Stay Up With Me by Tom Barbash Read Free Book Online Page B

I’d changed her grade, again while I was reading in bed. I had on my pajamas and a robe.
    â€œWhat the hell was that for?” she said, which is a fairly inappropriate way to talk to your professor. “I didn’t deserve an A.”
    She was out of breath and jittery. My son was working late at the newspaper.
    â€œI’d rather not have this conversation in my bedroom if that’s okay, and anyhow I thought you said you deserved an A?”
    â€œI deserved an A minus,” she said. “I only want what I deserve.”
    â€œYou’re getting an A.”
    â€œThere were no comments on it.”
    I noticed that one of her bottom teeth was chipped, her eyes moist and reddened. I wondered about her mental health.
    â€œYour grade was my comment,” I said.
    She shook her head in disgust.
    â€œThat’s so typical of you.”
    â€œWhat do you know about me? How do you know what’s typical?” I tried to relax my face; to understand that the world didn’t need to fall apart, but it felt like it was, all my rage and sadness surrounding the divorce, and my problems at the college, and the neighbors had converged within me. “None of this is typical .”
    She was too close to me right then. I wanted her to leave. I wanted my son to get back home.
    â€œI bet I remind you of her,” she said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œWhy did she leave you anyhow?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    She smiled cruelly. “I bet I know.”
    â€œI’d rather not hear your theories, Ms. Weisman. They’re not original enough, and in fact I’d rather if you didn’t continue to live here with us. This isn’t how I’d like to live.”
    â€œSuch passion. Such unbridled warmth .”
    â€œI’ve got a lot of warmth for those in my life who merit it, but I’ve really had enough of this if that’s okay with you.”
    She looked angry, and then sad.
    â€œYou know, Mr. Singh . . . I really don’t like it when you ignore me in class. It’s very cruel. And it’s really not fair. I’m a good student, one of your best. I tried for two years to get into your course, you know. It isn’t fair to ignore me.”
    â€œDid you write it?” I asked. “Tell me the truth.”
    â€œWho cares?”
    â€œI do for one. The university does for another. You know you can get kicked out for something like this.”
    She shook her head in exasperation.
    â€œOf course I wrote it. He never even read it. He just made a big deal about it because he wanted you to take an interest.”
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    We didn’t see Rachel for two weeks after that, not at home anyhow. She sat in the back of class and never raised her hand. She did all the work, and she left immediately afterward. She and Rajiv were in a holding pattern for now, trying to figure out what was next.
    He didn’t hold me responsible, he said. They had their own issues. I felt as though I’d destroyed something, but at the same time I felt as though a burden had been lifted.
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    A week before the end of school the dean—the one I’d imagined Rachel speaking to—stopped into my office to say that Rachel Weisman was going back to California. She wanted to send her final paper in from there. And she would do any homework I requested but her father had died, and she wanted to be with her mother, the dean said. Her father’s health had been deteriorating for a long time. He’d had two strokes, the last one incapacitating. He’d been a sculptor and photographer, and they’d had a rocky relationship. This last part Rajiv told me.
    â€œShe will have the whole summer as her deadline,” I said, and the dean nodded grimly, and somewhat paternally. I wondered if he had more to say, but he didn’t and without further incident took his leave.
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    That night as I parked my car and sat outside my house, I thought about how