Page 6 of Scrooge and the Girls Next Door

I’ll rent it out. It’s a bit far from either of the universities bordering Creekville to attract student renters, but that’s fine. Maybe I can find another professor looking for a place.

I rest my head against the sofa and try to let my mind go blank, but this is a day that doesn’t want to die. I should have expected it. After returning midterm papers for three sections, my office hours had been a parade of students wondering why they didn’t get better grades.

The answer, of course, is they needed to write better papers. But that concept regularly escapes students at our elite liberal arts college. They’ve been coddled into believing that all of their ideas are interesting and worthwhile, and there’s a distinct lack of rigor in their work.

Even the long line of complainers wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been capped off by a student who spent twenty minutes arguing for the return of five points to make his assignment grade an A.

If he wanted an A, he should have reviewed his citation guidelines.

For an institution full of supposedly bright students, academia is stupid sometimes.

The thing is, they’re capable. With enough pushing, they do things they didn’t know they could. Watching them realize this is the best part of my job. Pushing them to get there is the most exhausting.

The tension slowly seeps out of me, but it takes longer than usual because I can hear the people on the sidewalk. The child’s high voice penetrates my windows, exclaiming over things as they make their way around the exterior of the house.

When it finally quiets, I pull out my phone and call Arshneel. “I saw a buyer at the house next door today,” I say after we dispense with pleasantries. “Should I be prepared to make an offer?”

“I think so,” he says. “I’ve been talking to her agent this afternoon, and although it’s possible she’ll change her mind after seeing the interior, she sounds pretty motivated. Apparently, she’s fairly skilled with renovation.”

“Is she a house flipper?” That wouldn’t be so bad. If she’s getting in and out, I won’t have to worry about a noisy kid.

“No. It’s her first home purchase.”

Great. She’s thinking long-term then. We talk for a couple more minutes, then I hang up and nurse my beer, thinking about how I said I’d make an offer like it’s nothing. But the reality is, even a cheap mortgage will be an uncomfortable stretch. I consider all the different things I can do with the place. There has to be a way to make it work as a rental, right? Maybe an Airbnb?

That might not be too bad if there’s a way to cyberstalk potential guests and determine whether they’re the kind who throw rowdy parties. But that’s not really who visits Creekville. People come for the antiques and Civil War history. Not to throw keggers.

I’ll figure it out. I have to. I need this part of my life to stay quiet. Quiet just like it is right now. I polish off my beer and slouch against the sofa, soaking in the silence.

Even more than the quiet, I need the control. I keep my life well-ordered. Bad neighbors? Noisy neighbors? I know from experience in apartment living that it can have an enormous effect on day-to-day quality of life.

Eventually, small details from the new unit we’ll begin in my two Intro to Anthropology sections dribble into the pleasant blankness, and I know the signs too well to bother resisting: it’s time to get up and finalize my next lecture on the deceptively simple question, “What Is Culture?”

I work for a long time, stopping only when lights suddenly shine from the unobstructed windows next door. I’ve been in this house since January, and it’s the first time there’s been a light over there. Arshneel must have had the utilities connected in anticipation of showings.

Clearly, I was naïve to think a house that looks creepy enough to get its ownGhosthuntersepisode would languish on the market.

The light is on for about half an hour before the house goes dark again. I go to bed out of sorts and wake up no better.

I’ve barely settled into my closet-sized office on the Jefferson University campus when Arshneel calls the next morning.

“Hello.” I keep my voice low so I don’t disturb my office mate, Leigh.

“Are you ready with an offer?” he asks.

“She made one then?”

“It came in about ten minutes ago. If the interior fazed her, she didn’t show it.”

“Is it a full-price offer?”

“I can’t tell you, but I wouldn’t offer less than that.”

“All right,” I say. “I’ll get preapproved and see what I can reasonably counteroffer.”

“Sounds good,” he says. “I’ll need it by close of business today if you’re serious.”

As soon as we hang up, I call a mortgage broker. I explain what I need, they send me a link to follow and fill out, and twenty minutes later, I get a call back telling me they should have an answer for me by mid-afternoon.

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