by Susan Ward
One-hundred twenty-seven words. Concise: that’s what my professor wrote above the numerical grade equaling ‘F’. When I asked him why he failed me, he didn’t even respond to me verbally. Beneath the ‘F’ he rapidly scribbled: Sorry, Miss Parker, at Cal we start with following the prompt. Maybe by next Friday you can submit fifteen hundred words on why you’re here.
Why am I here?
Of all the prompts he could have given me, that’s the prompt I can’t answer even after two months in college. Somehow, I managed to turn out something. Fifteen hundred words as required, thankfully canceling my prior ‘F’ grade with a low ‘C’, but it didn’t help clarify a single thing for me.
Why am I here?
As I pull back the heavy door to the lecture room, that familiar question turns into another familiar question: why am I always late?
There is absolutely no way to make a subtle entrance in a lecture hall wearing flip-flops. I cringe as I hear the slap, slap, slap against the floor, and for some reason I always manage to arrive during a moment of quiet and there’s never a seat in the back of the room left for me. Nope, there’s only one in the front, that’s it, within range of Professor Lambert.
Slap, slap, slap. Stare, stare, stare. Glare from Professor Lambert. I sink into my seat. I set my tote on the floor beside me and tuck a stray lock of golden blond hair behind my ear.
The stare doesn’t lift. The silence doesn’t break. Professor Lambert doesn’t like me. I look up and smile at him.
“Good of you to join us, Miss Parker,” he says. “May I continue?”
I smile. I attended high school at a private Catholic boarding school. Like I’m going to fall for that one and answer a sarcastically put rhetorical question. And that’s what it is. If I were stupid enough to answer, the whole thing would just go downhill from here.
I focus on pulling my spiral notebook from my pack. I grab a pen, open to a fresh page, scribble the date, and begin to make little geometric shapes. I tune out the voices in the classroom and focus on the little city I’m inexpertly drawing on the paper where my notes for this class should be.
I wonder where Alan is today…
“Miss Parker!” a voice above me snaps loudly.
I look up to find Professor Lambert hovering over me and all the seats around me vacant. Oh God, what did I miss?
“May I continue, Miss Parker?”
Two ‘may I continues’ in a single day. A new record. I nod and quickly drop my eyes.
“Well?” Harsh. Imperative.
I look back up. Like a flight attendant he holds out his arms pointing at each side of the room. “There are two lines, Miss Parker. You’d know that if you paid attention in class. A little boy line. A little girl line. Please join the appropriate line.”
My cheeks burning, I snap my notebook closed and hurry across the room. Slap, slap, slap. Damn, flip-flops in a silent room again. I take my place at the end of the line.
“There are five solos in the ensemble,” Profession Lambert continues as he slowly walks the room. “They will be handed out based on class participation and exercises, so make sure you’ve all signed up for a lab with Jared and attend. And of course, ability.”
He sinks into a seat in the middle of the lecture hall. “Based on the selection you will sing today—and I do hope you’ve all come to class prepared—I will assign you to groups of four. These will be your permanent group assignment until the end of the semester. No changes will be made. And you will endeavor to master the extremely difficult contrapuntal harmony I will assign, due at the semester end.”
The girl beside me gives me a gentle nudge. “Why does Lambert have such a hard-on for you?” she whispers.
I shrug. If the girl didn’t know the answer to that, then it means she doesn’t know who I’m and doesn’t read the papers. Far be it from me to fill her in.
“I’m Teri,” she says.
“Chrissie.”
“Why don’t you ever talk to anyone?” she inquiries in an overly bright way that tells me this girl is both chatty and friendly. “I never see you talk to anyone.”
I shrug again, and this time Teri frowns. “I’m nervous as hell about this. Lambert can be so rude. What did you prepare?”
Prepare? Oh crap, I must learn to read the syllabi more carefully. I stare at the sheet music Teri is holding: a choral selection. This project requires a choral selection.
I shake my head.
Teri’s brows jerk upward. “You mean you didn’t prepare anything?”
I shake my head, praying Teri will let up on this. Hasn’t she figured out if I answer her verbally, Lambert will take it as an excuse to pounce on me again?
“Do you want to grab something to eat after class?” she continues.
I shake my head.
“Why not?”
I let out a ragged exhale of breath. “I can’t. OK?”
I do an exaggerated shift of my eyes to Professor Lambert and give Teri a heavy, meaningful stare. I can tell by her expression she doesn’t get the warning I’m trying to silently convey, and she sinks against the wall slightly pouty.
Now I feel bad.
“It’s not you, OK?” I whisper.
Teri shrugs.
“I’m almost failing this class. I can’t give Lambert another reason to fail me.”
Teri nods, still awash with sulkiness, and I give up.
I move along the wall, leaning and waiting for my turn to sing. There are penalties for not paying attention in class. If I’d listened the last two months I would have known I’d be required to have something prepared for today. And if I’d paid attention earlier, I could have gotten in line first and been out the door like the other students already finished performing. Now I have to listen to all of my classmates sing.
At the front of the line I smile at Jared, Professor Lambert’s graduate teaching assistant, waiting on the piano bench for the next victim. Jared has been sort of nice to me this semester and probably would be much nicer if Lambert’s dislike of me wasn’t so obvious.
Jared looks at the sheet Teri holds out, opens the music book and then hits the metronome, allowing Teri a few ticks before he begins to play. I listen patiently, chiding myself to smile at her, even though her singing is only average and not very good. She’s a nice girl though, she did try to befriend me, and I’m sure I came off snotty and weird.
She waits looking very nervous now that the performance has ended. I nod to assure Teri it went well as we wait for Professor Lambert’s critique.
Lambert looks over his glasses at her, pauses, and then announces, “Well done.”
Teri beams and rushes off toward her chair as I approach the piano. Jared looks at me expectantly, raising a brow. “Did you forget your music?” he asks a hint of dread in his voice as if he’s already anticipating how badly this will go for me.
I nod.
“Is there a problem, Miss Parker? Why does that not surprise me?” Professor Lambert asks heavily exasperated.
The classroom is nearly empty, there’s just Lambert, Jared, and Teri in the large hall, but my cheeks color hotly with the same burning intensity they would if it were a full class here.
Jared starts to rummage through loose sheets. “I’m assuming you can read music.”
I nod. Of course, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to enter a music program and not be able to read music. I’m a complete failure at the college thing, but I’m not stupid.
I take the sheet to the music stand, and I’m relieved to discover Jared picked a simple choral piece not from the book. Jared hits the metronome, but there’s something in that tick, tick, tick that just isn’t working for me. I look out at Lambert. “Must I have the metronome? It’s distracting.”
Lambert makes an exaggerated wave of his arm. “Stop the metronome, Jared. We don’t want Miss Parker distracted here!”
He says that with just the right amount of criticism and, as I wait for Jared to stop the ticking and prepare to play, I admit that
at least that one was fair. I have been, if nothing else, distracted my first semester here. It’s not easy to carry on with your life in focus when you’re trying to recover from a broken heart.
I shake my head, trying to push Alan from my thoughts. He didn’t mean to break my heart. I broke it for him. I’m the one who walked away. It doesn’t matter that a part of me didn’t believe that we would really be over, even though he said we would be. It doesn’t matter that a part of me never expected him to marry someone else so quickly. None of that matters now. Alan is married, and I’m at Berkeley.
I struggle through the selection, not from a lack of ability to wing it, but because the rising emotion inside of me caused by the thought of Alan just won’t calm.
When I finish I’m grateful it’s over and I lean clutching the music stand. At least it wasn’t awful. It was in tune, the pitch was good, and the timing was perfect. It definitely wasn’t glaringly more terrible than any of the other performances I’ve heard today.
I wait in the silent hall as Lambert jots down more notes on his paperwork. “You need to sing more from your diaphragm,” he says finally. “Make sure you do breathing exercises during your lab with Jared.”
That’s it? Not bad, not good, just something I already know. When I’m tense I never sing well from my diaphragm.
I hurry back to my seat and start to collect my belongings. Teri rushes across the room to my chair. “Crap, you were really good,” she exclaims enthusiastically. “Where did you study voice?”
That question confirms she doesn’t know anything about my personal history. I continue to collect my things, pulling out my midterm paper from my backpack. “I’ve never studied voice. I’m a cellist. I wouldn’t be in this class if I didn’t need it to fill out my graduation requirements.”
Teri’s eyes round. “But you’re good. Really good. You have an awesome voice. Do you want to go grab something to eat?”
“I can’t,” I say, a little more friendly. “I want to talk to Professor Lambert.”
“I can wait,” she assures, eager and hopeful.
“I’m meeting someone after class, but maybe tomorrow. OK?” I take out a pen and hold out my hand for her notebook. “I can give you my number. Maybe we can have coffee, study, or something?”
Teri smiles. “OK. Tomorrow. Cool.”
I wait until Teri and Jared are gone from the hall. I approach Professor Lambert’s desk. He doesn’t look up and I wait quietly, patiently for him to acknowledge me.
With irritatingly slow movements of pen, he finishes whatever it is he’s writing, and then leans back in his chair, causing it to squeak as he stares up at me. “Is there something you wanted, Miss Parker?”
I swallow hard, hugging my books more closely to me as I meet his cold stare. I lay my midterm on his desk. “Yes. I want to know why you failed my paper.”
He lifts the paper. He gives it a short scan. “Were my comments not specific enough?”
I flush. “Yes, they were very clear. I followed the prompt. Why did you give me an F?”
“Did you understand the assignment?”
I feel a rush of cold across my skin followed by heat. “I think so. You wanted a paper on contemporary music influences that will have lasting impact on music theory and composition. Ten thousand words. Provide two examples. Explain how their influence will change music. The examples you provided were Bach and Bob Dylan.”
I watch the smile slowly claim his lips. Its affect is the opposite.
“Yes. You did understand,” he says in a tired, exasperated way. “You provided me ten thousand words on a little known band from Seattle and the British hard rock band Blackpoll.” A long pause. The silence in the room is suddenly smothering. At last, “Interesting choice. You would have at least gotten a C if you had taken the predictable way out and written about your father.”
That was said just plain mean and insulting. I fight back tears. “I thought the purpose of this assignment was to defend my premise. Not to have you like it.”
Lambert looks down. “It would have been encouraging if you had taken this assignment seriously.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I thought I did. “Can I submit another paper?”
“There are no do-overs, Miss Parker. You’re in college now.”
I stare at him. Finally he looks up. I fight to meet his gaze. “Why do you dislike me so much?” I say in an embarrassingly thin voice.
His gaze falls away; he slouches over his desk and starts writing again. “It’s not you. It’s the idea of you,” he says with harsh indifference.
My cheeks burn. “What does that mean?”
He leans back in his chair again. “Every year I see a dozen incoming freshman exactly like you. Rich, privileged, taking up seats they don’t really want that could go to students who have worked hard and want to be here. You’re at University California, Berkeley and you act like it is an inconvenience to be here! You take up space and by the end of the year…” his eyes round harshly beneath his thick brows. “…you will be gone.”
The emotion shoots through my veins all at once. My insides are shaking. “I’m here to get a degree in music. I want to teach music to children in the inner cities.”
“How Berkeley politically correct of you. I’d feel better if I believed you.” I watch as he fixes his focus back on his work. “I’ve seen the newspapers,” he continues, not bothering even to look at me. “Your father is a great man. He stands for something. What a disappointment you must be to him.”
I can’t believe he just said that. I can no longer prevent the shaking from being visible on my body. Even if I could think of a suitable comeback, I could never have gotten the words out of me. My throat is clogged with tears.
I head toward the door.
“Prove me wrong, Miss Parker. Figure out why you’re here, and then make the most of it,” Professor Lambert calls out and I continue out of the classroom.
I let the heavy wood door slam behind me. Running down the hall I crash into a janitor, who steadies me with quick hands, and sets me safely back onto my feet again. Without a word to him, I race out of the building.
I find vacant my favorite spot with a view of the Berkeley Campanelli: the giant concrete slabs with the sculpture of bears atop them in a grassy and shaded area of the campus. I sink down, curl into a ball hugging my knees, and fight to stop the tears.
I can’t believe I chose this over marrying Alan…
“Here, you look like you could use this,” says a quiet, male voice above me.
I look up only far enough to see the carry-size pack of tissue held out to me in long, tan fingers. I take one and anxiously dab at my tears. On the concrete walkway below there’s a pair of some kind of work shoe and dark blue pant legs that look like they belong to a jump suit or something. Oh God, it’s the janitor I barreled into. How humiliating is this? To be the girl alone on a concrete slab, crying, and being consoled by the janitor.
I don’t look up, praying he’ll go away.
“Can I sit on your bench?” he asks politely.
“It’s not my bench and it’s a free country.”
I cringe. That sounded childish and snooty. No wonder I haven’t made a single friend here.
“I’m sorry,” I add.
“No problem. You’re upset. I get it. I just want to eat my lunch. No harm. No foul.”
He makes a small laugh over his own comments. I avoid looking straight at him, inhale another sniffle, and touch my nose with the tissue.
“Thank you. You’ve been very nice,” I whisper.
He settles near me, copying my posture; feet on bench, his legs bent, and facing me.
“You know, Lambert will only bully you if you let him,” he advises kindly. “And he only bullies the students he thinks have potential.”
How would you know? You’re the janitor, I say to myself, and then, “Thanks. I’ll try to remember that. He doesn’t hate me. I have potential.”
He laughs
and, from a pack on the ground, he takes a brown lunch bag and sets it beside him. So he really did just come out here to eat his lunch. The janitor suddenly popping up here has nothing to do with the sorry sight I must have been running out of Lambert’s classroom. A small measure of calm returns to me.
“Rough year?” He’s carefully unwrapping some kind of minimart precooked burrito thing.
Jeez, is he going to eat that cold?
He holds it out to me. “Do you want a bite? It isn’t as terrible as it looks.”
I start to laugh, even though I really don’t want to. “Thanks, but no thanks!”
“Come on. What’s not to love? Week old beans. Week old rice and I’m not even sure what the sauce is. Be bold. Be brave. Eat a minimart burrito from yesterday.”
OK, that was funny. I look at him then, locking onto his green eyes. There’s a really sweet, teasing glint in them. His eyes are large, brightly colored, and filled with a smile. Shoulder length blond-streaked brown hair peeks out from beneath an army green bandana and the face of the janitor is tanned, really good looking…and really familiar.
Why does it feel like I know him?
“Are you homesick? Is that why you mope around campus all day?”
I lift my chin. “I don’t mope. And how would you know what I do all day?”
He takes the keys hanging from his belt and shakes them. “There’s not much to do when you push a broom in the music department except listen and watch everything.” He takes a bite of his burrito. “You have Lambert’s class from 10 until 11. You sit on this bench until noon. You have a practice room from 1 until 2. You sit on this bench until 3. You have your lab with Jared the TA—who’s hot for you, would really like to date you, and is afraid to ask—that’s at 3:30. And then sometimes you do another hour in a practice room, but most of the time you disappear from campus. You’re back at 7 for symphony. That’s your Tuesday/Thursday schedule.”
My eyes round and I tense. Jeez, maybe he’s not just the janitor. Maybe he’s a stalker or something.
“How do you know all that?” I ask anxiously.
