Page 75 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

A minute later, I get a link to an article about a student walk-out when six consecutive sexual harassment cases were disregarded without an investigation or any follow-up from the university. I’m reading paragraph two when a second link comes through, about a professor who posted on social media about the dean’s anti-LGBTQ comments and was then summarily fired for defamation, even though the fired professor had only shared word-for-word quotes that were backed up by several witnesses. Predictably, no one took action against the dean.

A third article comes through just as fast. A Black female ex-faculty member’s op-ed about her denied tenure file compared line for line with those of her white male colleagues, all of whom sailed through the tenure process despite having a fraction of her professional credentials, publications, and positive teaching reviews. Her byline says she’s now teaching at Harvard.

Philippa: Wow. Thanks. Guess I shouldn’t feel so bad about blowing this one

Amelia: Are you there right now?

Philippa: Yeah. I’m alone in a shitty break room. It’s the highlight so far

Amelia: I can imagine. Does this mean you’re moving to Idaho?

Philippa: It means I’m not moving to Kansas. I haven’t heard anything from Idaho

Amelia: They’re probably stalled on a Doodle poll trying to schedule a meeting

Philippa: If I never see another Doodle poll . . .

Amelia: Have I mentioned you should seriously rethink returning to academia?

Philippa: About 3567889792 times. But it never hurts to say it again

Amelia: You should seriously rethink returning to academia

I laugh under my breath, looking around the bland room with its bland furniture, every piece of which probably required a twelve-page equipment request with a full budget breakdown and rationale for the expense. I’d be happy to never write another one of those.

Though I did make that promise to my mother.

And two years isn’t that long.

Or so I keep telling myself.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A month after my interview in Kansas, the department administrator sends me a two-sentence email that begins Dear Candidate, lets me know I’m no longer being considered for the position, and ends with Best. The only surprise is that the committee waited a month to send it, though given the speed at which academia moves, this is actually lightning fast.

A week later, Dylan and I send Kate a full manuscript for A Siren Calls. I’m wildly proud of it, both for the tribute it pays to my grandmother’s world and for the elements we came up with ourselves. It’s a wonderful melding of three imaginations, and I’m surprised to find I feel more attached to it than I did to the three books I wrote entirely on my own. I knew—or at least suspected—I could write those books before I opened a Word document. This one’s different. I’ve learned things about myself I never expected, like straying from the safety of facts can be really fun, although merging facts with fantasy is even better. When done concisely, of course.

The following day, Rahul finishes the roof. No more leaks. No more rodents getting into the attic. No more choreographed bucket routine. He gives me a card for a contractor who does drywall, and I pin it to the fridge, knowing I can’t tackle more big repairs anytime soon. Money is so tight right now. Dylan and I talked about looking for more paid work many times, but we agreed to see the manuscript through and then reassess. Still, I’m so tired of tasteless pasta, cutting corners on energy use, and adding to the repair list without ever crossing anything off. It’s been worth it, for now, but only because we’ve been lucky. One more crisis with the house or, god forbid, a health emergency, and we’d have nothing to fall back on.

I can’t help reflecting on my conversation with my mom and how getting the job in Idaho could be key in maintaining a better safety net. A thought I resolutely keep to myself.

In the first week of April, shortly after fully reimbursing my siblings and celebrating the new roof their loans helped fund, I meet them in Portland for another bridesmaid-dress-shopping excursion, one we plan ourselves at an upscale consignment shop with an extensive, eclectic selection of dresses, from beachwear to bridal attire. Our mom is gloriously absent since Riley convinced her to take a step back, and she agreed as long as the four of us still stand up beside him, wearing something that won’t embarrass her. Her words, not his.

In the spirit of compromise, we commit to a blue theme with a lot of personal leeway. Eleanor goes simple and traditional with a navy silk sheath dress she can also wear to work. Haley goes bold with a print jersey wrap dress that accentuates her curves. Louisa finds a retro swing-style dress with white pindots against a cobalt background. I try on what feels like a billion options before I step out of a dressing room in something that works: a robin’s-egg-blue sundress made from delicate handkerchief linen that reminds me of the shirt Dylan wore for the photo shoot on the boat. The dress is so simple. A few pin tucks on the front, paralleling a row of tiny pearl buttons. Narrow shoulder straps. A full but unadorned circle-cut skirt that falls to my ankles. A satin ribbon around the waist. It’s timeless and beautiful, swishing around my legs with every step, and it’s a color I sincerely love for myself, one I hope is a first of many.

Everyone agrees this is “the dress,” and before I take it off, Louisa wrangles us for a group photo so we can show our mom she has nothing to worry about, and so she can coordinate the bouquets she’s refused to give up on, a concession Riley and Emil were happy to make. We pass him our phones so he can rotate through them, and he’s about to shoot with my phone when it rings in his hand. With a quick glance at the screen, he holds the phone toward me.

“You should take this,” he says, and I do, with all four of my siblings instantly on edge.

I step into the privacy of the dressing room and answer the call. It’s Dr. Weingarten, the head of the search committee from the college in Idaho. He apologizes for the delay, noting that the administration was enforcing new budgetary procedures that halted all hiring processes for several weeks, but he’s pleased to inform me that he has permission to offer me the job, starting July 1, giving me three months to sort out a move and get settled before starting work. He talks me through the offer: the salary, benefits, teaching load, start-up support, and shortened tenure clock due to my prior tenured appointment. He promises to send everything in detail via email by the end of the day, but he wanted to call as soon as he got the approval, as the committee was excited about the possibility of my joining them. I tell him I’m thrilled about the offer—even though I’m a lot of other things, too—and ask for two weeks to consider it. He’s warm and friendly as he agrees, and he says they hope to hear back soon so they’re not leaving other candidates waiting, especially if they might need to make another offer.

I emerge from the dressing room to find my siblings exchanging whispers and wary glances. As the door swings shut behind me, all heads turn my way.

“Well?” Louisa asks.

“I got the job in Idaho,” I say.

A silence falls, and no one moves, which speaks volumes.