Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Brenda adjusts her glasses and clears her throat.
And then I know. I know.
The unthinkable is happening.
Oh.
My.
God.
I don’t have much experience with failure, but I can sure as hell recognize it when it’s staring me in the face.
“They’re denying my tenure bid,” I say, my voice somewhere between a whisper and a rasp.
She nods, looking genuinely regretful. “I asked to be allowed to tell you in private, rather than the standard practice of the decision being announced in front of the entire board.”
I manage a tiny nod of acknowledgment for her thoughtfulness, but it’s hard to feel much more than a flicker of appreciation. Private rejection is still rejection.
And it hurts so badly I can’t breathe.
Through a fog of confusion and disbelief, I’m dimly aware that Brenda is talking. Explaining. I know that I should care about the why. So I try to focus as she goes on and on about misplaced priorities and my public persona being a distraction from the department’s pursuit of science. Something about me getting special permission for a sabbatical. But it all sounds like static. Unbelievable, unthinkable bullshit static.
“Miranda?” she says after she finishes her explanation and I say nothing. “Are you alright?”
I’m proud of myself then, because instead of giving in to the urge to cry, I merely lift an eyebrow. What do you think, Brenda?
She clasps her hands in front of her, and I’m slightly gratified to see that for the first time in our acquaintance, she looks uncomfortable. “It goes without saying that we hope you’ll consider our offer to go on academic leave, and then come back as a lecturer. You’re incredibly talented in the classroom, Miranda. That part was never in question.”
I finally find my voice, and I’m relieved that it’s stronger than it was a few minutes ago when I’d uttered the unimaginable They’re denying my tenure bid.
“I appreciate that. I’ll think it over.”
Immediately, something deep inside me rebels at the very thought of considering their tepid offer of lecturer, much less accepting it, but I try to remind myself that good decisions are rarely made in the heat of the moment.
Brenda studies me for a minute, and then, thankfully, seems to sense that I want to be alone, because she nods and leaves, closing my door quietly behind her.
I lose track of how long I just sit, trying to sort through thoughts that refuse to be sorted.
Finally, I reach for the note tucked into the flowers from my family. I pull the card out of its tiny envelope and, using the pen the university gave me on my one-year anniversary of being a professor, scratch out the word Congratulations.
In its place, I write Condolences.
I very carefully, and precisely, tuck the card back into its spot.
And then, in a gesture that feels both petty and deeply satisfying…
I toss the pen in the trash.
APRIL
I’m not going to say that twinkle lights and wine can fix all the world’s problems, but the combination can certainly help a little.
Four days after my career imploded, I’m indulging in a beloved ritual: Friday wine-and-cheese night with my best friend and my elderly aunt. It’s not an every-week thing, but the three of us try to get together at least once a month. I always look forward to the gatherings, but tonight I’m feeling extra grateful to be in one of my favorite spots in the world: curled up in one of my aunt’s patio chairs, surrounded by the white twinkle lights that she keeps up year-round to add what she calls dazzle to the ivy climbing up her latticework.
Throw in the fact that my aunt lives in part of an actual castle, and it’s hard not to feel like I’ve just been transported to someplace downright magical.
If I believed in magic, of course.
Which, as a physicist, I cannot.
Paterno Castle is nestled in Hudson Heights, right along the Hudson River on the Jersey side. Lillian’s townhouse, charmingly called Cottage One (there are four in total on the southern part of the estate), is a relatively quick cab ride from my own apartment on the Nova campus.
“Okay, here we go,” Daphne says as she finds whatever app she’s been looking for on her phone. She places it screen-up in front of me. “When you’re ready, just hit this record button and repeat word for word what exactly these morons said to you.”
“Oh, sure, I’ll get right on that,” I mutter into my wine. “Can’t wait to relive the worst moment of my life in excruciating detail.”
“Well, see, I need specific details on what happened for when I cast my revenge spell,” Daphne explains with a completely straight face.
I lift an eyebrow. “You still in your witchy phase?”
“Being a witch is not a phase,” she explains patiently. “It’s a calling.”
Lillian nods solemnly in agreement, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. Last October, we’d gone out to dinner and the hostess had complimented my aunt on her witch costume, to which Lillian had replied that a black cape was only a costume when worn by a child. On a grown woman it was a statement.