By the Book

by Julia Sonneborn

“Thank you so much for your books,” I said. “I just got them this morning—I’m really touched.”

  “Oh—don’t mention it,” Rick said, shrugging. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to sign them for you.”

  “That’s OK. You look like you’ve been busy.”

  “Let’s just say it’s been interesting. I’ve been getting a lot of interview requests from the local media. It’s like they’ve never met a writer before.”

  “You’re a celebrity!” I said. “Usually no one pays attention to what we do here.” It was true. The last time a television crew had appeared on campus, it was to cover a norovirus outbreak in one of the dormitories.

  “You’ll get a kick out of this—President Martinez sent me a welcome note along with a huge gift basket,” Rick said. “I’m sure it killed him to do it.”

  “He’s probably hoping you’ll stay at Fairfax. It’s great publicity for the school to have you here.”

  “If he wants to offer me a permanent job, I’ll take it!”

  Two pretty undergrads approached Rick, giggling and blushing. “Oh my God! It’s Professor Chasen!” they tittered. “Can we get a selfie with you?”

  “Of course,” he said. “But please—call me Rick.” The girls hopped around him like little sparrows as he stood up.

  “I can take the picture,” I said, taking the phone and waiting for them to arrange themselves, one on either side of Rick. He patiently humored them, even agreeing to sign a copy of his book for one of the girl’s mothers.

  After they left, I said, “You were so nice about that. How do you do it?”

  “It’s no big deal,” he said, laughing easily. “Besides, I doubt either of them has actually read my damn book.” From time to time, another student or colleague passed by to wish him welcome and congratulations, and Rick responded in his warm and easygoing way each time. It was hard not to be charmed.

  “I’m so sorry about all the interruptions,” he said after the latest well-wisher had left. He pulled a large stack of paper from his leather bag and, with a sigh, placed it on the bench beside him.

  “What’s all that?” I asked.

  “I’ve got to read through almost a hundred writing samples to pick the fifteen students who will be in my fiction workshop,” he groaned. “It’s daft! I’ve never had so many students apply to get into my class!”

  “I told you—you’re famous!”

  I’d heard my students gossiping about Rick. All of them wanted to get into his workshop. He was a distinguished writer, sure, but more importantly, he was considered incredibly sexy and cool. He dressed in vintage jeans and rode a motorcycle, and he asked the students to call him Rick, not Professor Chasen. Already, he seemed to have a constant trail of female admirers following him across campus.

  “I wish I were a little less famous,” Rick said. “You try reading bloody awful student writing for hours on end.”

  “I already do,” I laughed. “I read badly written essays all the time!”

  “This is worse,” Rick grumbled. “It’s student fiction. I would much rather read a crap essay on Wordsworth than a crap short story.”

  “What’s the difference?” I asked. “Bad writing is bad writing.”

  “No, it’s not,” Rick said. “Not when the bad writing is about dorm sex or getting high or being anorexic.”

  “But aren’t you supposed to write what you know?” I asked. “Isn’t that the first thing you learn in Creative Writing 101?”

  “If that’s the case, the students need to get more interesting lives,” Rick said, sighing. “Or maybe I’m being an old sod. I guess I forget what it’s like to be eighteen.”

  He jammed the stack of papers back into his bag. “Pop over for a drink tonight?”

  “Sure,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. He leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek, his lips brushing tantalizingly close to mine. I watched him stride off, his bag slung casually over his shoulder. And I wasn’t the only one watching. I saw several pairs of eyes follow him as he crossed the patio and duck out a side entrance. A few minutes later, a motorcycle started up and roared away.

  *

  THEY SAY TEACHERS SHOULDN’T play favorites with their students, just like parents shouldn’t play favorites with their kids, but every teacher I knew had a pet, and Emily Young was definitely mine. She was tall, athletic, and long-limbed, and cocaptain of the tennis team. How she went to practice and traveled to matches while still doing all her homework and getting straight As, I had no idea. She never asked for an extension, never asked for special accommodations. Since switching her major to English in her sophomore year, she’d taken every class I offered.

  I found her waiting for me outside of my office, dressed in her tennis whites, a huge bag of rackets beside her.

  “How are you doing?” I asked, giving her a hug and letting her into my office.

  “I’m good,” she said, smiling shyly. “I just submitted my application for Richard Chasen’s fiction workshop this morning.”

  “How funny—I just bumped into him at the student center. You never told me you wrote fiction!”

  “Oh, it’s just something I do for fun,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I probably won’t get in, anyway, but I figured it’s the opportunity of a lifetime and I might as well try.”

  “Don’t say that! You shouldn’t sell yourself short.”

  “I know,” Emily laughed, “but there are people who are practically camped out in front of his office begging to be let in. I heard one girl submitted an entire novel as her writing sample!”

  Poor Rick, I thought.

  “How’s tennis going?” I asked as Emily set down her tennis bag in the corner. “Didn’t you just have a big tournament?”

  “Yeah—we were in San Diego last week and we leave tonight for Ojai.” She lowered her voice slightly. “Did you know President Martinez sometimes practices with us?”

  “Really?” I said. I had no idea Adam even played tennis.

  “He’s pretty good. He practices with this blond woman—she’s an administrator, I think. It’s sort of crazy, though, to see the president on the court serving and stuff.”

  “Yeah, that’s crazy,” I said, smiling weakly.

  Pulling a folder out of her bag, Emily said, “So I was thinking of applying to grad school . . .”

  “Don’t do it,” I said, cutting her off. “Don’t ruin your life.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her mouth open in surprise. I could see her glancing at the framed diplomas on my office wall and the bookcases filled with books.

  “You don’t want this. Trust me.” Even I was surprised at how vehement I sounded.

  “But this is exactly what I want to do!” Emily protested. “I’d love to read and write about books for the rest of my life. I can’t imagine anything better, honestly.”

  I softened in spite of myself. I couldn’t help it—Emily reminded me so much of myself at that age.

  “Grad school’s a slog,” I said to Emily, trying my best to temper her optimism. “You’ll spend all your time in the library.”

  “I love the library.”

  “And there’s zero job security. Take me, for example—I’m not even sure if I’ll be employed next year.”

  “I’m willing to take my chances.”

  “And I don’t know if you have a significant other, but you’ll have to think of the future. Do you want to settle down? Do you want to have kids?”

  “I’m not dating anyone, thank God.”

  I paused, flummoxed. How could I explain to her that this—this office filled with books, this job at Fairfax, this life of the mind—had cost me more than I’d ever expected? I hadn’t dated anyone in years, my student debt was the size of a mortgage, and my job could easily be eliminated at a moment’s notice.

  I thought back to my own adviser, Dr. Russell, and how she’d tried to warn me of the rigors of the profession. She’d never displayed any interest in where I was from, what e
xtracurriculars I pursued, whether I was going home for the holidays or working retail over the summer. Our relationship was strictly academic. What was my contribution to the existing critical literature? When was I submitting my next draft? How was I refining my bibliography? My senior thesis was about women and courtship in nineteenth-century novels, and we’d never actually talked about women or courtship as they pertained to me. Instead, it was all abstract analysis about virtue and modesty and regulating women’s desire.

  So it was with something akin to shame that I finally admitted to her that I had a boyfriend and was considering my graduate school options based on their geographic proximity to San Francisco, where Adam had decided to take a job in consulting to help pay off his student loans. Even now, I could remember the disgust that settled in the corners of her mouth.

  “How old are you, Anne?” Dr. Russell asked me.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Ah. Twenty-one.” She looked at me appraisingly. “When I was twenty-one, I was married and pregnant. By twenty-three, I was divorced with a toddler. Still, I managed to finish my undergraduate degree at a local college and then to enter graduate school at Yale, where all my classmates were single men who had maids clean their rooms and cook their meals so they could focus on their studies. Meanwhile, I was working two jobs and taking care of my son while still managing to graduate at the top of my class.”

  “That must have been hard,” I said lamely.

  “You have no idea. When I think of the advantages women of your generation have had—the opportunities, the privileges—I don’t understand why you would throw all of it away. What do you want, Anne? Do you want to be married and have babies?”

  “Ye-e-s, I think so?”

  “You think so? With this boyfriend of yours?”

  “Yes. We’re planning to get married. It’s serious.”

  “Serious? I see. Are you serious about your graduate studies? Are you serious about attaining your doctorate? Are you serious about the level of sacrifice it entails, the long hours in the library, the trips to archives and conferences, the job insecurity, the total personal investment you must make if this is your vocation?”

  “Yes, I do know. My boyfriend—Adam, that’s his name—he’s very supportive.”

  “How supportive will he be if your job takes you to various remote college towns? Or if you must meet a deadline and can’t have dinner ready on the table? Or what if you have a child? Will you drop out of your program and be content to be a housewife or a kindergarten teacher?” The way Professor Russell said “housewife” and “kindergarten teacher” made it clear how dimly she considered these positions.

  “But you made it work,” I said.

  “I didn’t have a husband to accommodate. I had a son, who had no choice but to go along with what I deemed best. Your boyfriend wants you to move wherever he ends up. Not because it’s the best decision for you but because it’s the best decision for him. What will you do if, heaven forbid, he breaks up with you? You’ll be stuck in a graduate program that isn’t a good fit, you will have wasted your time and your talents, you will have wasted my time and my investment in you.”

  “That’s not— He wouldn’t— You misunderstand—”

  “This boyfriend, you believe he loves you?” Professor Russell asked bluntly.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Then he should want what is best for you. I firmly believe you should go to Yale—it’s where I was trained, and it’s an excellent program, and you’ve been accepted, which is no small feat. This boyfriend, if he loves you, should allow you to fulfill your intellectual potential. If he doesn’t want that for you, he is not the right man. California is not Mars. There are planes, you know. You can still visit one another.”

  Why was I following Adam around? I remember asking myself. Was I worried he’d cheat on me? Was I too weak to take care of myself? The thought of being separated from him by several thousand miles filled me with dread—but why?

  Afterwards, when I’d told Adam about my conversation with Professor Russell, he quietly asked me, “Do you want to go to Yale?”

  “It’s a great program,” I remember mumbling. “And the funding package is super generous, and Professor Russell thinks it would be a perfect fit. I don’t want to disappoint her. But then again, who cares, right? It’s my life, and I want to be with you.”

  “You will be with me. Don’t worry about that. But I don’t want you to turn down a great opportunity just because we’d be long-distance. You’re too smart—you can’t waste your talents. I agree with Professor Russell. You should go to Yale, and we will make it work.”

  At the time, I’d nearly wept with relief. I wouldn’t have to go against Professor Russell’s wishes, and I wouldn’t have to lose Adam. I could have a fulfilling professional life and a fulfilling personal life. I could have it all.

  Looking at Emily now, I couldn’t bear to tell her how thoroughly I’d been deceived. Dr. Russell had known, deep down, that I’d eventually have to choose. That a life of the mind required the denial of other desires.

  “Don’t end up like me,” I wanted to tell Emily. Not because I didn’t want her to be a professor, but because I didn’t want her to end up alone.

  *

  THAT EVENING, I HEADED to Rick’s house. He lived on the other side of campus, on a shaded eucalyptus-lined street where a lot of longtime professors lived. The home owner, a member of the philosophy department, was on sabbatical for the year and had been so delighted by the prospect of having a prize-winning writer as a tenant that he gave Rick a discount on the rent and even threw in the use of his car, a maroon Subaru Outback.

  Rick had left the side gate unlocked for me, and I pushed it open, stepping over some mossy bricks and a big hydrangea bush.

  “I’m back here!” I heard him yell. The path led to a detached guesthouse with French doors open to let in the breeze. Rick was sitting on a lawn chair outside, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer.

  “Hey—thanks for coming,” he said, looking me up and down appreciatively. I’d changed into a summery wrap dress and sandals and pulled my hair out of its usual ponytail.

  “You look nice with your hair down,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, blushing at the unexpected compliment.

  He left to grab me a drink from inside the house. I looked around his backyard. It was lush and green, planted thickly with flowering bushes, a large jacaranda tree dropping its purple blossoms on the grass. A small wooden fountain burbled in one corner, surrounded by a couple of stone frogs and a bunny rabbit.

  “Like the wishing well?” Rick asked when he reappeared, catching me looking at the fountain. “There’s a gnome around here somewhere.” He handed me a bottle of beer. “Here,” he said. “Hope this is OK with you.”

  “This is great,” I said. It felt good to drink a cold beer on the warm autumn evening.

  Rick stretched out in his chair and ran his hand through his thick hair. He was wearing faded jeans and an old T-shirt. “Hope you don’t mind if I smoke,” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m trying to quit,” Rick confessed. “I hadn’t had a cigarette all summer, but then I saw the local bodega carried my favorite brand”—he pointed to a nearly empty box of Export As next to his ashtray—“and I caved. I figured after the week I had . . .” He trailed off and then ruefully laughed. “Listen to me trying to rationalize it. I don’t even sound convincing to myself.”

  “How’s it going with the student submissions?” I asked. “Have you figured out who you’re letting in?”

  “Christ, no,” he groaned. “Each one’s worse than the one before. I think I’ve gotten through half, maybe.”

  “My student Emily Young is trying to get into your workshop. Did you get to her application yet?”

  “Emily Young, Emily Young—honestly, I don’t remember. You like her, though? She’s a good student?”

  “The very best. She’s a great kid.”
r />   “Then she’s in!” Rick said, snapping his fingers. “Easiest decision ever. Thanks for helping me out.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I laughed. “You aren’t just going to let her in without reading her material, are you?”

  “Why not? I trust your judgment. If you like her, she must be great. Case closed.”

  “Promise me you’ll at least read her sample,” I begged.

  “If you insist,” Rick sighed. “You really want to punish me, don’t you? Making me read all these bloody awful stories.”

  “Come on,” I teased him. “They can’t be that bad. Give me an example.”

  “Well, there was the creative writing exercise some guy submitted, written from the point of view of a teenage girl. Except he couldn’t stop describing his own breasts. He actually called them ‘fun bags.’ ”

  “Stop. You’re kidding.”

  “You think that’s bad? Then there were the various stories about someone—friend, relative, pet, you name it—dying of some disease or being hit by a car. One student described his granddad dying of ‘amonia.’ A-M-O-N-I-A. Amonia.”

  I shook my head. “You’re just making this up,” I said, laughing.

  “I wish I were,” Rick said. “And then there are the run-of-the-mill college hookup stories. Boy meets girl at frat party. They get drunk. They get high. They shag. They cheat on each other. They have a messy breakup. Et cetera. What a load of crap.”

  I nodded. I could only imagine what kind of wincingly bad story I would’ve written had I been in Rick’s creative writing class as an undergrad. His cigarette resting between his fingers, he looked totally at ease, his thick blond hair falling over his forehead and his brow furrowed as he regaled me with stories—everything from his meeting with the Dalai Lama (“a tiny old man, but with a great sense of humor”), to his account of visiting Mandela’s jail cell on Robben Island, to harrowing tales of how he’d once gone undercover to chase a story during the Iraq War and had nearly been captured and beheaded.

  “These kids today haven’t experienced anything,” he was saying. “They’re coddled nitwits. What do they call them again? Millennials.”