collars—she must be hunting them down at vintage stores.
“The only thing worse than the way some professors dress,” she said, “is the way some students dress.”
I looked up to see what had provoked such an emphatic sneer.
Standing just outside the doorway and peering in was a young woman in a black miniskirt with chain trim, a black jean jacket, and Doc Martens. Her hair was precisely the shade of the red in her red-and-black-checked stockings—in other words, a color never found on human heads without chemical assistance.
“Yo?” I said. It wasn’t a vain attempt at street cred—Yo was her name, short for Yolanda. She was a graduate student in anthropology I’d met during the fall semester when I’d needed somebody to examine Sid’s bones.
She was looking considerably less frazzled than the last time I’d seen her, which I calculated to mean that she’d nearly finished her dissertation but was still in rewrites. I’d been around enough grad students to be able to make fairly fine distinctions with a high degree of accuracy.
“Hey, Georgia.” She came in and looked around the room with a disdainful expression surprisingly similar to Sara’s. “So this is your office.”
“Mine and many others’. Welcome to the adjunct corral—our home away from home.”
“Yeah, right. Look, can I pick your brain about something?”
“Sure.”
She looked around the office. “Maybe somewhere more private?”
“I was going to get lunch anyway. Hamburger Haven?”
“Suits me.”
I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed the look of disappointment on Sara’s face when I gathered up my belongings without saying anything else to Yo, but I really did.
After we got our burgers, fries, and sodas from the counter, we found a table in the corner where we could talk without being overheard.
Once my burger had been enhanced appropriately with mustard, I said, “So what can I do for you?”
“What do you know about grants for attending conferences?”
“I know that most of us would give our eyeteeth for one, but they’re getting harder and harder to land. I hope this means you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“You tell me.” She reached into her backpack and handed me a piece of paper to read.
Dear Ms. Jacobs,
The Sandra Sechrest Foundation has funding available for graduate students to attend academic conferences as part of their academic growth and to facilitate their search for employment. If you would like to meet and discuss this opportunity, and whether or not you are eligible, please call this phone number.
Best regards,
Ethan Frisenda
“Have you ever heard of the Sechrest Foundation?” Yo asked.
“No, but if it’s for forensic anthropology grad students, I wouldn’t have.”
“It’s not. Some buds of mine got the same letter. One was in history, one in women’s studies, and another in English.”
“Did you Google them?”
She gave me a look that plainly said,
If I could have found out what I need by Googling, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you
. “They have a site, but there’s nothing there but the same kind of spiel as in this letter.”
“Sorry, Yo. I’ve never heard anything about this. It sounds kind of hinky to me.”
“Yeah, my spider sense went off, too, but I was hoping I was wrong. There’s a couple of conferences coming up where I could do some serious networking, maybe get a job nailed down right away so I don’t end up in that corral where you have to hang out. No offense.”
“None taken. If I could swing a tenure job, I’d be on it like white on rice.”
“But you don’t think this is legit?”
“I think it’s a case of the old saying ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.’ Though it probably wouldn’t hurt to make the call, see what they say.”
She shrugged and shoved the letter back into her backpack. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help. I’ll ask around back at the corral, see if anybody else
“The only thing worse than the way some professors dress,” she said, “is the way some students dress.”
I looked up to see what had provoked such an emphatic sneer.
Standing just outside the doorway and peering in was a young woman in a black miniskirt with chain trim, a black jean jacket, and Doc Martens. Her hair was precisely the shade of the red in her red-and-black-checked stockings—in other words, a color never found on human heads without chemical assistance.
“Yo?” I said. It wasn’t a vain attempt at street cred—Yo was her name, short for Yolanda. She was a graduate student in anthropology I’d met during the fall semester when I’d needed somebody to examine Sid’s bones.
She was looking considerably less frazzled than the last time I’d seen her, which I calculated to mean that she’d nearly finished her dissertation but was still in rewrites. I’d been around enough grad students to be able to make fairly fine distinctions with a high degree of accuracy.
“Hey, Georgia.” She came in and looked around the room with a disdainful expression surprisingly similar to Sara’s. “So this is your office.”
“Mine and many others’. Welcome to the adjunct corral—our home away from home.”
“Yeah, right. Look, can I pick your brain about something?”
“Sure.”
She looked around the office. “Maybe somewhere more private?”
“I was going to get lunch anyway. Hamburger Haven?”
“Suits me.”
I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed the look of disappointment on Sara’s face when I gathered up my belongings without saying anything else to Yo, but I really did.
After we got our burgers, fries, and sodas from the counter, we found a table in the corner where we could talk without being overheard.
Once my burger had been enhanced appropriately with mustard, I said, “So what can I do for you?”
“What do you know about grants for attending conferences?”
“I know that most of us would give our eyeteeth for one, but they’re getting harder and harder to land. I hope this means you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“You tell me.” She reached into her backpack and handed me a piece of paper to read.
Dear Ms. Jacobs,
The Sandra Sechrest Foundation has funding available for graduate students to attend academic conferences as part of their academic growth and to facilitate their search for employment. If you would like to meet and discuss this opportunity, and whether or not you are eligible, please call this phone number.
Best regards,
Ethan Frisenda
“Have you ever heard of the Sechrest Foundation?” Yo asked.
“No, but if it’s for forensic anthropology grad students, I wouldn’t have.”
“It’s not. Some buds of mine got the same letter. One was in history, one in women’s studies, and another in English.”
“Did you Google them?”
She gave me a look that plainly said,
If I could have found out what I need by Googling, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you
. “They have a site, but there’s nothing there but the same kind of spiel as in this letter.”
“Sorry, Yo. I’ve never heard anything about this. It sounds kind of hinky to me.”
“Yeah, my spider sense went off, too, but I was hoping I was wrong. There’s a couple of conferences coming up where I could do some serious networking, maybe get a job nailed down right away so I don’t end up in that corral where you have to hang out. No offense.”
“None taken. If I could swing a tenure job, I’d be on it like white on rice.”
“But you don’t think this is legit?”
“I think it’s a case of the old saying ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.’ Though it probably wouldn’t hurt to make the call, see what they say.”
She shrugged and shoved the letter back into her backpack. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help. I’ll ask around back at the corral, see if anybody else
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