Office Hours
Katrina Jackson
FALL SEMESTER
1.
September
Deja Evans glanced from the watch on her wrist, to the line ahead of her, to her phone and back, impatience oozing from every pore. She was in a rush. She was always in a rush when she was on campus, which meant that of course the campus coffee shop, Go Brews!, had a line out the door. And as always happened, that line was moving at the speed of glacial thaw one hundred and fifty years ago.
She’d just taught her last class of the day, “Introduction to World Cultures,” which was also her largest class of the semester and her worst in terms of student participation. For a torturous fifty-five minutes, 105 students sat in their seats at her with blank, bored or quizzical looks on their faces while she lectured. The only signs of life were when she changed the slide on her PowerPoint and they wrote down what she’d typed, but nothing she said. The more innovative students up front, however, couldn’t even give her that. She changed slides and they rotated their cell phones for a picture and then promptly turned to stare out of the window.
It was a demoralizing way to spend almost an hour three days a week. All of the jokes Deja had to try and lighten the mood and engage them in discussion bombed spectacularly, she always seemed to be half a lecture behind the syllabus and she was already on the lookout for as many extra credit opportunities as possible because close to a third of the class had failed the midterm. She hated “Intro” most of all and she just wanted to go home, lick her wounds and slip into her baggiest sweatpants like she usually did on Mondays and Wednesdays.
Deja loved scheduled and she wanted to keep up with her regular sad evening routine of puttering around her apartment, thinking intensely about working on one of the many articles she’d half written and then giving up to pour a glass of wine and watch an hour (or more) of reality television instead. Then she’d cap it all off by convincing herself that a gluten free frozen pizza was a healthy dinner before falling asleep tired and sad.
Unfortunately, the monthly Faculty Senate meeting were preempting her regularly scheduled pitiful plans. She wasn’t exactly sure how she’d gotten roped into being on this committee, but it was almost certainly a byproduct of her advisors’ advice before she went on the job market. It was rare these days to get a tenure-track position on the first try, but Deja had, and she knew how lucky she was. She also knew that a terrifying amount of her job security depended on making sure that her colleagues liked her. She loaded up on service assignments and the large intro courses no one else liked to teach, and ran herself ragged trying to prove herself as a “good colleague,” even though she wasn’t entirely certain what that meant; especially not what it meant for her senior colleagues to be “good colleagues” to her. But still, she went to nearly every departmental event, listened intently during faculty meetings and contributed thoughtfully – but always deferentially – because she wanted them to like her and feel certain that she didn’t plan to challenge departmental hierarchy.
And what had all that good behavior gotten her? After two years, she’d gained all her colleagues’ vaguely condescending respect, developed regular bouts of stress-induced insomnia, she had perpetually dry, itchy eyes and a worried optometrist, but not a single new publication on her curriculum vitae. But the cherry on top of all that wasted time was that Deja’s third-year review was looming. At the beginning of the next academic year she’d have to submit her portfolio for review and anything less than glowing reports from her department might jeopardize her chances of getting an affirmative tenure vote at the end of her seven-year probationary period.
She understood it in concept, but she’d only just now come to appreciate that the tenure track was akin to a rain cloud hanging over her head for nearly a decade and it was currently spitting down on her like a torrent. No matter what she did, what she hadn’t done and couldn’t do mattered so much more.
“Next.”
Deja’s mind had started to drift away into the familiar and very personal bubble of self-pity where she lived more often than not, and she didn’t hear when the cashier called out the first time. When they yelled for the next customer again, Deja started and smiled awkwardly at the cashier who smiled back, even though it didn’t reach his eyes.
She ordered her latte with an extra shot and then moved quickly toward the pick-up counter. The line was almost spilling out into the student union lobby. Deja pressed herself against a wall, doing her best not to contribute to obvious fire hazard. She fantasized about sitting on her couch and eating a frozen pizza – even her fantasies were pathetic – and hoped above all else that none of her students noticed her.
“Doc,” someone called from across the cafeteria, cutting into Deja’s distracted thoughts.
Deja recognized that voice and she wasn’t surprised that the person it belonged to had been able to spot her all the way across the lobby or that he’d yelled so loudly. She pretended not to hear that voice and stared at the kids behind the pick-up counter, willing whoever was making her drink to make it faster.
“Doc,” the voice called again, closer this time.
Deja was considering abandoning her coffee and rushing to her office to grab a free cup there – even though the coffee in her building was terrible – when something brushed her left forearm. She jumped and turned toward that touch and her mouth fell open.
She knew it was him, with barely a glimpse of his suited chest.
Dr. Alejandro Mendoza.
As far as Deja was concerned, Dr. Mendoza was the best dressed faculty member on campus. She always marveled at how put together he looked no matter the time of day or season or even when he was walking across campus between classes. He looked like a dapper runway model instead of a History professor at a mid-tier university in the Midwest.
Deja’s eyes traveled up his body, appreciating his tweed earth-toned vest over his denim button up shirt and dark blue tie. She gulped as his Adam’s apple bobbed and his mouth seemed to curve into a smile. Her eyes skimmed over his nose and then she met his eyes and found him staring at her with a playful smile on his face.
In Deja’s mind the entire world slowed to a snail’s pace as she catalogued every millisecond of this moment, like she’d done so many times before. It was kind of sad, but Deja thought it was possible that staring at Alejandro was the only time her brain stopped running stress laps. She let herself just enjoy how gorgeous he was and how warm she felt when he sometimes looked at her this way; as if the two of them were sharing…something, even though they were really just ships passing in the sea.
Time sped up as Dr. Mendoza and Dr. Sheila Meyer, chair of the Department of History, stepped into the coffee shop line. Dr. Meyer was speaking excitedly to Alejandro and if she noticed that h didn’t seem to be paying close attention, it didn’t stop her. Just like the fact that it was untoward to stare didn’t stop Deja from doing just that. She angled her head so that she could watch him out of the corner of her eyes, hoping she wasn’t being as obvious as she felt.
“Doc, there you are,” the voice said from right next to Deja.
When Deja turned, she came face to chest with her favorite but neediest advisee, Jerome Miles.
“I was calling your name, Doc.”
She sighed, “My name’s not ‘Doc,’ Jerome. You know this,” she said for the hundredth time since she’d been assigned as his academic advisor.
“Deja,” another voice called from the pick-up counter. This student, though said her name like “dee-jay” instead of “day-juh.” She sighed again.
“What’s up Jerome?” she asked over her shoulder as she grabbed her coffee from the pick-up counter.
He followed her and snatched a few napkins from the dispenser and hand
ed them to her. She didn’t need napkins, but she accepted and slipped them into her shoulder bag, nonetheless.
“I need some help,” Jerome said.
Deja steered him to the small counter with sugar and creamer. “Help with what?” she asked and tore open a sugar packet. She dumped it into her drink but then remembered that the Faculty Senate meeting was two and a half hours and ripped open another.
“Okay,” Jerome started, “so my Stats professor, Dr. Rincorn, is trying to get me to switch my major, but I really like Sociology and I like you.” He paused to give her his best grin, a move she’d come to expect when he asked her for any kind of advice – which classes to take, which professors were best, her thoughts on his research projects and morning versus evening courses. Deja assumed that he’d learned as a kid that the right smile could get him nearly anything he wanted because they accentuated his big cheeks and dimpled. She just bet the move worked like a charm on his mother. Deja, however, was not his mother so she shifted her weight onto her other foot and frowned at him.
“You know I love stats, right?” he asked.
Deja quirked an eyebrow at him. Jerome loved every class, every subject, every professor. He was naturally inquisitive and enthusiastic. There was a reason he was her favorite advisee. But she knew where this conversation was going, because they’d been here plenty of times before.
“What do you think about me double majoring in Sociology and Statistics?” he asked.
Deja stirred her drink, replaced the lid and straightened her back as she looked up at Jerome, because he was nearly half a foot taller than her. She took a deep breath to settle her thoughts, and her eyes wandered around his broad shoulder to Alejandro and Sheila in line.
As soon as her gaze settled on his profile, Alejandro’s head tilted slightly, and his eyes found hers. He nodded at whatever Sheila was saying, but his eyes bore into Deja’s, making her body warm all over. She imagined that she saw some new warmth in his eyes – maybe even a naked desire that mirrored her own. Big mistake. She ducked her head to look at her toes in her favorite pointed booties and tried to get herself together.
A few seconds passed before she licked her lips and looked back up at Jerome. “J, you’re in my office every other week talking about a second major. If you want to do it, bite the bullet and choose one.”
“I know,” he whined, “but which one?”
Deja took in a large gulp of air and then let it out because they’d had this conversation at least once a semester in the past year and a half. She liked him, she wanted to help him, but she wasn’t his mother and she wouldn’t make this decision for him; she couldn’t. So instead, she gave him an annoyed look and he smiled sheepishly at her, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Deja took a sip of her coffee and then checked her watch. She still had twenty minutes before the Senate meeting started. That was technically more than enough time to walk across the North Oval, but the competition for seats on the highest tier of the auditorium was fierce because it was the perfect location for bored faculty to open their laptops and grade student work or mess around on the internet without being observed, which was exactly why Deja liked to sit there. If she wanted to get a good seat, then she really only had fifteen minutes max before they were gone.
“I’ve got a meeting in five minutes in Founders. Walk with me and make a good case for Stats. Then come to office hours tomorrow to talk more about it.”
“Perfect. You’re the best, Doc.” Jerome nodded excitedly.
There was something about his glee that reminded Deja just how young her students were, which made her heart warm, but also made her feel old as hell.
“I know,” Deja said, lips pursed for a second before widening into a smile.
As she and Jerome left the coffee shop, she turned to look quickly over her shoulder one last time.
Alejandro’s eyebrows rose and the right side of his mouth quirked up in farewell.
2.
In the Founders Hall auditorium, Deja snagged a seat in the uppermost tier, and did a small dance in her chair at that tiny victory before she came back to herself. She covered her outburst by preparing herself for the meeting by organizing her small slice of the long table. First, she made sure that her paper nameplate was clearly visible to the room behind her laptop – “Deja Evans, Sociology” – because if she had to be at this meeting, she needed to make sure it was recorded. Behind her nameplate, she placed the neat stack of issue ballots there so she could snatch them when necessary. At one of her first meetings, she’d accidentally held up ballot collection digging in her bag for the slips of paper. Her body had practically overheated as the entire room had seemed to turn to glare at her with disdain. She never wanted to be that person again.
She pulled her laptop from her bag and placed it on the table next to her cellphone; both muted. She clutched her coffee cup in her left hand, opened her laptop, navigated to the university’s ecampus site and then sighed at her grading options.
With just a few minutes before the meeting started Deja knew she had to make this decision quickly, but she couldn’t fumble it, because if she chose wrong she could deepen her boredom, burn with anger, or sink into despair or be elated, all while trying to pretend to be paying attention to whatever was happening around her.
All university meetings were long, but the Faculty Senate meeting was so long that it felt like a waste to Deja unless she could check something off her to-do list. If she didn’t, she’d stumble out of the auditorium, bleary-eyed and even more depressed about her lack of productivity. Like most of the faculty in the room, Deja felt like she was perpetually drowning beneath all the grading she had to complete by the deadlines she’d created, students expected, and the university mandated. At the top of her list was a batch of essays for her “Race and Ethnicity” graduate course. She’d graded about half of those and the prospect of whittling down that digital pile was attractive. She also had a stack of short quizzes for “Intro to World Cultures” and short essay responses for “Women, Gender and Societies.”
Deja chewed on her bottom lip and considered her options. If she were smart and interested in being kind to her future self, she would choose her graduate essays, but they required a lot of feedback and she worried her constant typing would be a dead giveaway that she wasn’t paying even the slightest bit of attention. Granted, at least half of the room wouldn’t be paying attention either, but decorum required the pretense, so she chose the short essays with a smile. That was her favorite class of the semester anyway.
“Working hard or hardly working.”
Deja looked up from her computer to see one of her best work friends, Toni Ward, walking toward her. Her voice rose over the din of over a hundred faculty members and administrators all trying to find a seat and catch up with one another. Deja wasn’t nearly as bold as her friend, so she waited until Toni fell into the empty seat to her left to reply.
“Why, are you the feds?” she asked with a smile.
This meeting might have been the lowlight of Deja’s month – every month – but at least it gave her an excuse to see her favorite people.
“Girl call me the feds again and I’ll keep this muffin I brought you,” she teased with a wink.
Deja’s eyes widened and she clapped her hands together excitedly. “You brought me a muffin?”
“Chocolate chip,” Toni said smugly as she threw her nameplate carelessly on the table and started digging around in her bag.
Deja snatched the thick cardstock and stood it upright so her name, “Antonia Ward, Political Science,” faced the crowd.
Toni pulled a plastic container from her bag, pulled the lid off and pushed the muffins closer to Deja’s computer.
Deja folded her hands over her chest and smiled at the baked goods with pure joy suffusing her body as she considered which muffin she wanted – which looked best – when someone reached around Toni to snatch the dish by the closest corner and pull it across the table.
“Bless you,” Marie Lau said. Her voice was tired and not just because she was out of breath. Deja watched as she grabbed a muffin and took a large bite, closing her eyes as she chewed.
“Damn girl,” Toni and Deja said at the same time.
Marie ignored them and continued eating her muffin as her face relaxed with serenity and Deja watched her with interest.
Marie’s hair fell around her shoulders in dark brown waves. Her jagged bangs skimmed her eyelashes, impeccably styled as always, but only because getting her hair done was the only luxury she allowed herself or could reasonably afford. From there, Marie was the picture of exhausted, overworked adjunct. There were dry erase smudges on the heels of her hands, her sweater was bunched in the strap of her crossbody bag, and her ugly but comfortable tennis shoes didn’t match her outfit, a faux pas she never would have made normally, but rushing across campus to teach five or six classes a semester mandated comfort over style. All the faculty members on campus were tired, even so early in the semester, but Marie’s – and the other adjuncts’ – exhaustion was always on another level.
Deja wanted to ask if she was okay, but she already knew the answer. The life of an adjunct professor was as unpredictable as it was unappreciated. Marie normally did her best to weather the storm of her more than full load of classes with a smile, but Wednesdays were her longest days this semester and she looked every bit as tired as Deja knew she was. Besides, Marie shouldn’t have had to hide how overworked she was anyway.
“Any word on your application yet?” Deja asked carefully.
Marie shoved the last bite of her muffin into her mouth. Crumbs cascaded down her shirt. “Shit.”
Deja reached into her purse and grabbed the napkins Jerome had given her. She pushed the stack toward Marie and grabbed the plastic container to pick her own muffin. She set her treat on a napkin in front of her, deciding to save it until she needed a mid-meeting sugar rush.
She and Toni waited patiently for Marie to answer Deja’s question.
Office Hours Page 1
