Grand Avenue by Joy Fielding Page A

sticking to the inside of her index finger. “Great,” she said, much louder than she’d intended.
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Norman,” Professor Currier said immediately, “did you have something to share with the class?”
    Damn those big ears, Susan thought, shaking her head. They don’t miss a thing.
    “Sorry,” she muttered, pulling the offending lollipop off her finger with more force than necessary, so that it came apart, and several stray pieces fell to the floor, shattering like chips of glass.
    “A little snack, Mrs. Norman?” Professor Currier asked, chin lowering as his eyes peered over the top of his round, wire-rimmed glasses.
    Did he possess X-ray vision as well? Susan wondered, as several nearby students laughed nervously, perhaps grateful at not being the object of his considerable and much feared derision.
    “I would think you’d be well acquainted with the perils of eating between meals,” the professorremarked, his gaze returning to the podium in front of him before the full import of his remarks had time to register. “In
The Conversion of St. Paul,”
he said, as if one thought followed naturally upon the other, “we have the familiar elements of twelfth-century church drama, including the conversion of a sinner to grace and a narrow escape from dangerous enemies, as well as the continuing conflict between worldly power and the power of God’s salvation.”
    Susan felt her skin on fire beneath her white sweater, her neck flushing pink, her cheeks burning bright red. How dare he speak to her that way! How dare he make fun of her weight!
    Was that what he was doing? she backtracked immediately. Or was she being overly sensitive? Maybe his comments weren’t intended as anything more than a slight rebuke for her having disrupted the class. He probably knows he’s as boring as hell, she thought, and he takes advantage of certain situations to inject a little much-needed levity into the proceedings. In the future, she’d be careful not to present him with any more such opportunities at her expense. Let the other students bear the brunt of his mean-spirited barbs. They could take it. They were tougher and stronger and at least a decade younger than she was.
    Whom was she kidding? Susan thought, casting a furtive glance around the over-heated old room. They were babies, for God’s sake, most still in their teens, their faces unfinished canvases, awaiting the brushstrokes of experience to complete them. What was she doing here among them when she so clearly didn’t belong? What distorted ego had persuaded her to keep pursuing a universitydegree that would gain her nothing in the long run? Except an education, she reminded herself. Except the satisfaction of a job well done.
    And who was to say her degree in English literature might not prove practical after all? Vicki was constantly encouraging her to speak to her husband about a job at one of his magazines. Maybe when she had her diploma safely in hand and her children were both ensconced in school all day, well, then, she might just visit Jeremy Latimer’s ever-expanding empire after all.
    “The chief aim of church drama of the twelfth century was not to educate the masses, but rather to create beautiful works of piety and wisdom, and the use of many different poetic forms and literary genres, as well as classical references, suggest a level of considerable literary sophistication.” Professor Currier looked up from his notes, surveyed the classroom. “Fine, then. All right. For next Friday, I want to see a five-thousand-word essay comparing the Digby and the Fleury versions of
The Conversion of St. Paul
. There will be no extensions, and this paper will be worth twenty-five percent of your term mark. But,” he continued with a wink, “women with big breasts get an automatic pass.” With that, he placed his notes in his worn leather briefcase and snapped the case shut. “That’s it.” The boldness of his smile accentuated the baldness