Page 97 of Rebel Summer

“If anyone finds out, I know who to blame.”

“Can you imagine the number of people that might come in and out of your shop if they thought you actually wanted them there?!”

“Quit stalling, Books. You like teaching?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I think so.”

“You went through a lot of school for an ‘I think so.’”

“There are a lot of hoops to jump through before you can teach. I’ve done some teaching at the high school level and that was great, but I was always aiming higher. A bachelor’s never seemed like enough for me. Then my dad started telling people I was going to be a professor, and I ended up loving the sound of that. So I thought, why not just get my doctorate?”

“It astounds me how different we are,” Dax said.

I laughed softly.

“Why do you have a fancy degree but haven’t been teaching?”

I sighed. “Because the world of academia seduces you with the idea of this noble calling, and so you bust your butt for years, ignoring everything else, until it spits you out into a world where actual opportunities are so rare that somebody has to die or retire before a position opens up. I’ve spent two years doing a postdoc, which is basically a way to work at a university and bide my time, hoping something comes up or that a professor decides they adore me and will go to bat to get me hired somewhere. But there are too many post-grad students clamoring for jobs. I’m nobody special. If I can’t do it, then someone will be there in ten seconds to take over.”

“So when you go back to Tennessee, you’ll be teaching?” Confusion etched around his voice.

“Only for a month. It’s a fast-track summer course, but it’s going to be my first chance at teaching, and I want it. I need people to see me teach.”

“What are you doing when you’re not teaching?”

“I’m on my computer, researching and writing. That’s another way I could potentially get my name out there. Publish a few things in some journals.”

“Wait. Do you hang out with people in Nashville?”

“Not much.”

“So you’ve been giving me all this crap about working so much, and you’re probably worse than me at being social?”

“I’m not worse!”

“I hang out a few times a month with Beau and Phoenix. The rest of the time, the entire island visits me on a regular basis.”

“You don’t understand. I have to do research and write papers to even have a chance at competing in the academia arena. You could hire someone and give yourself more of a life.”

“What about your life? When does all the research and writing papers end?”

The words stalled on my tongue. I couldn’t pretend to ignore how so many of my professors and colleagues hardly saw their families—or even the sun most days—working early hours and evenings, chasing something they might never actually catch.

But I’ve also known success stories. I’ve seen great professors doing great work and balancing it all, which lent to more upheaval in my mind.

“Seems like a lot to put on yourself so your dad can have something to brag about at parties.”

“It’s not just that,” I insisted, his arrow narrowly missing his target. Because it wasn’t just that. It couldn’t be just that.

Was it?

But even now, the satisfaction of hearing my dad tell someone about my plan to become a professor and the proud inflection in his voice came back to me with startling alarm.

“Now, I’m overqualified for teaching anything else, so…”

“What does that matter?”

“Huh?”

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