Page 5 of Here in My Heart
The Post-it note on her screen curled up at the corner. She looked away, not needing the reminder that the international placement students and their mentor would arrive today. It had been a last-minute addition to her responsibilities, and she’d hoped in vain that Paul would have arranged something else by the start of term.
Sadly, she remained burdened with the extra load. She sighed. Would she ever climb high enough up the steep academic ladder to deserve her own oak-paneled office and a clear schedule? Other professors set their working hours. Christ, some even turned up midway through a semester. If she cared less, maybe she could too. As it was, she was stuck in a dated classroom with a list as long as her arm of additional leadership tasks.
A stocky young man cleared his throat at the door. “Bonjour. Hello,” he said, gingerly making his way in.
“International group?” Sylvie glanced at the clock, assuring herself of the time.
“Yes, ma’am. Are we in the right place?” He dithered, along with his friends hugging the door frame.
“Absolutely. If this is where you’ve been sent. Come in and sit down.” Sylvie considered the group as they entered, seeking outtheir leader. They were five of the most unlikely specimens, sporting a range of casual wear so unlike the fashions that usually graced the catwalk of her classroom. Science graduates from California, here to study the marine life off the coast, Paul had said, when he mentioned it before the summer break. She tried, unsuccessfully, to recall any further details. “Which one of you is the group leader?” Sylvie asked. The stocky boy shuffled under her scrutiny and didn’t reply. “Hello?” Sylvie didn’t doubt her English and refused to repeat such a basic question to her new academic hopefuls. “Alors, you’ve made it all the way across the ocean to begin your studies here: at least one of you must know who is in charge.”
“She’s not here yet, ma’am,” one of the girls said as she inspected her nails.
“Sit down.” She wrote her name on the board. “My name is Professor Sylvie Boucher, and I am a specialist in European Feminism. Please introduce yourselves.”
The five of them looked at each other, wide-eyed and mute.
“Monsieur…” Sylvie pointed to Mr. Stocky at the end of the row. “Would you like to go first?”
“My name is Greg Shannon,” he said.
“And you are from…” Sylvie circled her hands, as if the winding motion might illicit more detail from her shy audience.Mon dieu.
“I’m part of the marine conservation program at the University of California in Monterey. We’re here for our year abroad.”
And so it went. Four more forgettable introductions from a quintet of post-acne young adults trying to convince themselves that they weren’t homesick for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
The door creaked, disturbing the awkward moment of silence. A flame-haired, tall woman froze in the frame, scanning the room, her eyes wild with uncertainty. She tilted her head toward Sylvie, clearly identifying her as the authority. “I’m…”
Unwilling to put the latecomer out of her misery, Sylvie held the stillness for several beats.
“I’m Adelaide Poole. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“I thought we were lacking a program leader. Please, sit down,” said Sylvie.
Adelaide seemed to contemplate the seating arrangements for much longer than was necessary before taking a seat next to a sporty-looking, broad-shouldered young man.
Sylvie shook her head, despairing at what had landed in her lap this year. Between this and the pressures of her timetable, she was never going to get her book published. “Now you’re here, we can conclude our introductions.”
Silence reigned.
“Adelaide Poole? Can you introduce yourself?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She wriggled in her seat and fiddled with the spinning ring on her thumb. “My name is Ade Poole. I’m in my final year of a PhD at Monterey. I’ve been asked to chaperone these folks, but I don’t really have any experience in this kind of thing.”
“How reassuring.” Sylvie handed each student a binder. “These are your induction folders. They contain details of the university campus, how to join the library, the access code to the Wi-Fi, timetables—” Sylvie looked up at the class of jet-lagged Americans. “I don’t need to explain everything. You’re not children.”
Ade raised her hand as if she was about to argue.
“Miss Poole?”
“Thanks.” Ade avoided eye contact with the students. “I have a guidance sheet which you can all add to your folders. It includes the timetable for my student counselling sessions and my cell number in case you need to get hold of me.”
“Useful.” Sylvie nodded. “Thank you, Ade.”
Six pairs of eyes stared at her, seeking direction.
“Let’s leave it there. My office hours are posted on my door, should you need me. I hope that won’t be necessary. Until next time,” Sylvie said, closing her notebook with finality.
