Fall Semester by Stephanie Fournet Read Free Book Online Page A

faculty.
    “Dr. Russo, Dr. St. Marks, what do you think?” Her eyes were pleading, and each professor relaxed a little to have this chance to speak and bring an end to the matter.
    Russo was diplomatic.
    “Go with Barnes & Noble. If the publicity turns out not to be worth it, we can change venues down the road.”
    “It will be worth it,” Dr. St. Marks piped in. “You won’t have to change venues.”
    “Dr. Vashal,” Jess Dalton turned to Malcolm. “What do you think?” At first Malcolm was surprised to be asked before MacIntosh. He hadn’t read in three semesters. But then he understood Dalton’s motives. Malcolm was one of the few faculty members who secretly applauded the irreverent commentary that made up Shat. Dalton must have sensed his support.
    Malcolm ached suddenly to shame the boy, to tell him that people would not always find him cute and amusing, that sooner or later he would have to play the game.
    “Barnes & Noble. It’s the only choice. If you can’t write with a few restrictions, you can’t write at all.” Malcolm watched the student’s handsome face steel itself. The room grew quiet. “But you can. And no one’s telling you not to bring a few issues of Shat with you.”
    Dalton and others laughed. Avery called for a vote. Dalton nodded to Malcolm in appraisal and then shifted his gaze up to Maren who still stood in the doorway.
    Malcolm looked from the brash, handsome upstart to the lithe, serene beauty across from him. He wanted to roll his eyes.
    Oh, you’d just love to, wouldn’t you, Dalton?
    With the reading issue resolved, the meeting seemed to lose momentum. It was Friday afternoon, and it was too hot for softball, a favorite pre-Bisbano’s pastime for English grads. This would mean that the drinking could commence at once.
    “Maren, are you coming?” Helene asked as students and professors left their seats and gathered papers, glasses, cigarettes. Malcolm glanced at the girl in question, aware that Dalton was watching her, too.
    “Yeah, for a little while.” She looked him in the eye. “What about you, Dr. Vashal?”
    Malcolm wasn’t sure who was more stunned, Helene and Dalton or himself. Their combined horror almost made him want to go. But he had other matters to attend to.
    “Not this time,” Malcolm declined with a nod towards Maren. “It’s going to be a working weekend for me.” He regretted the words as soon as they had left his lips.
    “Aah, what have you got on the burner, Malcolm?” Rainey crowded the doorway with his approach, amusement dancing on his loaf of a face. “Another article or a manuscript at last?”
    Malcolm loathed him. He could scarcely contain the vitriol that followed on the heels of his shame.
    “It’s a project that I am not at liberty to discuss at present,” he said slowly, coolly. “Subsidiary rights and all. Perhaps you understand.”
    Rainey didn’t miss the jab.
    “Of course, of course. It’s always trouble when you are dealing with someone else’s creative work,” he leveled as he passed through the door. He meant it to be a low blow, but Malcolm girded himself against it. Rainey had no clue what he did or how he did it. No clue what it meant to take a poem or a story and give it a new language. It was like killing something beautiful and hoping you could bring it back to life. It was like fucking voodoo, and where did Rainey get off implying that he—
    Malcolm caught himself scowling. Helene, Dalton, and Maren were still next to him, although they were caught up in the awkward pantomime of gathering their things, eyes downcast.
    Malcolm stalked off back to his office. The empty box still sat on his desk. The firearm still waited in his trunk. He checked his watch. The bank was a lost hope. It would have to be the office, even though he couldn’t help but envision some kind of debacle that would end with his picture on CNN.
    He carried the box down the south stairs and out to his car. Although there were still