by Frankie Bow
“But?”
“Freedom comes with responsibility. Emma’s published under her real name. Her university affiliation is public. Take a look at the book and see whether you might have a word with her.”
And that was all Victor said for the rest of the uncomfortable drive back to campus.
CHAPTER THREE
I stared over Emma’s shoulder at the electronic image of her book cover.
“Emma, this is your book?” I leaned in to take a closer look. “Did you check this with anyone at Mahina State before you published it?
“Why would I do that?”
“Because they’ve spent the last few years sending us out to the high schools to tell the kids that college is for everyone. And your book is called No, you can’t be an astronaut: Why College Isn’t For Everyone.”
The cover illustration was a line drawing of an astronaut with a red circle and slash superimposed on top.
“Yeah, so? What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal? How do you think your students would feel if they saw this? It sounds like you’re saying some of them don’t belong here. Emma, you published this under your real name!”
Emma shrugged. “Know what I say? Prove me wrong. Show me you can do the work. Hey, where’s your coffee machine?”
“I put it into storage. I can’t stand the smell of coffee these days.”
“Aw man, coffee’s the whole point of coming to your office.”
“You can always go to the coffee machine in the English department. If you don’t mind your coffee tasting like chicken soup and hot chocolate.”
“When are you gonna be done with your morning sickness?”
“It usually doesn’t last past the first trimester, thank you so much for your compassionate concern. Anyway, this book.”
“So Santiago really had his goatee in a twist about it, ah?”
“He was concerned, yes. And I can see why. Why did you write a book like this anyway? This doesn’t have anything to do with biology.”
“It was gonna be a biology book at first. I had this whole section on genetics. I was trying to explain it to my editor how it worked, how you can’t take a bunch of nineteen-year-old dimwits and turn ‘em into Nobel laureates like the Student Retention Office keeps telling us we gotta do.”
“Emma, I don’t think the Student Retention Office would—”
“Or, say, turn you into an elite runner. Just not gonna happen. So anyway, she thought my ideas were ‘provocative,’ she took it back to the publisher, and they wanted me to expand on that. So I did.”
“So what is this book about, exactly?”
“No, You Can’t Be an Astronaut is a hilarious and heartbreaking account of a local girl from the islands who comes back home to teach college but gets a rude awakening when she encounters the Trophies for Everyone generation.”
I peered at the screen.
“You memorized your book description.”
“Look, I’m addressing a genuine societal crisis. We’re pushing more and more college graduates out the door, and it’s not like there’s a bunch of great jobs out there waiting for them. How many times have you run into one of your former students waiting tables or working a cash register or whatever?”
“Sometimes people want to stay in town after they graduate.”
“You think it was worth it for them to take years of their life and get into a bunch of debt just to keep working the same job they had since high school?”
“But maybe credential inflation’s gotten so bad that if they didn’t get the degree they’d get pushed out of their barista job by someone who did. Anyway, congratulations on getting published. I hope your book does well.”
Emma drummed her fingers on my desk and bounced on the yoga ball that I used in lieu of a proper office chair (Mahina State no longer has a budget for faculty office furniture).
“I got a problem, though. My preorder numbers are junk. I’m selling maybe a copy a day, based off my Amazon ranking. Oh, excuse me, based on, not based off, geez, Molly, let it go, you’re so fussy.”
“Me? I didn’t say anything.”
“I could tell you wanted to.”
“If you know ‘based off’ is wrong, then don’t use it in the first place. Anyway, a copy a day sounds pretty good to me. My advisor told me half of published academic papers never get read by anyone other than the author and the reviewers. Plus unlike an academic paper, you’re getting paid for what you wrote. How much are you getting paid, anyway?”
“Pfft. About a nickel a book. At this rate it’s gonna take me about three hundred years to earn back my advance. I need some publicity. Molly. How do I become a best-seller?”
“Do you have three-quarters of a million dollars to spend?”
“Are you crazy?”
“If you do, there’s a company that can get you on the New York Times bestseller list. But marketing’s not really my area of expertise. Doesn’t your publisher take care of advertising? What are they doing?”
“Bupkis. They’re telling me I gotta do all my own publicity.”
“I was hired to teach business communication, and even that’s a stretch for me. I—”
“Yeah, yeah, you got your degree from one of the top ten literature and creative writing programs in the country. I know.”
“I wasn’t going to say that. Anyway, I’m not sure I want to associate myself with anything called Why College Isn’t for Everyone. Especially now that Victor’s got me giving special tutoring to this rich kid who would otherwise wash out. Sorry, I mean tutierging, not tutoring.
“The kid can’t just take online classes?”
“Apparently that’s not high-touch and boutique enough for a prominent family with a sick matriarch.”
“A-ha. So we’re trying to weasel our way into her will before she kicks the bucket, is that it?”
“Victor calls it friendraising, but yes, that's what we're doing.”
“Who’s this prominent family anyway?”
“Brigham. Do you know them?”
“Brigham? Whoa. What, do you not know them?”
“Victor told me the family was one of those planter-missionary-Alii families,” I said.
“Yeah, there’s a story there.” Emma did not relinquish my yoga ball, so I went around to the other side of my desk and sat in the plastic visitor chair. “There were two sons, a little older than us. One of them married this haole girl from the mainland.”
“Was her name Bernardine?” I asked.
“Yeah. Bernardine McCrae.”
“I knew it! The model, right?”
“That’s the one. So she married Alexander Brigham, but the word is she had a thing with the older brother Cyrus.”
“Where are the brothers now?”
“Died in a car crash. And the older brother, Cyrus, you know, the one she wasn’t married to? Come to find out he left everything to her. Her husband, Alexander, was the one who was driving. You gotta wonder if he knew what was going on and crashed ‘em on purpose, ah? Eh, you got time to get lunch?”
“Thanks for asking, but I can’t stand the cafeteria smell these days. I’m going to stay in my office and have pickles for lunch.”
“So it’s true you like eat pickles when you come hapai? What about ice cream?”
“I don’t think anyone likes pickles and ice cream together. But they’re both good when your stomach’s feeling touchy. Pickles have that refreshing vinegary crunch that distracts me from my queasy stomach. Ice cream is creamy and soothing.
“Whatever. I’m going to the cafeteria to get loco moco. Come on, doesn’t that sound good? Brown gravy, nice meaty hamburger patty, egg yolk soaking into the rice—”
“Just go. Enjoy yourself. And please don’t tell me about it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“We don’t need the money,” Donnie said. “You should quit and take the penalty. I’m sure your classes will fill next time.”
Donnie and I were having a nig
htcap in our living room. Wine for him, decaf green tea for me.
“I already agreed to do it. I can’t go back on my word.”
“You should try to minimize your stress right now. In What to Expect What You’re Expecting, they say stress can make morning sickness worse.”
“Oh, and if I gave pregnancy-related stress as a reason for backing out, I’d be ruining things for every woman of childbearing age for the next twenty years. Can’t trust those ladies with anything important, they’ll just get pregnant and quit. And I do want to help. I mean, we’re getting budget cuts from the state every year, most of the faculty with big grants have left, we’re not allowed to raise tuition and our students couldn’t afford to pay more anyway. Fundraising—sorry, friendraising—is the only thing we have left to keep us afloat.”
“So you do want to do it then.”
“I feel like I should. But the kid, Jeremy? All these grownups are racing around accommodating him, and he didn’t even come out to meet me.”
“Didn’t you say he was sick?”
“That’s the pretext for our providing the individual tutoring, yes. Mind you, students who get sick and don’t happen to have rich mothers with one foot in the grave don’t get the VIP treatment. Do you know the Brigham family by any chance?”
“I know of them. They have the lava rock house on Russian Road, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but their lot’s so overgrown you can’t even see it from the street. And when you go inside? There are all these weird smells. It’s hard to spend a whole hour in there.”
“Your sense of smell is heightened right now. It said in the book that that was normal.”
“Or maybe their house is especially stinky.”
“Molly, you could tell I was showering with scented Dial from across the house.”
“Yeah, I was surprised how strong the smell was to me. Good thing they make unscented. They should call it the marriage-saver. Donnie, I know this is something universities do all the time, cozying up to wealthy families, but I have to admit, with Mrs. Brigham obviously in poor health, it feels ghoulish to me. Victor Santiago is obviously hoping she’ll put Mahina State in her will.”
“Do you get a commission if your university gets a donation?” Donnie asked.
“No. I get to keep my job. Boy, I’m not looking forward to spending the semester tutoring little prince Jeremy.”
“You’re being kind of hard on him, Molly. He’s young. Remember, Davison took a while to find his stride.”
Davison Gonsalves had been one of my worst students, an unrepentant cheater who thought he could talk his way out of anything. When I married Donnie, Davison became my stepson. Thankfully, Davison was married now, busy with a new baby and living thousands of miles away in Las Vegas.
“You’re right,” I said. “But everything worked out well in the end, didn’t it? I mean, Davison settling down and having a family and everything.”
“Everything did work out.” Donnie grinned at me. “And you became a grandmother before you became a mother.”
“Just as amusing now as it was the last few times you pointed it out. Hey, speaking of things that people probably shouldn’t say out loud, did you know Emma wrote a book?”
“Did she? That’s interesting.”
“What do you mean, that’s interesting?” I got up and dumped my tea into the sink (I thought it tasted slimy) and got myself a cup of lime seltzer water instead.
“Well, I don’t usually eavesdrop on my customers, of course.”
“Can’t imagine why not, but okay. So what happened?”
I sat down on the couch again.
“It was a group of kids at one of the tables. They looked like college students, you know, about that age. I overheard someone say ‘Emma Nakamura,’ so of course I was interested. And then someone else said something about ‘the action,’ and something about how an anonymous donor was going to pay for a lawyer. Then I heard someone mention Honey Akiona.”
Honey Akiona was my former student. She had gone on to law school, then had come back to Mahina where she’d established a successful criminal law practice. I myself had used her services when I’d ended up on the wrong end of a little misunderstanding.
“So someone needs a lawyer? What’d they do?”
“Nothing yet. Will it bother you if I get another glass of wine?”
“No, not even craving it. Help yourself. So they’re planning to do something illegal and someone’s hiring a lawyer in advance for them?”
Donnie came back and sat next to me.
“From what I could hear, they’re going to protest Emma’s book. She’s giving a reading, right?”
“She is giving a reading. Donnie, I have to warn her.”
As I stood up, Donnie said,
“Your mother called me again today. She says she can’t get ahold of you and your phone is turned off.”
“I’ll get to it. But I have to call Emma first.”
Instead of being worried, Emma was dismissive of my warning.
“My little book?” she said. “I should be so lucky.”
“It sounds like they’re planning to protest your Faculty Spotlight talk.”
“Molly, have you ever seen more than ten people show up for one of those?”
“Well, then why are you doing this talk to begin with if you don’t think anyone’s going to show up?”
“Cause my agent said I should get some footage of me giving a talk, so I could post it on my website. She said it doesn’t matter how many people show up, just edit it so it looks like it’s well-attended. Oh, that reminds me. Are you gonna be able to go?”
“Sure, if I’m not getting clobbered by morning sickness.”
“My talk’s not gonna be in the morning.”
“I know that. Morning sickness can last all day, it turns out. But yes, of course I’ll go.”
“Could you video it for me? I got a pretty good video camera.”
“Not saying I’m not happy to help, but what about Yoshi?”
“He’s on the mainland. Some graphic artist convention.”
“When is it again?”
“Tomorrow night. In the Yamashiro auditorium. Hey, how’s it going tutoring Richie Rich?”
“Not good. I’m supposed to be there every day, and I’m not looking forward to going back tomorrow.”
“I thought you liked old houses.”
“The house itself is great. It looks like an old church. The problem is it’s filled with tension and sickness and bad smells.”
“That’s okay. You have my talk to look forward to afterward.”
“Yes, something to live for.”
CHAPTER FIVE
When I drove myself to the house on Russian Road the next day I saw an expensive electric car parked in front of the Brigham lot. I wondered whose it was; there weren’t a lot of those kinds of cars in Mahina. I picked my way through to the front door, knocked, and was greeted once again by the elderly man who I was pretty sure was named Edward.
I smiled.
“Hello, I’m Molly Barda. I was here yesterday with Victor Santiago. I’m here to tutor Jeremy.”
Edward assured me that he did indeed remember me, and once again, he led me to the side room to wait. Without Victor there to judge me, I felt free to take out my phone. I didn’t usually open the Student Retention Office’s emails, but I didn’t have anything better to do. I clicked on,
Are you a dream-killer?
I already knew what this was about. Our recruiting office had been doing a great job going out to the local high schools convincing the kids that science and engineering were fun. As a result, we’d had an influx of enthusiastic freshmen who thought engineering meant building cool toys from kits and had no idea math was involved. The ones who stayed on and stuck it out in the engineering major burned a lot of their financial aid by repeatedly failing out of precalculus.
Apparently some unnamed “dream-killer” (most likely the precalc instructor) had sugges
ted to a few of these students that they pursue a different course of study. It was clear from the e-mail that although Mahina State believed in Academic Freedom and faculty teaching their courses and discharging their advising duties as they thought best, no one ever should tell a student that they should not major in engineering. Not when our STEM Education grant was up for renewal next year. The situation had escalated to the point that the administration was now engaged in a shooting war with the math and engineering departments over the issue of course prerequisites.
As chair of the management department, I didn’t need to get involved. All I had to do was wait for the aspiring engineers to run up against calculus, at which point many of them would come flocking to my department no matter what anyone told them. Ex-engineering majors were the main reason the College of Commerce never hurt for enrollment.
And speaking of dream-killers, the next announcement was about Emma. She would be giving a reading from her new book at our monthly Faculty Spotlight. Faculty Spotlight was an event meant to raise the profile of our university, build the town-gown relationship, and probably do some “friendraising.” It was usually modestly-attended, a low-key and pleasant occasion for faculty to show off their latest research, and community members to enjoy free cookies and coffee. I put the date on my calendar and wondered whether the administration realized No You Can’t be an Astronaut was an entire book in support of being a dream-killer. If so, they were more committed to Academic Freedom than I had given them credit for.
“Are you ready, Professor Barda?”
Edward was standing in the doorway. “You’ll be in the sunroom today.”
As we passed a closed door I heard voices. It sounded like two men and one woman talking, but we walked on too quickly for me to hear anything.
“Where is your restroom?” I asked the man quietly.
He gave me a complicated set of instructions involving going down a side hallway and up some stairs. I’d figure it out if I needed it later. I hoped I’d make it through the session.
I followed him to a room flooded with hot sunlight and thick with a cloying, fruity smell that made my stomach rise up in protest.