As the test period finishes for the day, I head back through town to my apartment. On the one hand, I have some grading I should do before next week. On the other hand, The new kids in my Archeology class are a right bunch of idiots. I’m not sure I really want to grade their shit today. I can put that off for the weekend. Or at least after office hours tomorrow. And besides, I don’t technically need to finish grading their finals until Wednesday. That’s practically a week. As I’m thinking about this and walking through the streets of Muddy Ford, I realize that somewhere along the way I’ve gone a bit off course. No longer headed straight for my nice apartment, I’m now walking along an equally familiar detour. One that will take me straight to Amber & Cedar. Upon realizing this, I know I really should turn back. Go straight home. But I don’t have anything to do tomorrow until noon. And I’ve got a good five more days to worry about grading things. Besides, as long as I drink in moderation, it won’t really affect my grading this final. I can just do the multiple choice section for all the tests first. As long as I keep conscious I can do that monotonous task. Yeah, there’s nothing really wrong with going for a quick drink, I muse to myself. I know I’m trying to convince myself. Not to go out, no matter what I’m on this path I’m going to take it, just that I’m right to go out drinking. Otherwise I might feel guilty about it. Unfortunately, I’m not particularly convincing.
As I walk into Amber & Cedar, I smile and nod to Fred, behind the bar. He did eventually come back from his mysterious disappearance, though it had taken half a year. Still hasn’t admitted why he vanished so suddenly. As I approach the bar, pulling my wallet out of my purse, Fred finishes mixing my drink and places it on the bar for me. “Thanks,” I say to him as I settle in and hand over my credit card to open a tab.
“Bit early for you to be drinking, ain’t it?” Fred muses as he takes the card and walks back to the register.
“Never,” I reply with a smile. “You?”
Fred chuckles, inputs something into the register, and heads back, leaving the card. “You make an excellent point,” he replies. He pours himself a shot of some kind of tequila. “Cheers.”
“Down the hatch,” I say, raising my glass. He downs the shot, I take a big swig. “See, makes my life feel so much more productive.”
Fred shrugs. “Just makes me feel like I’m day drinking,” he says with a big grin.
“Why does everyone say it like that’s a bad thing,” I insist, continuing to convince myself of the validity of my decision. With the first drink in me already, I know it’s just a matter of time before I become much easier to convince that I’m, in fact, correct.
About an hour later, two drinks and change into my evening, I am approached by one of my advisees.”Given your history, you really should try to drink less,” she says as she walks up to the empty corner seat beside mine, “Especially around the beginning of winter breaks.”
“She’s got a point,” Fred adds with a smile.
Fadila, sitting at the bar, adds, “You as well, though the timing is less significant.”
“What’s she talking about, Fred?” I ask with a grin. I know he’s not going to tell, but it is still fun to watch him squirm with the asking.
And squirm he does. “Hey, I don’t, why would I? I mean, whatever may or may not be being talked about right now has nothing to do with my. Shut it.”
“Just a club soda,” Fadila says to give Fred an out. He laughs and pours a glass. Fadila pays cash.
“What brings you here?” I ask, knowing the answer, at least partly. Fadila doesn’t drink and walked straight up to me. She’s here to talk.
Fadila takes up the glass and sips the soda. She doesn’t answer. Not immediately. I let the question hang, enjoying my own drink. I figure I can outwait her. I expect it will take only a few moments. More than a minute later, I am proven half right. “It’s the anniversary, and you hate your class,” Fadila answers rather matter-of-factly. Admitting what I already know and is obvious, that she is here to talk to me, but in a way that makes me the obvious one. Definitely learned a lot from Therese last year.
“Fair,” I reply, “But I was more wondering about the why you want to talk part.”
“Then you should have asked that.” Fadila’s voice remains flat.
I shake my head. “Then consider this me asking.”
“Very well,” Fadila acknowledges, then promptly avoids answering the question I didn’t actually ask, “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“In meetings, in classes, you’ve been running on autopilot this year. Something is up. I want to know what it is.”
I look around, mostly making sure no other students are in the bar. There’s a small group, at a far corner table chatting with one another. I lean onto the bar, and in doing so lean closer to Fadila, and answer, “I’ll tell you that if you tell me why you’ve come to talk to me.”
“Truth?” she asks rhetorically, “You are my advisor. I wish for some advice.”
“Office hours are tomorrow afternoon.”
She ignores that. “Are you going to follow through with your promise or go back on your word?” she asks poignantly.
“Fine,” I say, taking another drink. With a sigh, I begin to talk. “Tell me, have you ever felt stuck? Not lost, not in trouble, not struggling, just stuck? It’s not that I don’t enjoy what I’m doing, because I do. But I’m just here and in the now, and not moving. Not not moving, that’s the wrong implication. Not currently able to move.”
Fadila thinks, seemingly seriously considering the postulated question, then nods. “Oddly, yes,” she says, “Are you getting writer’s block with your thesis, or having problem students, or getting caught in your head?”
“None of those,” I admit, “I’m basically a week of work away from having my thesis ready for review, and even my worst students right now aren’t actually bad enough to have me any worse than just needing a few drinks. No, it’s…” I trail off, realizing I’m doing all the talking. “But why now, why not come for advice during office hours?” I ask instead of continuing.
Fadila lets out a slight sigh. “Because it is not really office hours material. It’s advice only tangentially related to the Magisterium. But since Irene doesn’t particularly like me at the moment due to the whole placement fiasco, which leaves you as the most qualified.” Irene then me, I consider. So it’s something to do with Therese. She continues, “But what were you cutting yourself off before admitting?”
I shake my head. “You noticed that, did you?”
She cocks her head and sighs again. “You weren’t exactly subtle about it.”
I chuckle, nod, and start to answer her. “Well, I, um.” I take another drink. “It’s just that being this close to done, I don’t know what’s next. At least, not yet. Therese briefly mentioned her idea for me last year and, while it wasn’t really wrong, I don’t want to be stuck in that position for the what, three? years it’s going to be. At least?”
“But in not wanting to be stuck,” Fadila adds, continuing my thought, “You ended up merely being stuck earlier.”
“Basically, yeah.”
Fadila nods and offers, “What do you want to do? Because there is a difference between being stuck doing nothing and being stuck readying yourself for once you are let loose.”
She’s right. Because of course she is. Therese took her under her wing for a reason. Which is concerning in its own right, but not immediately so. Slightly more immediately concerning is that I’m not sure how to answer her question. So, rather than do so, I ask my own. “Now, what about Therese did you wish me to help you figure out?”
Fadila sees through that deflection, visibly reacts to show me she sees through it, then nods. “You’ve seen my file. You’ve known me for over a year now. Do you feel like you know me?”
“Some. Not entirely, of course - as you know your files are a bit sparse - but more than most,” I answer. I pause to let her continue.
And continue she does. “Why me?” she asks. A simple question to ask. A near impossible question to answer. Especially where Therese is concerned.
“Why you, what?”
“You know what’s going on,” she insists. She’s right, I guessed from Irene’s mood that someone else was running the show after Therese left, and the only person the woman trusted other than Irene who was still in the Villa was Fadila. But it would be nice to hear Fadila admit it. But she, like her true mentor before her, is the master of the implication. “All of everything, I’m not sure I am right for it. I’m not sure I can handle it. So why?”
I nod along. “Why do you think?” I ask.
“Honest? Depends on the day.”
I take a drink, and as I put the empty glass down, Fred makes sure a new one is already there for me. Because Fred recognizes this energy. “Give me your best and worst cases,” I ask my advisee.
“Best? She saw something in me and I figured you might as well. Worst? She wants me, this, to fail for some reason.” She gestures around her to get the point across.
I put down my drink and turn fully to face Fadila after that. Time to be real honest. “I truthfully do not know why. But I can tell you this. I’ve known Therese for a bit longer than you. And she has never wanted anything she’s built to collapse. She is always thinking about the future, and her future always involves her own success. So while I don’t know why you, she singled you out last year because she believed you could succeed in whatever task she put you up to.”
Fadila takes my statement in. She doesn’t react at first, instead simply staring at my face. Not in a creepy way, or at least not the usual kind of creepy way. More in the interrogator way of looking for any sign of being dishonest or hiding something. I knew she would be paying attention. That’s why I made sure to be as truthful as possible. After a moment, Fadila sighs yet again and nods, slightly resigned to the fact that she may never know why. “So,” she says after finishing her club soda, “Will you need any help figuring out what you want to do?”
“Whatever do you mean?” I ask, realizing that of course she would not get distracted by that heartfelt conversation about her own emotions. Fadila merely stares at me. Taking another sip, I figure I can wait her out again. She sits there, staring at me. Her slightly exasperated face slowly falls away to reveal the familiar blank, inquisitive expression, almost exactly the same expression as my old Go buddy used all the time. And she sat, motionless, staring. Waiting. After the second minute passed, I knew I wouldn’t win the waiting game twice in the same night. “Probably,” I admit, “But that’s not a today kind of thing.”
“Next week?” Fadila asks.
“You know, when Therese would interrogate me like this, she was nice enough to beat me in a game of Go while she did so,” I state with a slight smile.
Fadila raises an eyebrow. “Never played. I doubt it would be ideal to teach me. What if we played something else while I brush up on this Go game?”
“Sure,” I say, “Like what?”
Fadila’s eyes drift around the bar, falling upon a deck of cards that some forty-somethings are using. “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she muses, finally showing a hint of a smile on her face.
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