Tart by Jody Gehrman

have paper and pen, right?). No—wait. Grab snazzy fake-leather binder with notepad given to self at new-faculty orientation. There. Much better. Now: bag, pencil, coffee cup, um…should have syllabus, but no one really has those on the first day, do they? Think, Claudia, think: will create effortless and convincing excuse about missing syllabus, or better yet, not mention at all and let them think this is How We Do Things in College. Lipstick? No time. Will get all over teeth. Hair poofing out in back? Hell, it is. Oh, well, just don’t turn around. Never want students looking at ass, anyway.
    I sprint down the hall and turn a corner at breakneck speed. Looking for room 812…let’s see…690…692…turn another corner, still running, and whack. Sudden impact: coffee explodes, snazzy fake-leather binder propels across hall, scattering rosters in all directions. Looking up, I see a small, dark-haired woman recovering her balance, and I realize I’ve fallen flat on my ass. Get up, Claudia. Christ. I scramble to my feet and a burst of ridiculous, self-conscious laughter erupts from my throat; when I see the look on thewoman’s face I ineptly disguise my nervous giggles as a coughing fit. She’s got a handkerchief out now and she’s violently jabbing at the fist-size splotch of coffee spread amoebalike across the breast of her snow-white blouse.
    â€œI am so sorry—I didn’t even see you,” I stammer, hovering awkwardly as she continues to scowl and scrub at the stain. “Can I help? Do you need some water or something?”
    â€œIt’s not coming out—I think I’m burned.”
    â€œBurned. Ohhh. I’m such an idiot. Listen, let me help—do you need some ice?”
    â€œForget it,” she says. “Just—forget it.” She stands there in her crisp, formerly perfect outfit: navy blue skirt, neutral stockings, suede pumps, freshly ironed blouse, her dark hair impeccably smooth and silky; the stain looks so out of place, it has the same childishly comic effect as a mustache drawn on a supermodel. I stifle another giggle.
    She studies me for a moment. Surprise, recognition, and then—what? Irritation? Rage? They all register in her eyes in rapid succession. She strides away from me abruptly, as if it’s my face, not my coffee, that’s burned her.
    Weird, I think. Well, shit, she can hardly hate me just for bumping into her, whoever she is. Hopefully she’s a traveling book rep and I’ll never see her again. I look at my watch. Aargh—10:50. I’ll be fired.
    Please, please, God—I’ll never ask for anything again—just let me get through this day.
    Â 
    Striding into the black-box theater, I force my face into a semblance of confidence. The chattering gives way to a deafening silence, and I feel fifty eyes on me, inducing a powerful sense of vertigo.
    â€œHello, class. My name’s Claudia Bloom. Any questions?” Delete. Delete. You’re supposed to actually teach something before you ask for—wait. Someone’s got a hand up. Okay, here we go; this is easy. A girl sporting a wild tuft of indigo hair is looking at me with cranky indolence. “Yes?”
    â€œWasn’t this class supposed to start, like, half an hour ago?”
    â€œEvery day but the first day.” Twenty-five bewildered faces look at one another skeptically. “Acting is all about waiting. Timing. Patience tempered by instinct. It’s about grueling hours spent hovering between worlds. You people—you’re the ones who stuck it out. I like to know who my hard-core actors are, right from the get-go. I can really only focus on a select few.”
    â€œHalf the class left already,” a boy in overalls offers. “Some of them went to Westby’s office.”
    â€œYou see. You think they’re going to make it? Huh? If they can’t stand a measly twenty-something minutes