Page 17 of Director's Cut

“Did the students stay on topic?” she asks.

She recrosses her legs and I hyperfocus on her face. My gay lizard brain is thinking She could accidentally flash you, and I can’t get it to move on from that thought. My stomach knots.

“They…” I pull my lips into a thin line. If I want to get on a better standing with her, the last thing I should do is lie. “They had a lot of strange questions about my acting career and breaking into the industry and work-life balance. A couple of bizarre gay comments, but nothing too bad. Then Cory—”

She bristles. “Tell me no one asked who you’re dating.”

If I wasn’t red before, I’m definitely visibly red now. I eye the door beyond Maeve, wishing I could head that way. This is so deeply embarrassing; even as I told Trish about all the gay questions I’d get, I never told her about the encounters on the street that made me feel so small. And it’s not what we need to focus on when my interaction with Cory was so good, when I’ve had this moment of clarity about teaching. But somehow the words spill out of my mouth.

“Uh, no, not that. Just some kid asking if I feel uncomfortable at the thought of straight dudes jacking it to my naked body in films.”

We’re in a school office, and now I’ve made Maeve Arko think about men masturbating and me naked on film. Great. Yes, this is exactly how I need this conversation to go.

Maeve full on scowls. “Give me a name so I can ban them from your office hours.”

The heat of the moment simmers off with that comment. Banned from office hours? God, that confirms it. I’ve failed. She doesn’t think I can do it. As if people haven’t been sending me lewd comments since Goodbye, Richard! Now they mostly say some variation on man-hating dyke. I can handle some dumb kid pouring his insecurities onto a perceived authority figure. “It’s okay. Cory—”

“No, it’s not. This is not even in the realm of normal or okay.” Her face gets red as she speaks. “How would you feel if I told you one of my students asked me if I’d ever encountered a certain sexual situation? This is a school.”

My segue into Cory falls away as I process what Maeve is saying. It’s like every biological process in my body has just stopped. My mind goes blank. And then it hits me all at once—no one has ever taken anything I’ve said this seriously. No one’s called it harassment.

Is she right?

“Listen,” she says, the color fading from her cheeks, “you can keep your office hours, but that student can only speak to me.”

I exhale. “Deal.” My heart’s still thudding in my chest, I realize. Slow off the comedown, but I can’t believe how much lighter my muscles feel in general. “And for the record, it wasn’t a complete failure. Cory had some great questions about Cabaret, and we came up with a solid direction for her midterm topic.”

“You’re a lot more relaxed one-on-one,” Maeve observes. “You should bring that to your lecturing. It’s not a one-woman show when the classes are under forty students. They need to be engaged to learn. You can cut down your material to the meat if you can avoid the tangents too. They’re writing down everything you say, so it’s best to not overwhelm them with anything more than a few jokes here and there.”

She can’t just give a compliment, can she? “Thanks for the feedback,” I say, deadpan.

Her posture returns to perfect, jaw tight in further scrutiny. “Why did you want this job?”

I rub my arms, considering my options. Out of every answer to this question I could give, I keep coming back to the truth. The truth sounds absolutely batshit, but we’ve opened up so far when I’ve chosen honesty. “I’ve always loved teaching and entertainment theory. This class was my first opportunity to really show people that I can do it, even after taking years off to be in Hollywood.”

I study Maeve’s facial expressions the way I’d study a scene partner. Her breath hitches, which causes a slight twitch in her chest. She eyes me, her gaze not quite scanning me so much as barreling into me, like there’s more to the words I said. Then she slowly exhales, with an unmistakable snort. The whole thing is topped off by her crossing her arms, looking at me the way I was looking at those ridiculous students an hour ago.

“I see,” she finally says. “We have midterms to plan tomorrow. Ty wanted you to come, but I told him you’d be busy.”

“I’ll be there,” I say before she can say no.

She recrosses her legs one more time as I grab my bag and head to the door. She’s mocking me. Still, I can’t help but watch, acutely aware that she’s watching me too.

CHAPTER SIX

Ty’s the one who sends me the location for my meeting the next day. It’s a café called Literatea and sits on the southeast side of campus, a quadrant I’ve never been to. It’s tucked into the largest library on campus, a behemoth of red brick stacked amid dozens of classical arches. East Coast style in USC’s red and (sort of, not really) yellow.

The café itself is unassuming, marked by a small sign off a courtyard lined in baby palm trees, buzzed grass, and redbrick walkways. The students passing through this area feel, for lack of a better word, more normal than the glitzy Greek students around the Tutor Campus Center or the rumpled film students by the cinematic arts buildings. They’re baby-faced, weighed down by backpacks and laptop cases, and often decked out in USC apparel I recognize from the gift set the university sent to me before I started.

I open the heavy brown doors into the café, only to find it barely fits fifteen patrons inside. Midcentury faded red-and-yellow cushioned chairs and tiny octangular wooden tables line the two walls to the right and left. Ty and Maeve are already seated on the left side, an artistic pile of leather-bound books stacked up in an alcove behind them. Only Ty smiles and waves me over.

“Great to see you two,” I say, my unnecessary friendly instinct kicking in before I can stop myself.

“Same,” Ty says. “We figured you’d want to sit with your back to the crowd.”

I resist the urge to paw at my throat as Maeve shoots Ty the sharpest look before saying, “I don’t think the Philosophy Department is going to bother you.”

Once I take my seat, Maeve pushes an iced coffee over to me. It’s a kind gesture to have taken note of my coffee order, which means it was probably Ty’s idea. Even if it was full of poison, though, I know I’d still drink it to not seem high maintenance to Maeve. But it’s just coffee. I’d put in some oat milk, but I don’t want to be the first one to get up. Not with Maeve peering my way as she takes a sip of her own blond drink.

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