Given Our History by Kristyn J. Miller (Excerpt)

CHAPTER 1

PRESENT

A shadow shifts behind the fogged glass and the door opens with a click. Julien’s bald head materializes in the gap. “Come in, come in,” he says, stepping aside to let me through. “You’ll have to excuse the mess.”

He shuts the door behind me. The mess in question isn’t much of a mess at all—just a couple of half-empty boxes and a desk strewn with papers. Balanced on top of a stack of manila folders is a placard that reads JULIEN ZABINI—CHAIR, HISTORY DEPARTMENT. The stench of hot tar drifts through the open window. They started the remodel on the social sciences building today and the roof tiling comes first, because it’s the only thing everyone could agree upon. Every step of the approval process has come down to a game of bureaucratic tug-of-war between university donors, the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, and the Board of Directors. Anyone and everyone with a long enough track record and deep enough pockets.

“Have a seat,” Julien says, waving at the straight-backed wooden chair parked in front of his desk. He wanders over to the bar cart by the window, where a set of etched crystal tumblers glisten in the bronzy afternoon sun. It’s the last week of summer; the fall semester starts Monday. “Scotch?”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he says with an incline of his head. “So long as you don’t mind—”

“Not at all.” I’m used to this little exchange. Julien did his undergrad at University of Edinburgh, where he picked up a handful of habits—habits that, on occasion, tease the boundaries of American professionalism. I suspect he enjoys it, watching our more stuffed-shirt colleagues squirm beneath his polite offers of Ardbeg and Dalmore.

He stoops beneath the bar cart, produces a bottle of amber-colored liquor, and pours himself a glass, sans ice. A few years ago, I gifted him a set of whisky stones when I pulled his name out of the hat during the department’s Secret Santa exchange. He accepted them graciously, but he’s never once used them.

“Down to business.” Glass in hand, he settles into the tufted armchair on the other side of the desk, the worn leather creaking with the newfound weight. “I would like to put your name forward for consideration for tenure this year.”

The rush of excitement at the mention of tenure is just as quickly replaced by uncertainty. I give a tiny shake of my head. “I don’t think I understand.”

“You are familiar with tenure,” he says dryly, peering at me over wire-framed reading glasses perched low on his nose. He’s always reminded me of a slightly older and balder Idris Elba, and his overall presence is kind of intimidating, like he’s ten times more interesting and refined than the rest of us could ever hope to be. My first year working here, I kept calling him Professor Zabini like a frightened freshman, no matter how many times he asked me to call him Julien. “Last I checked, we hired you on the tenure track.”

“Yes, of course,” I sputter, my cheeks warm. “I just didn’t think—” Julien blinks at me, the very picture of patience. I pause to collect my thoughts. “My understanding was that the review typically happens at the seven-year mark.”

He consults one of the papers lying across his keyboard. “There are circumstances under which an earlier review is appropriate. Circumstances in which we currently find ourselves. With Leonard and Michael both retiring in the spring, our faculty is stretched somewhat thin. I would very much like to ensure that we get some of our more competent assistant professors on the advisory committee’s radar.” He pauses, seeming to choose his next words with care. “You might’ve noticed you’re the only woman in our department who’s on the tenure track, at present.”

It would be hard not to notice. I spent my first couple years here wearing nothing but tweed jackets and pleated slacks in hopes that it would make my colleagues take me seriously. When you’re a relatively young woman in an old and stuffy department, pencil skirts and ruffled blouses don’t cut it. In fact, they’re counterproductive. And T-shirts and jeans will just get you pigeonholed as lazy. You need the hard materials, the rough and the rigid, the kind that are starched and ironed and dry-cleaned.

I settled in, after a while. I’m no longer scared to wear swishy floral-print skirts or gaudy, dagger-shaped earrings. And anyway, my students appreciate me, if the Rate My Professors reviews calling me “fun, for a history teacher” are any indication. But tenure is the coveted seal of approval. It’s an assurance that I’m a valued member of my department, and—perhaps more importantly—it means job security.

“I feel very strongly about ensuring that an array of voices and experiences are represented among our tenured faculty.” Julien runs a hand over his jaw, where white stubble has sprouted. “It might be beneficial to bulk up your services to the school before sending you before the advisory committee in December. Demonstrate your investment in the future of Irving as an institution. I have a contact from Edinburgh who’ll be in D.C. in November—I’ll put you in touch to see about arranging a guest lecture. You’ll take full credit for organizing it, of course.”

“Thank you,” I say, a little taken aback. There’s no rule that says he has to help me with this, and he’s being more than generous.

“Not to imply we don’t appreciate what you’ve done already with the scholarship committee. To be frank, it’s more about putting in the legwork than anything. A sort of show of good faith. However,” he continues, “it wouldn’t hurt if we had a little more to show for it, as far as the numbers go. Larger donations, more visible fundraising efforts, that sort of thing.” He pauses, giving me room to voice my protests, but I don’t. “By all means, take a little while to think it over. And feel free to come to me with any questions at all.”

There’s really only one answer, and that’s a resounding yes. I made a promise to myself, years ago, that one day I’d have the sort of stability and job security that my parents never did. This is it. And I’m that much luckier to work in a field I’m passionate about. Putting in a few extra hours with the scholarship committee isn’t going to hold me back. But … “I do have a question, actually. About course credits.”

Julien whirls his scotch around the bottom of the glass. “What about them?”

“It’s my understanding that tenured professors get a certain number of credits they can use each semester, in lieu of paying tuition?”

“Fifteen credits per academic year. Which translates to roughly one semester’s tuition.” His mouth twists in a wry smile. “Are we considering a career change?”

“I was wondering whether I’m allowed to give those credits to someone else.”

“That depends. You can’t just pass them off to a random student, but generally—”

“For family?” I press. “My sister, specifically.”

Julien lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t see why not.”

“All right.” I blow out a long breath, buying myself a few more seconds. Even if I agree to try, nothing is set in stone. I’ll still have to put in the work, and then accept the offer of tenure, and then sign the contract. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Wonderful.” He raises his glass in a toast. “Then I’ll look forward to receiving your dossier.”

“Thank you.” I rise from my seat, the chair grinding against the hardwood floor. I’m eager to get back to my office down the hall, where I’m still unpacking everything I moved from my old office in Martin Hall. In preparation for the renovations on the social sciences building, administration has relocated the history faculty to the Hall of Letters, crammed in with the literature and foreign language faculty. “Did you need me for anything else, or—”

Julien interrupts me. “Actually, while we’re on the subject of this—” He twirls a hand and takes a sip of his scotch, like he’s hoping I’ll be able to fill in the blank.

“Tenure thing,” I offer.

“Mmm.” He sets his glass back on the desk with a thunk. “More along the lines of services to the school. I was wondering, in your endless generosity, whether you might deign to share your office space with a visiting scholar.” Another pause, another opening for me to protest, but I only raise my eyebrows. “Just for the fall semester. I’m sure you’ve noticed, what with us all being crowded into one building, that office space is a little hard to come by at the moment.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’d be happy to share.”

I’ve always had this problem with speaking before thinking, a decades-long war between my mind and mouth.

“Excellent,” Julien chirps. He shuffles papers around to clear his keyboard, tapping the space bar to wake his computer. “He’s a professor of history at Carnegie Mellon, up in Pittsburgh. Relatively young, but he’s already got an impressive list of publications under his belt. Not unlike yourself, actually. I have a feeling the two of you will get along swimmingly.”

I feel a bit disoriented, like I’ve wandered into a very strange dream—the sort where random people you knew ten or twenty years ago make a surprise appearance, and you find yourself wondering why your subconscious was thinking about them, anyway. “Wait, sorry.” I grip the back of the chair and shake my head, trying to reason with myself. It’s the same school, I’m sure of it, but that doesn’t mean it’s the same person. A school that size probably has twenty full-time faculty members in their History Department. Thirty, even. “What did you say his name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Morrison, I think, something or another.”

I exhale, relieved. See? Nothing to worry about.

Julien clicks around on the computer for a few seconds, squinting at the screen. “No, sorry. Harrison, that’s it. Theodore Harrison. Specializes in maritime history of the Mid-Atlantic colonies, so perhaps not quite your cup of tea, as conversation partners go, but—” He breaks off, staring at my hands on the back of the chair. “Is something the matter?”

I follow his gaze. I’m gripping the chair so hard that my knuckles are bone-white. I release it and the blood rushes back to my fingers, itching, tingling. “Nothing’s wrong.” I plaster on a tight-lipped smile and shake my head, hoping I don’t look as robotic as I feel. “Everything’s peachy.”



CHAPTER2

PRESENT

I push through the swinging wooden door to the women’s restroom with such force that it ricochets off the door stopper. The restrooms in the Hall of Letters are vaguely Edwardian, reflective of the hundred or so years that the building’s been standing: lacquered wooden stalls and glazed subway tile, the grout blackened with age. The handle on the sink squeaks as I turn it and splash cold water on my face, but even after I finish patting dry with a paper towel, my reflection still looks like I’ve seen a ghost. I grip the sides of the porcelain, sniffing hard. “Get yourself together, Clara,” I mutter to the tarnished mirror.

Behind me, there’s the woosh of a toilet flushing and the stall door creaks open. A lanky girl in a skater skirt and ripped fishnets emerges. Likely a freshman—classes don’t start until next week, but new students arrive early to move into their dorms and attend orientation. She stands at the sink next to mine and lathers her hands with three pumps of citrus-scented soap, casting a concerned smile at my reflection. Her hair’s that bluish-black color of box dye, pale roots peeking out. She reminds me a little of how I wanted to dress when I was a teenager.

I return her smile, albeit weakly. I should probably feel embarrassed, but chances are she doesn’t even know I’m an instructor. I’m only thirty-one, easy enough to mistake for a stressed-out grad student having a pre-semester bathroom breakdown. And my clothes don’t exactly scream professor, in part because I’m not doing any professing today: tennis shoes with black jeans and a sleeveless graphic tee. Just have to cross my fingers that she doesn’t turn up in any of my classes this semester.

She digs a violently red lip tint out of her bag and pumps the wand a few times before leaning close to the mirror to apply it. “I saw their Reunion Tour,” she says offhandedly. I shoot her a questioning look and she nods at my shirt. “A couple years ago.”

I glance at the shirt in my reflection, the backward letters spelling out MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE. I’ve had it since high school. “I saw them once, during the World Contamination Tour,” I say, smoothing the age-crackled graphic of the lovers from the Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge album cover.

Her crimson-tinted mouth drops open. “Dude. I’m so jealous. I was like, five. I wasn’t even born when The Black Parade came out.”

Great. On top of everything else, I’ve now been made aware that the infamous opening G note—the calling card of all former emo kids—is officially old enough to buy itself a pack of cigarettes.

She peppers me with a few excited questions before losing interest, parting ways with a rather ominous, “See you around campus!”

As soon as the door swings shut behind her, I blow out a breath. My eyes are rimmed with pink, and errant blondish hairs have escaped my braid. I wet my hand in the sink and smooth them flat against my head, hoping to salvage some semblance of professionalism.

Get it together.

Nine years. It’s been almost a decade since that phone call outside Manchester Cathedral. A lifetime, really. Empires have risen and fallen in less time. But it still stings like it was yesterday, a self-inflicted wound that never quite had the chance to heal. It’s not that I think I should have said yes. I’m firm in my belief that the timing just wasn’t right. But I wish I hadn’t handled it all so recklessly. I wish he would’ve answered my calls or texts in the weeks that followed, and I wish I hadn’t given up on calling altogether.

I wish, more than anything, that I hadn’t lost my best friend.

I dry my hands on a paper towel and toss it in the wastebasket before digging my phone out of the front pocket of my messenger bag. I search my contacts for Izzy Santos and press call. While the phone rings, I push through the bathroom door and out into the hall.

The call goes to voice mail. Unsurprising. We’ve been playing phone tag all summer. She’ll call me back later, probably when I’m in the middle of something and can’t answer. By the time I’m off work it’ll be 10 P.M. in Portugal and she’ll be at some club where they play electro house music so loud it’s impossible to think, let alone hold an actual conversation. And so it continues. I stuff my phone back in my purse and start down the stairs.

I run my hands along the handrail as I descend, tracing the places where the quarter-sawn oak has been worn smooth by a century of hands. Irving isn’t that old or prestigious a school, comparatively speaking—it’s a private liberal arts college, built in the early nineteenth century—but I’ve always appreciated what history it has, even if it’s a bit recent for my tastes.

My phone buzzes in my purse. And then buzzes again. And again. I pause on the landing to check it, the etched-glass window refracting a kaleidoscope of colors across yellowed hardwood planks. I’m not so naïve as to think it might be Izzy. Our texting habits are even worse than our long chain of missed calls—GIFs and shared Instagram reels that have gone largely unanswered, nothing of substance.

The President: Helllooooo

The President:?!?

The President: Where are you

The President: Don’t tell me you forgot AGAIN

Technically, I did not forget. I remember full well that I’m supposed to meet my little sister in the parking lot so that we can go to an early lunch, but I maybe lost track of time. I zip my phone back into my purse and take the remainder of the stairs at a gallop before exiting the Hall of Letters, emerging onto the patio beside the rose garden.

The skies are clear and the air is thick with humidity—the death throes of a muggy Maryland summer. I wave at Westley the security guard across the parking lot, sitting in his Polaris, his Hi Vis vest gleaming in the sun. Freshmen stop in the middle of the sidewalk to squint up at brick buildings and consult the campus map on their phones, familiarizing themselves with campus before the start of term. Parking placards dangle from rearview mirrors. A couple of the Spanish Department faculty chat by the curb. It is, for all intents and purposes, a perfectly average prelude to the semester.

Except for the parts that aren’t. But I force myself not to dwell on that, shoving it into one of the dark filing cabinets in the far corner of my brain. I’ll deal with that when I come to it. Adjusting the strap on my cross-body bag, I power walk toward a bumblebee-yellow Jeep Wrangler idling in a faculty parking space. Exhaust rises from the tailpipe in billowing clouds. Our campus green initiatives are a lost cause as long as that thing is still on the road.

“William Shakespeare,” Reagan announces as I approach. Her golden-blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s leaning against the hood of her Jeep, arms folded over the University of Irving crest emblazoned across the front of her hoodie.


Copyright © 2024 by Kristyn J. Miller