When a Lady Meets a King (Naughty Sleepover Book 2)

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Amazon Rapids Fun stories for kids on the go. ComiXology Thousands of Digital Comics. DPReview Digital Photography. East Dane Designer Men's Fashion. They make me love my job both in and out of the classroom. Students show up at my office to discuss their personal problems. I try to maintain boundaries.

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Each of these situations is a crisis. I listen and try to dispense the proper advice. This is not the same advice my friends and I give to one another. I am quite content to be in my thirties, and nothing affirms that more than being around people in their late teens and early twenties. In grad school, we heard lurid tales of department meetings where heated words were exchanged and members of various factions almost came to blows. I was looking forward to the drama, only to learn my department meets once or twice a semester rather than every week. Instead, we meet in committees.

The chairs of those committees report to the department chair. Committee meetings are not my favorite part of the job. There are politics and agendas and decades of history of which I know little and understand even less. I prefer common sense. The first semester ends and I receive my evaluations.

I assign too much work, they say. I expect too much.

About the Author

Over winter break, my friend from graduate school and I have another long lamentation about choices and taking jobs in the middle of nowhere and the relative sacrifices academics must often make. It is tiring to constantly be told how lucky we are. Luck and loneliness, it would seem, are very compatible. I go drinking with the guy I … go drinking with. To call it dating would be a stretch. We are a matter of convenience. I want to be a good teacher, and most days, I think I am. I give a damn. I want students to like me. I am human. I am so full of want.

He tells me not to worry with such authority I almost believe him. He orders me another drink and another.

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Because of this, we often end up in the city fifty miles up the road. At the end of the night, two very short men get into a fight. Clothing is torn. We stand in the parking lot and watch. He says that would not be possible. Everything is great. Another semester begins, three new classes.

Winter settles, ice everywhere, barren plains. There are three new sets of students, different faces but similar names. Hey you in the khaki hat. Hey you with the purple hair.

Stolen Child

The goal, we are told, is tenure. To that end all faculty, even first-year professors, have to compile an annual portfolio. I try to quantify my professional worth. My colleagues write letters to attest to my various accomplishments, verifying I am on such and such committee, that I participated in such and such event, that I am a valuable and contributing member of the department.

I update my vita. I clip publications. I buy a neon-green three-ring binder.

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This is how I rage against the machine. I spend an afternoon collating and creating labels and writing about myself with equal parts humility and bravado. I went to graduate school for this. I stop getting lost looking for the bathroom. The building is strange, with many hallways, some hidden, and an arcane numbering system that defies logic.

Summer, we are told, is a time for rest, relaxation, and catching up. I teach two classes. I write a novel. I return to the place I moved from, spend weeks with the man I left behind. I say, Please follow. We remain at an impasse. I return to the cornfield. There are mere weeks of summer left. They are not enough. A new semester begins.

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I have new responsibilities, including chairing a committee. Ten minutes before the first class on the first day, I run to the bathroom and puke. In my classroom, I stare at another group of students whose names I will have to remember. You in the red shirt. You with the pink shorts. I refuse to expect less. I try to learn better, do better. I have no idea how I got to be the one at the front of the classroom, the one who gets to be in charge of things. Most of the time, I feel like the kid who gets to sit at the adult table for the first time at Thanksgiving.

My third tournament started with a brutal game where I lost by more than points. I was the fifth seed, ranked like tennis with words, and feeling confident—too confident, really.