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wire glasses and too-big blue eyes and a gangly,
uncoordinated build. And he knows what he’s talking about.
“I don’t know the particulars of medieval Latin—my research
is mostly on Cicero,” he explains when we first meet over a
table in the library, with a quick, business-like handshake,
“but I’m here to help you with basic structures, grammar,
vocabulary, that kind of thing, so you can get a better handle
on the framework of the language. Your advisor or professor
or whoever should be able to deal with the semantic
differences.” He actually meets my eyes, and smiles. “Er, hi.
I’m Calvin.”

“Jess,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
We do Latin for an hour and a half, which is half an hour
more than he’s actually supposed to be helping me for. When
he finally gets up and walks out of the library, I have his
phone number and a much better handle on the passive
perfect tense and a coffee date, without the tutoring,
scheduled for tomorrow, and my day has improved
immensely. Sometimes, graduate school kind of sucks, but
sometimes it’s kind of great, too.

⁂

Dr. Santoma steeples his fingers and looks at me over
them. “Good afternoon, Jessica,” he says. He’s never quite
gotten the hang of calling me by my nickname, even though
he’s been my advisor since I started grad school. “I trust
things are well?”

I like Dr. Santoma a lot. He’s a leader in his field; he’s a
surprisingly nice guy; he’s been nothing but supportive of me
since I’ve been here. But today, for some reason, there is
nothing but a vague and unfounded sense of irritation at him,
boiling under my skin.

“Things are fine,” I reply.
“You will be taking your comprehensive exams at the end
of this semester, I believe?”

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