with a severe lisp, leaving all of my students perplexed and more than a little amused. I kept the foil wrapped around the taco so that the juice inside the tortilla shell didn’t leak out all over my hands and clothes.

  I took a bite and almost exclaimed with joy.

  That joy was short-lived, though, because as I sat chewing, in a state of near ecstasy, I heard footsteps and voices below me. I hustled up to the next landing and pressed myself against the wall, not wanting to be found out. It really was no big deal to me that I had a taco before lunch service, but it could mean trouble for Marcus, and that guy had had my gustatory back so many times that I was wary of getting him into any kind of hot water.

  The thing about these old buildings is that they are testaments to late-nineteenth-century construction, filled with enough marble, granite, and stone to withstand any kind of disaster. That kind of construction and building material also makes sound carry. Just ask anyone traversing the halls during a change of class. It sounds like a herd of cattle asked a herd of water buffalo to join them as they stampeded the hallways. In my case, taking a bite out of a taco sounded like I was crushing glass underfoot.