Is it just the usual crush syndrome, or did
anyone see me at the party? I hid my face when I left the booth, and
the whole living room seemed distracted by watching Harper go, anyway
(not that I can blame them). But what if someone saw?
I
clear my throat. “Well,
I had a good reason, I promise. You’ll
all get full credit for your essays once we announce this.”
From there, I launch into a quick explanation of the research
seminar. I don’t
mention Eliot—not
yet. I’m not ready
to let that particular rumor run rampant.
Assuming,
of course, that Harper hasn’t
already spread the news herself. But somehow, I can’t
imagine her doing that.
You
don’t
know her at all, I
remind myself. But I do know that she wants the position herself,
badly. Why tell the other students if it would only motivate them to
work all the harder in competition?
Suddenly,
fear grips me. The Heaney essay, the one I chose. The author went
above and beyond, totally all out. More than you’d
expect any student to do on a paper this early in the term, unless
they were a complete overachiever.
Or,
unless they already knew how much that paper would matter.
Just
like that, I’m sure.
I
finish my explanation about the extra course credits my research aid
will receive, and how great an honor it will be (not to mention that
it will be graduate level work, which any serious poetry students
will love to hear). A good couple dozen students are salivating over
the prospect by the time I finish, even without me explaining what we
think the papers we’ve
found might be.
“I
selected the aid based on the papers you all submitted anonymously.
It seemed the fairest way to me, to ensure that everyone had an equal
chance.” I force
myself to look at my usual suspects, Henry and Jenny, instead of
letting my gaze drift to the distant corner where it longs to dart.
“The
paper I chose delved into not just the surface meaning of Heaney’s
poems, but the deeper themes he wanted to illuminate. Henry, could
you please read the highlighted section?”
I tap a button to ignite the projector, and my laptop’s
home screen fills the page, a scanned PDF copy of the paper I chose
blazing across the screen. The highlighted lines represented the
final page, the thesis of the whole essay. The author would recognize
it at once, I was sure.
My
gaze drifted across the students. Lots of people slumped in their
seats, having realized they weren’t
the authors of the paragraph.
In
the back corner, bulky Modern Poetry guy leans forward to squint at
the screen, blocking my view of Harper. No one seems too excited,
though, as Henry finishes reading aloud the highlighted lines, and
silence descends over the room.
I
clear my throat into that pause. “Would
the author please stand?”
I say, finally, unable to stand the suspense.
My
gut sinks through the floor as Harper’s
now-familiar red-gold head rises above the bulky guy’s
shoulder.
Well,
shit.
Harper
“Thank
you,” I murmur.
“For
what, exactly?”
We’re
standing in the now-empty classroom. At least when I stand a few
levels of seating above him, we’re
at eye level. And too far apart for me to do something stupid like
grab his arm again, like I did outside the library. Idiot, I remind myself, yet
again.
Mary
Kate lingered by the door long enough to mouth, Catch
you later , and now
it’s just me and
him. Me, him, and the looming tension in the room, which I cannot be
imagining.
“For
not just dismissing me outright as an option.”
His
hands clench on the desktop, and his jaw works so strongly I can see
the muscles stand out in his neck, the pinch of his cheek where his
teeth grind at it. “It
wouldn’t have been
fair to disqualify you just because of . . . ”
I
swallow hard. “Well.
Thanks.”
Outside
the door, the halls bustle with life between classes. I should be on
my way to my next class, a seminar on medieval English history (I
needed an elective, so hey, when in
anyone see me at the party? I hid my face when I left the booth, and
the whole living room seemed distracted by watching Harper go, anyway
(not that I can blame them). But what if someone saw?
I
clear my throat. “Well,
I had a good reason, I promise. You’ll
all get full credit for your essays once we announce this.”
From there, I launch into a quick explanation of the research
seminar. I don’t
mention Eliot—not
yet. I’m not ready
to let that particular rumor run rampant.
Assuming,
of course, that Harper hasn’t
already spread the news herself. But somehow, I can’t
imagine her doing that.
You
don’t
know her at all, I
remind myself. But I do know that she wants the position herself,
badly. Why tell the other students if it would only motivate them to
work all the harder in competition?
Suddenly,
fear grips me. The Heaney essay, the one I chose. The author went
above and beyond, totally all out. More than you’d
expect any student to do on a paper this early in the term, unless
they were a complete overachiever.
Or,
unless they already knew how much that paper would matter.
Just
like that, I’m sure.
I
finish my explanation about the extra course credits my research aid
will receive, and how great an honor it will be (not to mention that
it will be graduate level work, which any serious poetry students
will love to hear). A good couple dozen students are salivating over
the prospect by the time I finish, even without me explaining what we
think the papers we’ve
found might be.
“I
selected the aid based on the papers you all submitted anonymously.
It seemed the fairest way to me, to ensure that everyone had an equal
chance.” I force
myself to look at my usual suspects, Henry and Jenny, instead of
letting my gaze drift to the distant corner where it longs to dart.
“The
paper I chose delved into not just the surface meaning of Heaney’s
poems, but the deeper themes he wanted to illuminate. Henry, could
you please read the highlighted section?”
I tap a button to ignite the projector, and my laptop’s
home screen fills the page, a scanned PDF copy of the paper I chose
blazing across the screen. The highlighted lines represented the
final page, the thesis of the whole essay. The author would recognize
it at once, I was sure.
My
gaze drifted across the students. Lots of people slumped in their
seats, having realized they weren’t
the authors of the paragraph.
In
the back corner, bulky Modern Poetry guy leans forward to squint at
the screen, blocking my view of Harper. No one seems too excited,
though, as Henry finishes reading aloud the highlighted lines, and
silence descends over the room.
I
clear my throat into that pause. “Would
the author please stand?”
I say, finally, unable to stand the suspense.
My
gut sinks through the floor as Harper’s
now-familiar red-gold head rises above the bulky guy’s
shoulder.
Well,
shit.
Harper
“Thank
you,” I murmur.
“For
what, exactly?”
We’re
standing in the now-empty classroom. At least when I stand a few
levels of seating above him, we’re
at eye level. And too far apart for me to do something stupid like
grab his arm again, like I did outside the library. Idiot, I remind myself, yet
again.
Mary
Kate lingered by the door long enough to mouth, Catch
you later , and now
it’s just me and
him. Me, him, and the looming tension in the room, which I cannot be
imagining.
“For
not just dismissing me outright as an option.”
His
hands clench on the desktop, and his jaw works so strongly I can see
the muscles stand out in his neck, the pinch of his cheek where his
teeth grind at it. “It
wouldn’t have been
fair to disqualify you just because of . . . ”
I
swallow hard. “Well.
Thanks.”
Outside
the door, the halls bustle with life between classes. I should be on
my way to my next class, a seminar on medieval English history (I
needed an elective, so hey, when in
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