an Ivy League school—at any four-year, research-focused academic institution—was different than being part of the faculty at a state college. At Harvard, Quinn had hardly stepped inside the classroom even when she was listed as the professor. That was how things were done. She’d spent her time chairing committees, taking part in research, then publishing her findings. After all, that was the academic battle cry, right? Publish or perish. At TSC, she would not be required to publish in order to keep her career on the right path.
But perishing was still an option.
Here, she was expected to teach. Actually, that didn’t bother her. She hadn’t left the classroom at Harvard because she didn’t like teaching. That had been what one did, the accepted norm.
Quinn had never been one to buck the system, although the system certainly hadn’t had any problem bucking her.
But teaching wasn’t beneath her by any means, she’d looked forward to getting back into the classroom. She’d been nervous when she met with her first class yesterday, but it had gone pretty well.
Or... at least no one had run in saying they heard that she’d gotten fired from Harvard and had to be escorted from the building for screaming at one of the deans.
Never mind that the dean in question had been her ex-husband who’d lied to her, stolen from her, and had argued to their colleagues that she was self-sabotaging her career.
Thankfully, that news had not made it to the small state college in Teton County, Wyoming.
The basic literature class had been filled with mostly traditional college students: fresh-faced, straight out of high school, nineteen to twenty-one years old, and bored. They’d been suitably unimpressed with her list of degrees and her extensive collection of published literary articles.
“Will people who have an ‘A’ in the class be required to take the final exam?”
That had been the first question after Quinn had introduced herself, given her credentials, and quoted a few lines from Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.”
Then the question floodgates opened. She’d spent the next two hours answering questions not about literature or authors, but about policy and grades. Quinn was exhausted by the time the class was over, but for the most part, she was encouraged. The students seemed receptive to finishing the last six weeks of class with her, and none of them had questioned her authority.
But unfortunately, the questions didn’t stop there. Over the next three days, Quinn spent nearly every hour she wasn’t working at the Eagle’s Nest dealing with student concerns. Hours’ worth of emails, phone calls, and face-to-face appointments, mostly from her online classes. Students wanted to make sure they understood what was going on and how their grades might be affected by getting a new teacher two-thirds of the way through the semester. She didn’t mind answering those legitimate questions.
But then the less legitimate ones started cropping up.
“Mr. Lewis gave me a failing grade for the midterm, and I’d like to retake that.”
“Mr. Lewis didn’t accept my homework for unit three. Yeah, it was three weeks late, but I feel like you should take a look at it.”
“Mr. Lewis taught me four years ago, and I didn’t pass the class. I was wondering if you could change my grade.”
“My grandparents died, and I haven’t been to class in five weeks.”
“I’ve been ill but forgot to get a doctor’s note, can I please come back to class?”
For three days, Quinn listened and tried to give students the benefit of the doubt when possible, but by the third full day of dealing with them, even that was getting more difficult. Finally, she gave up trying.
She got an email from a student explaining that he was a nontraditional student and hadn’t gelled well with Lewis’ teaching style. Apparently, he had stopped participating in the online class. He wrote that he had planned to come talk to Mr. Lewis, but time had gotten away from him. He wanted to come see Quinn and talk it out instead.
Quinn read the email, shaking her head. It was riddled with grammatical and spelling errors.
She doubted this student would pass her class at all if he couldn’t take time to proofread a message that asked for a favor.
“Sorry, Blake, the pathetic excuse train has already left the station,” she mumbled.
She quickly typed out an email and explained that his grade with Mr. Lewis would have to stand, but maybe he could take the class again next semester.