Dear Mr. Brody by A.M. Johnson
Donovan
Six Months Later
A nervous excitement coursed through me, my hands shaking as I packed my laptop into my bag. Glancing at the clock, I had about an hour before my class started. My class. I smiled and all the nervous energy lifted. I’d gotten a second job, part time as an adjunct professor at a small state college teaching an introductory creative writing class in the evening. After my divorce finalized a couple of months ago, I wanted to do something for myself. I’d always wanted to be a teacher. I loved writing, and being an agent was amazing, but I was tired of always feeling like a salesman. I wanted to be a part of the process, I wanted to help people create. But getting pregnant with Anne as fast as Lanie and I had, I hadn’t had the option of being picky. With my lack of experience, I would have had a better chance of getting struck by lightning than finding a spot as an English professor at any of the local colleges. I’d tried to look in my field of study for a job, and the only thing I’d found was an entry-level editor job at Bartley Press. It hadn’t been exactly what I’d wanted, but it had paid the bills. I’d worked my way up and found I didn’t hate being a copy editor. I’d worked there for eight years before Anders recruited me to work at his agency. The money sounded amazing, and I’d loved the idea of working with authors one on one.
Since my divorce, something had shifted. I moved out of the home I’d built with my ex-wife and moved into my small, three-bedroom house in Decatur, a suburb east of Atlanta. Anne was with me two nights a week and every other weekend, but my loneliness, when she wasn’t there, was bone deep. Nights were the worst. I couldn’t sleep, my mind would race, and I’d wonder about Anne, wonder if she’d brushed her teeth, if Lanie had remembered to read her our bedtime stories. It didn’t matter that there were always sixty minutes in every hour, in the darkness of night, time was infinite. A loop that never ended, and I needed something to fill all those seconds of worry and doubt. I’d found this part-time job through an old colleague at Bartley, and I snagged it. Winchester State College wasn’t a prestigious school, and the pay was nothing compared to what I made with Lowe, but it was something to do. Something to stop myself from overthinking every choice I’d made. To stop myself from sinking into depression. It would be too easy to allow the dark, the night, to swallow me whole.
I ran a hand through my hair and laughed at myself. Fuck, I was being overdramatic.
“Something funny?” Anders stood inside the doorway of my office.
The stern set of his shoulder belied the humor in his tone.
“Nah… just thinking.” I checked my watch. “I better head out if I’m going to make it on time.”
“I wanted to remind you about Wilder’s release party tomorrow, he’ll never let me live it down if I don’t invite everyone.”
“If Lanie is okay to watch Anne I can be there.” He seemed relieved. I wished I could say the same. I hadn’t been out to a club since college. “Why is he having it at a night club?”
Anders quirked his brow and shook his head. “I stopped asking him about his choices a long time ago. I love the guy, but he is hands down the most unpredictable author I have on my client list.”
“And the most lucrative,” I reminded him. Wilder was quirky, but I guess it didn’t matter when he was one of the top-grossing authors Lowe Literary represented.
“Touché…” He leaned against the doorjamb, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He seemed anxious, his eyes avoiding mine. “I know we already talked about this but… this professor job, it’s not something you’ll eventually want to do full time, right?”
“I’m not going anywhere, I promise. This is… I’m not sure how to explain it. I need something that’s just mine. That wasn’t a part of my life when I was with Lanie.”
“That makes sense.” He relaxed a little and gave me a small, sympathetic smile. “You’re a great agent, I don’t want to lose you.”
I laughed and his smile widened. “Trust me, I couldn’t afford the gas it would take to drive to WSC with what they’re paying me.”
“Is it terrible I’m glad the salary isn’t comparable?”
His chuckle was warm, and it lightened his mood even more. Anders was a hard ass when he wanted to be, but once you got to know him, once he trusted you and let you in, you’d never find someone more loyal.
“Maybe I’ll find the next Kurt Vonnegut in my class.”
He scoffed, arrogant as hell. “I highly doubt it. Let me know when you get sick of reading mediocre poems about adolescent loves lost, and kids looking for an easy A. Maybe I’ll give you a raise.”
“Hey, you never know,” I said, and he moved aside as I stepped out into the hall.
“Just don’t tell them you’re a literary agent, you’ll have a bunch of want-to-be Wilder Welles blowing up your inbox.”
“When did you get so cynical? Please tell me so I can skip that part of my thirties.”
He smirked as we rounded the corner to the lobby. Kris, his assistant, was on the phone. Her brows creased as she frowned. “I’ll tell him,” she said. “He’s in meetings for the rest of the afternoon, but I’ll let him know you called.” Kris exhaled, a tired smile forming on her lips as she hung up the phone. “Ready for your first day, Van?”
“Don’t encourage him.” Anders lips twitched, fighting a smile. “It’s almost like you want him to leave.”
“I liked it much better when you weren’t a smart ass,” she said. “But I suppose I have your fiancé to thank for that.”
“He has helped me reach my full potential.” Anders clapped me on the shoulder. “Seriously, though, good luck today.”
“Thanks… I’m going to need it.”
“Nonsense,” Kris chided, clucking her tongue like a mother hen even though she was my age. “You’ll knock ‘em dead.”
God, hopefully not of boredom.
I ignored the anxiety fluttering around in my stomach as I turned to leave. On the way to my car, the late August heat made the fabric of my dress shirt stick to me like a second skin. I rolled my sleeves to my elbows, but it did little to help. Once I was in my car, I cranked up the AC, hoping this job would be the thing I needed to move on, and not a giant mistake.
A few students were already in their seats when I walked into the classroom. I probably should have nodded my head or something, but I walked past them without an acknowledgement, far too anxious to even manage a smile.
Not very friendly, professor.
The room wasn’t as small as I thought it would be. Six long tables divided the room and could seat five students. The odd number of seats per row niggled at my already amped-up brain. What if there was only one seat left, and two students wanted to sit together on the same row? What if there was only one seat, and it was in the middle? Who the hell would want that seat? Not me, and Jesus Christ, I needed to calm down. I told myself to take a deep breath and set my laptop bag under my desk. A little less frazzled, I unzipped the bag and pulled out what I needed. I could hear the classroom door opening and closing, the whispered conversations hummed around me. I kept busy fiddling with the papers I’d set out, and took my time, breathing, counting backward from one hundred in my head. Counting was a tool I used. It soothed me. Numbers never changed. I hadn’t been this nervous in a while, and as I connected the wire from the overhead projector to my laptop, I internally laughed at myself. Most people considered me laidback, and for the most part I was, but every now and then, all the worry and insecurities I figured we all had to fight every day would stage a coup.
The time on my watch warned me I couldn’t delay any longer, and I inhaled deeply one last time as I raised my eyes and met the class.
“Good evening, everyone, I’ll try to make introductions as painless as possible.” Soft laughter sifted through the air, and I gained the confidence I needed to continue. I swept my gaze around the room, not lingering on one student for too long as I spoke. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but this is my first teaching job, so go easy on me.” A blonde girl in the front row blushed when my eyes landed on her, and I averted my gaze. Shit, I was awkward. “My name is Donovan Brody, and I’ll try to remember all of your names, but I can’t promise anything.”
One of the students near the back of the classroom raised his hand with a smirk. My heart rattled out a few unsteady beats as I braced myself for a smart-ass comment.
“Yes… Mr.—”
“Mills, sir. Parker Mills.”
His eyes, though I couldn’t decipher the shade from where I stood, twinkled with mischief. His features were classically handsome. A strong jaw, a sharp nose, full lips, and why the hell was I looking at his lips?
He ran a hand over his short, dirty blond hair, his smirk turning into a lopsided smile before I looked away. “Can we call you Donovan?”
Shit.
Could they?
I racked my brain, trying to remember if any of my professors were okay with being called by their first names and came up blank. Parker chuckled at my hesitation and my face heated.
“I think Mr. Brody would be most appropriate.”
He tapped his pencil to his bottom lip. “Noted.”
I should have moved on. I had an entire speech prepared about my history with Bartley Press, and how writing was my passion, but for some damn reason I went off script. “How about we all take a second to get to know each other. Tell us your name, and something about yourself you’d like to share. Starting with you, Mr. Mills.”
The guy sitting next to him stifled a laugh, but I ignored it. Putting students on the spot hadn’t been my intention, these icebreaker tactics were my least favorite when I was in school. But writing was personal, and if I wanted them to create together, we had to get comfortable with each other.
“As you already know, my name’s Parker Mills, but call me Parker or Park, it doesn’t matter to me. I served four years in the Air Force. I’m getting a late start at college, but I’m grateful to be here.”
“Thank you for your service,” I said, and he lowered his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck as he nodded, his humility surprised me. “And how about you?” I asked his friend.
“Name’s Marcos Basulto, I’m a design major, but this idiot made me take this class with him.” He elbowed Parker and he winced.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, but I needed the extra humanities credit so…”
Marcos waved his hand dramatically for me to move on, and I noticed his nails were painted bright pink. It stood out against his tan skin, but the color suited him.
“Well, Mr. Basulto, I hope this class won’t be a waste of your time.” I hadn’t meant to sound as harsh as I had, so I added, “I’m glad you’re here.”
It took about fifteen minutes for the whole class to introduce themselves. The majority of the twenty-three students were here for the humanities credits, only a handful wanted to be actual writers. It disappointed me what Anders had said might’ve been right, that most of these kids would write bullshit, looking for an easy A. My hopes had been high, but I refused to lower the bar. If they wanted an A, they would have to earn it.
“Let’s get started,” I said, and Marcos raised his hand.
“What about you?” he asked, speaking before I had a chance to address him. “Aren’t you going to tell us some random facts about yourself? I mean, it’s only fair.”
A quiet wave of smiles and laughter streamed through the room again, but Parker kept his eyes glued to the desk, slumping down in his chair as his friend beamed. Apparently making people uncomfortable was something he did for sport.
“You’re right, Mr. Basulto. It’s only fair.” I leaned against the desk. “I worked as a copy editor for most of my career until I started two years ago at Lowe Literary as an agent, helping writers to get published, and managing their careers. But I’ve always wanted to teach, so here I am.”
A young woman near the back shoved her hand in the air. “Do you work with famous authors?”
“Sometimes… and no, I’m not at liberty to discuss which authors I represent.” I smiled as I picked up the course syllabus from my desk and started to pass them out. “Though this is a writing class, I’ll be requiring you to read three books over the semester.” A collective groan echoed throughout the class, and I tried not to laugh. “Come on now, three books in fifteen weeks isn’t a lot to ask.”
I made my way up the aisle, giving each student at the end of a row a few handouts to pass down, when I reached Parker, he thanked me and grinned. This close it was easier to decipher the light sapphire color of his eyes. A familiar twinge warmed my stomach and I looked away. Swallowing, I found my voice as I made my way back to my desk. “It’s important, as a writer, to never stop reading, expanding your vocabulary. You may choose whatever three novels you like, but they must be fiction, and they must not all be in the same genre.”
A student from the second row, Gerald if I remembered correctly, asked, “What’s a genre?”
I had to stop myself from cringing.
Was he kidding?
“It’s a type of book.” Another student answered for me.
“That’s correct,” I said. “Fiction is a genre, but within fiction there are other genres.” He chewed his lip as he furiously wrote down what I was saying. “Young adult, mystery, women’s fiction, historical fiction… For the purposes of this class, I would like you to try and pick at least one classic.”
“Classic, like Hemingway?” Parker asked.
Though it shouldn’t have mattered to me, I wondered why he’d taken this class. Why he’d forced his friend to take it with him? Did he want to be a writer, or was he here for a quick three credits like most of his classmates?
“Sure… Bronte, Fitzgerald, or even Salinger are acceptable. There’s this marvelous thing called a library if you find you’re having trouble picking a book.”
“Ha-ha.” He smirked again, and I found myself smiling as well. “I hear Google is great too.”
“Indeed, Mr. Mills. It is.” I held onto his gaze longer than I should have, and a wide smile spread across his lips.
I couldn’t tell if this guy was a class clown or not, but despite his sarcasm, he seemed like he wanted to be here, unlike his friend who looked half asleep at his side. As I spoke, I raised my voice and Marcos jumped. “Now, for your first assignment.”
Another chorus of groans.
This was going to be a long semester.