Chapter Text
“What do you mean I’ve been ‘relieved of my teaching duties?’” Ava asks, her voice going a little higher on every word. “That’s, like, half my fucking job here!”
“Dr. Daniels.” The words come with a sigh, and Ava can almost pity the dude, might have were it not her job on the line. “Your salary will remain intact for the one-year term allotted to you for the Avis T. Richardson postdoctoral fellowship. You will simply transition into a research-based fellowship as opposed to a teaching position.”
“But I like teaching. I’m good at teaching!” Her teaching evals had always been a hell of a lot better than the feedback she got from her committee, at least. She’d passed her defense, but a little part of her still wonders if she would have were it not for the pitying looks of everyone staring down their noses at the girl with the dead dad whose mom had shown up and made a huge scene wailing in the hallway over the possibility that Ava had just wasted the last seven years of her life. (Not that Ava’s dissertation wasn’t good. It’s fucking great, if maybe in need a couple edits. Too many people just don’t seem to get the point of it.)
“It’s one year,” Jimmy repeats.
“Oh.” Ava’s brow furrows. “I thought there was an opportunity to turn this into a three-year thing, though.”
The silence on the other end of the line is enough for Ava’s stomach to cramp up.
Ava clears her throat and tries again. “Look, I just, there’s not even a full week left til classes start. What about all the kids that already signed up for my course?”
“The students will be informed of the change to their schedule on Monday. There are plenty of course offerings with seats still available for them to choose from.”
“In what? Renaissance poetry?”
“Dr. Daniels, you may recall that the chair of your department teaches that class, and I would strongly recommend against intentionally alienating her.”
Too fucking late for that one. Ava shudders at the memory of their pre-term faculty meeting. Honestly, though, how was she supposed to know that the chair had been the one to write those stupid proposals about changing the curriculum to include more Shakespeare? “I just…” Ava tries to find the words that will register to HR. “I teach books students might not get to read otherwise. And I think—I think they’re important. They’re worth reading.”
“I can appreciate that, but the fact remains that the university is facing significant pressure to remove you entirely.”
“Oh my god, it was a few tweets! Isn’t there free speech here?”
“Students voiced concerns about their safety in the classroom. UNLV Pride and the LGBTQ Alumni Association both circulated petitions to have you removed, and—”
“I’m not homophobic! I was pointing out the hypocrisy of a university that would—”
“The fact remains—”
“I’m bi! Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Well, Turning Point USA also raised concerns about the threat of violence in some of your other tweets.”
“Against a racist, homophobic dickbag of a senator. Who, btw, can’t get more dead!”
Jimmy lets out a long sigh. “Perhaps the lack of respect for the deceased isn’t the winning argument you think it is.”
Ava groans, dropping her head down to her desk. “There’s really no getting around this?”
“The university is concerned about your lack of supervision in the classroom. Perhaps if you could find a tenured, well-regarded faculty member in the department to co-teach with…”
“Yeah, um, okay. Thanks, I guess.” The possibility of that seems less than zero. Apparently pissing off the chair is a great way to ensure most of the faculty will keep their distance, all of them closing ranks, which is exactly what Ava was talking about in her tweets. Those assholes will do anything they can to protect the system, even when they know one of their own fucked up.
“I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, Dr. Daniels.”
“Yeah, um, anytime.”
“Hopefully not again, though.”
Ava grimaces through her goodbye before throwing her phone onto the couch—one of the only pieces of furniture she’s managed to schlep down to this overpriced rental in the fucking desert—only to have it bounce off and go clattering across the floor.
A drink. She needs a drink.
---
“Using your work email?” Deborah tsks. “You’re forgetting the importance of discretion in all of this,” she whispers, letting her fingertips trail over Marty’s shoulders as she weaves around him and finds a seat at their usual bar.
Marty lets out a low chuckle, pulling back slightly. “Deb, you’re looking lovely as usual.”
Deborah’s eyebrows lift a little, a pleased smile curling up the corners of her mouth as she motions to the bartender. “How’s the new wife?” she asks, like she doesn’t already know the answer, didn't have Marty crawling right back to her bed just last week in the face of yet another twenty-something who failed to satisfy.
“She’s fine.” It’s short and dismissive, and Marty won’t hold her gaze.
Deborah can feel the crease deepening between her eyebrows and takes a deep breath to relax her features. Letting a hand drop to Marty’s thigh, Deborah looks up at him. “I doubt it. I don’t think I’d be here if she were.”
Marty’s fingers curl around her wrist, only to place her hand back in her own lap. Deborah frowns. “This is a big year for you.”
Deborah blinks around the non sequitur. “I suppose.”
“Forty years, Deb.” His mouth splits into a grin she once found charming. “That’s huge.”
“Don’t let that new hire hear you. God knows she’ll tweet about us all gatekeeping her out of the department by not keeling over and dying.”
“She’s quite the spitfire you got yourself.”
“Blame the hiring committee, not me. I’m sure I’ll just get to be a part of cleaning up whatever messes she makes.”
“You’ve had to do that for too long.”
Deborah shrugs. “It’s all part of the job.”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” He pauses as the bartender stops back over with their drinks, and Deborah mutters a quiet, “Thank you,” before taking a large sip she can’t help feeling like she’ll need. “I want to offer you a new position.”
“Really?”
“Professor Emerita.”
Deborah blinks back at him. “Excuse me?”
“Professor Pezzimenti and I both agreed—”
“Professor Pezzimenti? Since when did you two get so formal?”
“Fine.” He lets out an aggrieved sigh. “Jo and I met and agreed that you deserve such an honor.”
“Oh, fuck you. Don’t call it an honor.”
“It is!”
“It’s a pretty bow on you two forcing me into an early retirement is what it is.”
“Forty years, Deb. Most people wouldn’t call that a short career.”
“And when did you and our dear chair meet, hmm?”
Marty clears his throat, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Last week.”
“So before you showed up to my place and—”
“Deb! Deborah.” He lets out one of those low, placating laughs he uses on the worst of the donors, and Deborah can feel her blood boil. “This is a good thing for you.”
“Don’t act like you know anything about my life.”
His mouth draws tight, age lines deepening around the corners. “You’ve been coasting for years.”
“I wish I was coasting! Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to be taken seriously as a woman in this world?” She scoffs. “No, you don’t have a fucking clue.”
“Your female students don’t seem to think you have much of one either.”
“Oh, don’t,” Deborah practically growls. “As if you’re some paragon of feminism just because you gave tenure to the first female professor, then let her suck your—”
“Go read your file, then. Read every complaint we’ve fielded for decades about jokes in bad taste and slides that haven’t been updated since the 90s and clear favoritism in the classroom.”
Deborah shoves her barstool back as she stands, draining the last of her martini. “You will not dictate when I retire.”
He dips his head slightly, and Deborah braces herself for the blow. “Maybe not. But unless you can get enough asses in seats to justify keeping your undergrad class on the roster, consider yourself without teaching duties for the term.”
Deborah grabs her bag, flinging it over her shoulder as she turns on her heels, loudly calling out, “That would be incredibly inappropriate, Dean Ghilain!”
She can just barely make out his voice telling Siri to call Kathryn in HR.