Love in the Time of Cynicism by Jani Berghuis Page A

me until my fourth period Anthropology class, the only forty five minutes during the day worth paying attention to. Basically, it’s an elective where we go around and watch other people, then make up stories about them. Also it’s the only class that isn’t taught by a horrendous douchewad. Dr. Sullivan is the opposite, in fact. He’s young for a teacher, early thirties I’d guess, with short cropped hair and a hook nose. He constantly wears suspiciously patterned short sleeved dress shirts which should’ve been outlawed before the twenty first century and striped colorful socks you only notice if you’re looking. The man doesn’t own a cell phone but if you have one out in class he’ll ask you what the time is. Once he spilled glue on an old copy of Catcher in the Rye and made a modern art sculpture out of it, which he hung on the ceiling and it remains there to this day.
    Truth be told, he’s amazing.
    As a Freshman, he taught my World Literature course and scrapped the majority of the curriculum so we could argue about 1984 and The Great Gatsby. Sophomore year, I transferred into his debate class just to soak up his commentary on current events. He’s one of those teachers so smart and well-versed they have him teach the classes nobody else wants. Now, as a Senior, he’s my Anthro teacher and I’m loving every minute of it. I’ve been his favorite and probably most intelligent student for three years.
    When he strides in with a mug of tea (three tea bags in a cup that has a compartment on the bottom to hold cookies) and sits down on his desk, I snap up from my doodling and pay attention. Before the bell rings, it’s normally the two of us, but today there’s a third party.
    You guessed it.
    Rhett Tressler, devilishly handsome and scribbling in his notebook, has walked in and sat down diagonal from me so it isn’t obvious he’s watching me. Somehow, the boy has ended up in my favorite class with my favorite teacher and is currently making me more nervous than ever. This class is my one escape, the place where I can feel superior to the Harvard-pledged asshats simply by being myself, and now I’m worried I’ll have to compete with Rhett. It’s irrational, I know, but I can’t help it.
    Dr. Sullivan takes a big gulp of his tea, swallows, and give me a look. Then he asks, “Kane, can I see you up here before class starts?”
    Rhett sends me a mocking glance and mouths Kane? before I stand up and meet Sullivan at his desk. He holds up an essay I wrote a few weeks back. It wasn’t for class; for three years we’ve been giving me assignments because he thinks I should pursue anthropology, which is, of course, horrible advice for a teacher to give because there are approximately zero jobs in anthropology.
    Anyway, the paper was thirty pages single spaced on a lonely lady who spent my entire Saturday shift curled up in a chair with a cup of black coffee it took her the entire time to drink. She’s the first person who sat there for too long I haven’t asked to leave, until Rhett, I guess. She was – and is – the saddest person I’ve ever seen.
    “What’s up, doc?” I ask, then cringe. Common, emerging theme of my existence, this regretting things right after I say them.
    Sullivan laughs, luckily, and holds up the essay. “This was amazing , Cordelia. Honestly the best paper I’ve ever read.” The man’s been hounding me three years to get serious about writing and journalism, but I really have no idea what I want from my life yet. I’d be happy to put that off until I have to choose a major in college.
    “Thanks. I worked hard on it.”
    He nods seriously and tucks the paper back into his desk. “I’ll be keeping it, to show off to my teacher friends and brag. Business as usual.” Then he leans in and instructs, “I want your next project to be a collaboration, with anyone you want. And I want…shall we say stylized reality. The truth with a fictitious feeling to it. Got