rise of the front of his hair. “Or you got a sort-of job? That sounds like the kind of job you’d get.”
“It’s a real job,” I said but then remembered how Dr. Emmet had given me something to do only after she’d gone pale and teary. “I think.”
“She’s hot, right? Your professor?”
“She’s—” In my desk drawer, under the photo I wasn’t allowed to put up, I also stored the beginnings of another project, a secret one: a file on Dr. Emmet’s shooting. I knew all the facts by rote, but sometimes the articles I’d collected seemed to call me from their folder, like they had more to tell me or something to ask. I lived in the city of Capone, of Dillinger, of Richard Speck’s eight nurses, of John Wayne Gacy’s murdering men and boys and second life as a professional clown—of Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb’s murder of a little boy, just to see what murder felt like. If I wanted to know what violence was made of, I’d come to the right place.
Dr. Emmet’s hair, when she walked past me into her office, smelled like the beach. Coconut, maybe, and some kind of flower that didn’t grow anywhere near here. It was probably just her shampoo, but I wondered how much of it was her skin.
“She’s hot, or your face wouldn’t be Rothbert red. You going to get an A-plus in socializing with the teacher?”
“Sociology, not socializing,” I said. Kendall got a lot of things half-right, but he got my program completely wrong.
My dad always got my program wrong, too. He got me wrong. He worked as a factory mechanic and couldn’t understand why I needed another degree. Why couldn’t I stop studying and get a job, he asked. How was I supposed to explain to him that even after this degree, all I would ever do was study? That any job I’d get would be a job studying ?
“Calm down, egghead,” Kendall said. “It was a joke. I meant, do you think she’ll want to tutor you? You know, on the side?”
I ignored the nudge-nudge in his voice. “Dr. Emmet is a truly fascinating scholar in my field. I’d be lucky—”
“Emmet?” He gaped at me in the mirror. “Are you serious?” He jumped for the backpack on his bed and pulled out a balled-up newspaper. “Do you mean her?”
He flattened the newspaper against himself and turned the front page toward me. Amelia Emmet, PhD, had made it back on the front pages, and this time simply for showing up to work. I took the paper from Kendall and studied the photo. Dr. Emmet, her weight shifted onto her cane, coming up the walk to Dale Hall. By the look on her face, the paparazzo—if you could call a photojournalism student shooting for the Rothbert Reader that—had surprised her. She looked fierce. She looked good.
“That’s her, right? Sheesh, what are you thinking ? People get shot around her, dude.”
“She’s the one who got shot.”
“And that student,” he said. “Do you want to be next?”
“Did you even read the story?” But I knew how wrong and biased some of the stories had been. When Kendall reached for the paper, I held it away from him.
“He’s dead. What else do you need to know? You dig that kind of stuff,” Kendall said, waving his hand at my now-empty half of the bulletin board. “But you don’t want to be the guy leaking brains from your ears, am I right?”
“Violence is a really interesting sociological—”
“Forget what I said about after-hours tutoring, kid,” he said. “Do not park in the handicapped zone, if you know what I’m saying.”
And this was what my problem really was. I opened my mouth to tell Kendall how offended I was by his ableist joke, how wrong he was about the facts of the case, and what an absolute shit he was to call me a kid when I was three years older. Except all the thoughts pinged around my brain without anything falling into the right slot. Kendall shook his head and, taking a last look at himself in the mirror, left me gaping like a fish on land.
I waited for a while to make
“It’s a real job,” I said but then remembered how Dr. Emmet had given me something to do only after she’d gone pale and teary. “I think.”
“She’s hot, right? Your professor?”
“She’s—” In my desk drawer, under the photo I wasn’t allowed to put up, I also stored the beginnings of another project, a secret one: a file on Dr. Emmet’s shooting. I knew all the facts by rote, but sometimes the articles I’d collected seemed to call me from their folder, like they had more to tell me or something to ask. I lived in the city of Capone, of Dillinger, of Richard Speck’s eight nurses, of John Wayne Gacy’s murdering men and boys and second life as a professional clown—of Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb’s murder of a little boy, just to see what murder felt like. If I wanted to know what violence was made of, I’d come to the right place.
Dr. Emmet’s hair, when she walked past me into her office, smelled like the beach. Coconut, maybe, and some kind of flower that didn’t grow anywhere near here. It was probably just her shampoo, but I wondered how much of it was her skin.
“She’s hot, or your face wouldn’t be Rothbert red. You going to get an A-plus in socializing with the teacher?”
“Sociology, not socializing,” I said. Kendall got a lot of things half-right, but he got my program completely wrong.
My dad always got my program wrong, too. He got me wrong. He worked as a factory mechanic and couldn’t understand why I needed another degree. Why couldn’t I stop studying and get a job, he asked. How was I supposed to explain to him that even after this degree, all I would ever do was study? That any job I’d get would be a job studying ?
“Calm down, egghead,” Kendall said. “It was a joke. I meant, do you think she’ll want to tutor you? You know, on the side?”
I ignored the nudge-nudge in his voice. “Dr. Emmet is a truly fascinating scholar in my field. I’d be lucky—”
“Emmet?” He gaped at me in the mirror. “Are you serious?” He jumped for the backpack on his bed and pulled out a balled-up newspaper. “Do you mean her?”
He flattened the newspaper against himself and turned the front page toward me. Amelia Emmet, PhD, had made it back on the front pages, and this time simply for showing up to work. I took the paper from Kendall and studied the photo. Dr. Emmet, her weight shifted onto her cane, coming up the walk to Dale Hall. By the look on her face, the paparazzo—if you could call a photojournalism student shooting for the Rothbert Reader that—had surprised her. She looked fierce. She looked good.
“That’s her, right? Sheesh, what are you thinking ? People get shot around her, dude.”
“She’s the one who got shot.”
“And that student,” he said. “Do you want to be next?”
“Did you even read the story?” But I knew how wrong and biased some of the stories had been. When Kendall reached for the paper, I held it away from him.
“He’s dead. What else do you need to know? You dig that kind of stuff,” Kendall said, waving his hand at my now-empty half of the bulletin board. “But you don’t want to be the guy leaking brains from your ears, am I right?”
“Violence is a really interesting sociological—”
“Forget what I said about after-hours tutoring, kid,” he said. “Do not park in the handicapped zone, if you know what I’m saying.”
And this was what my problem really was. I opened my mouth to tell Kendall how offended I was by his ableist joke, how wrong he was about the facts of the case, and what an absolute shit he was to call me a kid when I was three years older. Except all the thoughts pinged around my brain without anything falling into the right slot. Kendall shook his head and, taking a last look at himself in the mirror, left me gaping like a fish on land.
I waited for a while to make
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