Private Lessons by Donna Hill

on a breath, “we live hundreds of miles apart. It could never work.”
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    The next few weeks, as Naomi had predicted, were hectic at best. Every day was another meeting, planning and preparing for the opening day of classes. As professor of African-American Studies, Naomi truly loved her job. There was nothing like opening up and challenging the minds of her students about their magnificent ancestry, their place in the world. But her goal was to be dean, which would afford her what she truly wanted, the ability to oversee the entire department, bring the professors up to standard and overhaul the curriculum. There were several professors that had been there well beyond their usefulness and had become jaded and non-caring. That wasn’t an educator. She wanted to see each and every classroom led by educators that were passionate about sharing knowledge and passionate about getting the best out of each student. She knew that her position about certain faculty members wasn’t popular with everyone, but unless they went after and secured the best teachers, all the technology in the world wouldn’t prepare these students to compete on their feet. That is where she could make a broad impact. But if Professor Lewis had his way, that would never happen.
    Naomi draped her purse across her shoulder, then tucked a loose strand of hair back into the tight bun at the back of her head. Her navy blue suit was one of her favorites. It always gave her that professional, polished look that she strove for. She never wantedto give any of the males in administration or on the teaching level, the idea that she was anything but professional, there to do her job and nothing more—which was what caused the rift and ultimate animosity between her and Frank. Years earlier before she’d gained tenure, Frank asked her out for drinks after work. In her mind it was a harmless, friendly gesture of a colleague. Frank had a different agenda and wanted more than drinks. She put the brakes on it right then and there. But it didn’t seem to stop him. He persisted—stopping her in the hallway to drum up inane conversation, tossing out sexual innuendoes of how great they would be together until finally she had to threaten to go to the President of the college if he didn’t back off. She’d learned to ignore him for the most part. He was more annoying than anything else. Frank would have loved to circumvent the college directive against relationships between faculty and faculty, and faculty and students.
    Even if there hadn’t been a rule in place, Frank Lewis was not her type. He was just as determined to win the dean’s seat, and he had no qualms about making her life miserable in his quest to get it. Whatever he could do to stick it to her, he did—from undermining her in meetings, to withholding support of initiatives that she presented, even when he knew it was in the best interest of the school and the students.
    That was the part of the job she was not looking forward to as she parked her Honda in her designatedspot and crossed the parking lot to the entrance of Atlanta College.
    She went straight to the main office and checked in, greeted her colleagues and plucked her mail from her box. She flipped through the contents and frowned when she didn’t see her class grid. She approached the desk.
    â€œHi. I’m Dr. Clarke,” she said to the administrative assistant behind the horseshoe divider. “I don’t seem to have my class grid.”
    The young woman got up from her desk and came over to Naomi. “Yes, I’m sorry. We had problems with the computers, and some of the professors’ programs and grids couldn’t get printed out. They have someone working on it, and they say we should be up and running soon.”
    â€œHmm, technology. Thanks. If mine comes up before class is over, can you send someone to bring it to me?”
    â€œAbsolutely, Dr.