by Amy Gentry
Everything turned upside down again. Gwen was always in control. “I drank too much, too. I missed my shift at Nona today and they fired me.”
“Oh no!”
I shrugged it off.
“What time did you get home?”
“Around one.” I watched Gwen to see if she was watching me. “You must have just gone to bed when I got in.”
There was a long pause. If, by some chance, she really had gone to bed alone, she’d have no reason to doubt me. If, on the other hand, she was lying, she would know I was lying, too. I waited for her either to accuse me and implicate herself, or double down on the lie.
But she just looked at me curiously. “Why didn’t you leave with us, anyway? My memories from the end of the night are kind of hazy.”
“Oh, that,” I said. “Bethany wanted to talk to me alone. It didn’t take very long.”
“Why alone?”
“I think she didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” I looked down at my boots. “I’m going to be her new research assistant.”
9
When I got to her office Wednesday, Bethany was typing an email. I hovered at the door, queasy with anticipation.
“Come in.” I left the door cracked an inch, as usual, and sat down. She typed for a few more minutes, finished with a flourish, and swiveled to face me. “Now. Let’s talk about your Joyner application. Who are you listing as your other recommenders?”
I was taken aback. So that was how we were playing it. No preliminaries; strictly business. I composed myself and struggled to answer. The question shouldn’t have blindsided me. Of course, I would need three recommenders. Like wishes and celebrity deaths, recommendations always came in threes.
“Rocky is out, for obvious reasons,” she said drily. “Who else are you taking classes from? It’s Margaret, isn’t it?” She made a face, as she always did when she said Margaret’s name.
“Yes, and I’m in Grady Herschel’s class on economimesis.”
“Hmmm.” She thumped the heavy antique bracelet on her wrist against the desktop. “Grady’s good. He’ll be the next chair. You’re doing well in his class?”
“As far as I know.” Grady didn’t seem either to like or dislike me, but I talked in class a moderate amount, getting my comments in early and limiting myself to narrow observations indisputably supported by the text.
“Fine. Margaret’s going to be a little trickier—she loses her best students to me, and I send my worst to her—though she might say it’s the other way around. But we may have had a little luck thrown our way there.”
“Luck?”
“Soo-jeong dropped out.”
“Oh?” I said, confused. I hadn’t spoken to Soo-jeong much since the retreat—she didn’t come to parties—but I had noticed her eyes looked a little red in class from time to time. I’d assumed she was just studying hard, like me. “What happened?”
Bethany waved away my question. “International students never last long,” she said, rather callously. “Anyway, she was Margaret’s research assistant. Margaret’s looking for someone to work ten or fifteen hours a week, digging through archives, that kind of thing. You’re welcome.”
I sat, stunned and deflated. I had been working myself up for the ask all week. With my mom waiting on the money, converting my unpaid relationship with Bethany into a paid one had taken priority even over the Joyner in my mind. Every time I tried to work on the application, I felt a surge of nausea and had to stop to reassure myself that after what had happened between us, Bethany would have to give me the job.
“Oh, I know it’s mindless work. Margaret has an archive fixation. That’s why she has a hard time finding research assistants. But that’s also why it’s perfect for you. You spend all your time at the library anyway. I’ve already sent her an email recommending you for the position, with a note about your personal circumstances. And once she’s come to depend on you, a letter will be—”
“Personal circumstances,” I repeated slowly.
“I shared some of the details from your essay,” she replied. “Mac, it’s okay to admit you need money. Especially now that you’ve quit your job at the restaurant.”
“How—?” But I knew how she knew. The same way she knew where I studied, when I worked, and everything else about me. She knew because Gwen knew. What Gwen knew, Rocky knew; and what Rocky knew, Bethany knew. If I ever wanted proof of a direct pipeline, this was it.
“I wish I could be the one to help you out, really I do. But I’ve already hired a new research assistant.” She looked at me pointedly. “I’m sure you agree we already spend plenty of time together. I would hate for you to tire of me.”
I took a deep breath. “You already hired a research assistant.”
“Why, yes. I believe you know him, he’s in your year. Connor?”
I nodded dumbly.
“He’s wonderful in my class. I felt so dismal about that seminar at first, but Connor really brings it to life. He is consistently a bright spot in my day. That’s the kind of positive energy I need to surround myself with. It takes so much out of me, working on a new book. Oh!” There was a noise from her computer, and she turned toward the monitor. “Look, Margaret has already responded. She says you can start tomorrow. You’re cc’d on this thread, of course. So is Lorraine. She should have the work-study papers ready to pick up in the department by this afternoon.”
There was nothing to say. “Thank you.”
“The job pays twelve dollars an hour. Not bad for sitting in the library.”
“I said, thank you.”
She shot me a look. “Don’t act so glum, Mac. You wouldn’t have wanted me for your boss. I’m very temperamental. Anyway, Margaret’s the department chair. This is a good relationship to cultivate. We bend the rules for those who help us out of a jam. And I happen to know she has a lot of trouble with her printer.” She laughed easily at her own joke. “But seriously. You could do more than one person a favor, working for Margaret. It can be useful, having access to those files.”
So, I would be a spy, as well as a drudge. Terrific. “Maybe I’d better report to her immediately.” I reached for my bag, barely able to contain my anger.
Bethany seemed disconcerted, though it was hard to tell whether it was sincere or part of the performance. I had the absurd feeling I was being punished, though for what, I couldn’t imagine. “Don’t go, Mac. We’ve barely gotten started. I know you’re disappointed, but you’ll see. I was only trying to help.”
This was her way of helping. After Saturday night.
I stood and started to walk out. Then I stopped, turned, and squared my shoulders. “You want to help?”
She rose out of her rolling chair. “Please. Tell me what I can do.”
“I need six hundred dollars. I can pay it back after my first paycheck. But I need it now.”
“Ah.” She stood stock-still on her high-heeled boots. Her voice when she spoke next was dry as a bone. “You were hoping for an advance.”
“I didn’t quit my job at Nona, Bethany. I got fired because I overslept Sunday morning and missed my shift. I can’t think what could have caused that, can you? I’m always so punctual.”
There was a breathless silence.
“I needed that job, Bethany. Because of personal circumstances.”
She studied my face, her jaw locked tight.
“So, you can see how six hundred dollars would really help me out.”
Blackmail had not been my plan when I walked into Bethany’s office. But being sloughed off on Margaret had filled me with righteous rage. Bethany was trying to get rid of me, get rid of the evidence of her wrongdoing. She had slept with me in violation of department policy, Title IX, marriage vows, and common decency. The recorder app was on right now. With just a little more evidence, I could sue her, or at least get her in serious trouble.
But I wasn’t ready for that. Was I?
Bethany sighed with slumped shoulders, looking drained and defeated.
“Of course, Mac,” she said softly. “I understand. I’m just happy you came to me.” She reached for her black leather satchel and scrounged clumsily in the inner flap, finally pulling out her wallet. “I have two hundred on me. Will this do for now? I can go by an ATM and give you the rest tomorrow.”
I took the stack of twenties she handed me, feeling a twinge of uncertainty at the touch of the crisp, recently withdrawn bills, so different from the overhandled money I was used to getting in tips. Suddenly I felt weaker. I didn’t want to meet her eyes, in case she was looking at me with pity. “Thank you.”
“How about I take you out somewhere tonight?” she said in the same quiet tone. “We can meet for dinner and I’ll give you the rest.”
“Tomorrow’s fine. Just leave it in my mail folder.”
“All right. Whatever you say. But don’t forget to ask Grady and Margaret for those letters. And, Mac—”
“What?”
“Why don’t you bring in a draft of your statement of purpose next week. I’ll be so interested to see your project.”
I pocketed the bills without answering and walked out. Bethany knew I had no project. We both knew I needed her to come up with one and tell me exactly how to describe it for the Joyner committee. Her parting words weren’t even a challenge—she knew I couldn’t rise to the occasion.
They were an invitation. She wanted to see me again, and soon.
* * *
I walked over to the chair’s office for the paperwork.
Lorraine was typing at her desk in the reception area outside Margaret’s office. The door was cracked open, and I thought I heard Tess’s voice inside.
“Oh, Mac, Margaret mentioned you might stop by.” Lorraine reached for a stack of papers on the corner of her desk. “This is the work-study packet. Fill in your information and hand it off to the folks downstairs . . .”
From inside Margaret’s office, I heard a raised voice. It was Tess saying, “What do you mean, anonymous?”
Lorraine cleared her throat. “She’ll give you the payroll form, and once you fill that out, you’ll drop off a copy here and walk the original down to payroll in the admin building, along with your W-9 and direct deposit form.”
Tess again: “—implying what I think you’re implying? Because if you are—” The voices grew louder, Margaret and Tess talking over one another.
“Make two copies of the completed paperwork for department payroll, get Ann to stamp them, and then drop one stamped copy back here . . .”
A chair scraped backward. A hand slammed down on a desk.
Lorraine got up quickly and shut Margaret’s door. Then she sat back down at her desk, her smile wilted. “And then it’s just a matter of running one last copy over to the division office for their files—and you’re all set.”
I took the papers, still looking at the door.
Lorraine glared protectively. “I’ll tell Margaret you dropped by.”
Through the closed door, Margaret’s voice boomed: “I will not be spoken to like this!”
I caught Lorraine’s expression and hurried out. Tess could take care of herself, I thought uncertainly.
My first step should have been to initiate the daunting payroll procedure, but between the mysterious altercation in Margaret’s office and Bethany’s loan burning a hole in my pocket, I couldn’t stand to be in this building another second. If I hurried, there was enough time to make it to the Parlor, where Connor and Gwen and the rest of the team would be gearing up for Trivia Night. I needed a break from professors.
* * *
I had never seen a professor in the Parlor, a campus bar as dark as if its walls were painted black instead of grimed over and ballpoint-graffitied to near-blackness. The air was humid with the sweat of students who’d stopped in to say hi and then quickly become too inebriated to leave, and stale with their beer-breathed laughter. The single pool table was an island of green surrounded by mountains of shadow; a few antiquated arcade consoles flickered from the room’s murky perimeter. Everything smelled like Velveeta and Wonder Bread fried in margarine, the approximation of grilled cheese the Parlor served on paper plates for a dollar apiece to avoid charges of deliberately contributing to liver damage in the student population. Other than this sandwich, the only thing the Parlor served was beer—no hard liquor and no wine. It was a carb palace where students collectively packed on pounds against the cold and huddled together to hide from advisers, library fines, and the massive debt they were accruing in pursuit of misery.
If the Parlor reminded me a little too much of the strip-mall bars back home, there was something reassuringly gothic about its location. Mabie Hall was one of the oldest buildings on campus. Its high turret was occupied by a physics professor who had invented something nuclear in the ’60s and been rewarded with the entire tower for his office, where he lived out his remaining years, it was said, smoking cigars and masturbating the guilt away. It was a building that seemed to endorse this kind of behavior among hardworking academics, and thus a natural home for the Parlor.
Tonight Connor’s too-brilliant ascot bloomed in the middle of it like a flower in a dung heap, a vivid splash of color visible from all the way across the pub. Bright spot, indeed. I had come to the bar hurt by what seemed like a betrayal—he had, after all, snagged the job I wanted—but found my pique melting away almost immediately. When he spotted me approaching the booth, he lifted his face toward the faux Tiffany hanging light, pressed his long hands together in front of his nose, and said fervently, “Hallelujah. There is a God.”
This was an even warmer reception than I had expected, but looking around the booth I could see why. The trivia team was missing a member; the booth held Letty, Morgan, and Aggressively Bland Matt, but Gwen was nowhere to be seen. “We were desperate,” Connor said. “I thought I was going to have to ask the Bird.” He gestured toward the bar, where the balding eighth-year was nursing a beer, uncharacteristically alone. “And since he hit on Morgan rather obnoxiously at my party, he is not high on my list.”
“Where’s Gwen?” I said, waving at the others as I scooted in next to Connor on the bench.
“It seems like that’s all we ever say to each other these days,” Connor said sadly. “I miss you, Mac.”
“Is it my sparkling personality or my swanlike grace?”
“It’s that you don’t care what people say about you,” he said seriously.
“Why, what do they say?” I said, to cover my confusion. If there was anyone who cared what people thought, it was me. All I did, every moment, was try to figure out which Mac they wanted to see so I could supply them with a reasonable facsimile.
He tapped his fingertips together and waggled his eyebrows. “That you’re ruthless.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I thought of how Gwen had lied to my face about Rocky, and Bethany’s plot against them both. It seemed to me that I was surrounded by people who had grown up playing a game—say, pool, I thought, looking over at the table—and I had just picked up the cue for the very first time and was chalking the tip when they turned out the lights and declared we would all be playing in the dark. “Who says that? What does that even mean?”
“That you’ll stop at nothing to get what you want, I suppose.”
“And what do I want?”
“I wish I knew, sweetie,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze. “I would give it to you in a heartbeat.”
I bumped his shoulder with mine. “I missed you, too.”
Just then a microphone screeched. “Welcome to Trivia Night finals,” said the announcer over the PA. “Shit, I spilled my beer.”
“Another round before they start?” I said. Connor and Matt raised their glasses. “I’ll get a pitcher.” I rose and felt Bethany’s stiff twenties crinkle on my right hip. Ruthless. If that was really what people were saying, I could afford to spend one of the bills on the cheapest form of goodwill. I crossed the floor, which increased in stickiness as I neared the bar, and lea
ned forward between two empty stools.
“Hello, Beauty Queen,” a voice said in my ear.
I jumped, but it was only the Bird, who had slithered into an empty chair to my right. His breath reeked of beer, like everyone’s in this place, and his eyes were bloodshot in a bloated face. I shifted my elbow away from his instinctively.
“I can’t say I see it,” he said with a squint of his watery eyes. “But I suppose irony is its own form of beauty.”
“What, did you read my essay, too?” I said. “Seems like it’s making the rounds.”
“I read all the essays. That was my email you sent it to. I am—was—Bethany’s research assistant.” He took an aggressive swallow of beer.
I vaguely remembered the unusual address. “You’re Quib N. Burhan?” I said skeptically, remembering the joke name he gave me at the party the first time we met.
He straightened. “That’s Q. ibn Burhan, to you. The ‘Q’ is for Qassim. But the people have spoken, and they prefer ‘Bird.’ ” He chuckled unpleasantly. “Anyway, it captures my essence, don’t you think? Just like Beauty Queen captures yours.” He looked me up and down. “On the inside, at least.” He raised his beer and coughed.
I looked anxiously at the bartender, but she appeared to be closing out a handful of tabs for a noisy party near the end of the bar. I racked my brain for something to say to Bird. Then it occurred to me that if Gwen had a project for the Joyner, she might have mentioned it in her impersonal essay. “Did you read Gwendolyn Whitney’s? What was it like?”
He shrugged. “Typical ass-kissing.” There was another microphone screech from the PA, and Bird said, “Look, don’t feel bad about taking my spot.”
“I don’t,” I said, thinking he meant his spot at the bar.
“Really. You look like a nice beauty queen, and I would hate for you to be all broken up about something like me being out of a job.”
“Job?”
“Bethany’s research assistant. The job I got in return for being such a trouper. The one assurance I had that even a mess like me could get my shit together eventually, because of”—he drew himself up to his full, admittedly not very impressive seated height—“my promise.”