"It's not honors, but..."

I had a birthday this week. I'm old and young now, and it's actually the first time in years that it actually occurred to me that I am no longer 19 or 20. It's strange how that pseudo-teenage feeling stuck around for so long. Wishful thinking, perhaps? Who knows.

I had a meeting with my thesis advisor on that day. It was a busy day with work and going to the photo lab to turn in other homework, and when I got to her office, there was another student in there, also talking about some sort of thesis. Her French is beautiful, I thought to myself. Much more refined than mine. I waited, slightly awkardly. My insides churned a little; the deadline for my thesis is very soon, it should be done, but life, as I should have known, never runs the way I want it to. I'm not done.

I peered in the crack of the door, debating. Knock? Loud cough? I knew whoever was in there also needed the time to talk. I didn't technically have to talk to my advisor right away. Twenty minutes of stepping up to the door, lifting my hand and hesitating went by much quicker than I thought they would. Then suddenly they switched to English, talking about some format changes, and I heard my advisor exclaim that she'd forgotten about her other appointment: me. The door was yanked open and her head was there, just at my level, and I tried my best to grin and not look exhausted. "You should have knocked, or something!"

"Désolée," the other student said when she left, smiling conciliatorily at me. I shrugged. "Ben, ça va." I went inside and put my bag and waterbottle down on one end of the gold couch. It hugged my legs and sucked me down, making it hard to sit up straight. My shoulders squared, we began. The format was better, the phrasing had improved. Little things, all of them, but together it was a huge improvement. Ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, and then she leaned back in her chair and said, "I spoke with Chris Braider this week."

I nodded. I took a Lit Theory class with him a while ago. Pseudo-atheistic Quaker who grew up in Ireland and went to Trinity College. One of the best profs, and the most fascinating, I've had. He's now the French Honors Department chair.
"I wanted to check on the deadlines with him; I've been concerned with our speed of progress." The final copy is due on October 27. Defenses must be made by November 6. "But we spoke and no matter what happens, you'll be able to graduate."
I cocked my head, probably also squinting a little. "What do you mean?"
"If you truly only have until the 27th or 28th, we don't have enough time. We still have to correct the French." My advisor raises her eyebrows in that French way, making my insides churn once again. I feel for an instant like I'm about to hit the floor, but it passes and I smile. "I can do it," I hear myself saying.

"Well no matter what, if we do not make the deadline, Chris says you may present your paper as a senior essay. It's not honors, but..." she trails into oblivion, which also seems to be where I am going.
"But we can still try?"
"Of course. We will still work toward honors. And if it doesn't happen, well, it was just honors." I laugh a little, like the sad thing she just said was a joke about my life, which I suddenly realise it was. She laughs too, caught in the same sort of realisation. I look at her, and at the large calendar behind her. Dates and weeks twist in my head.
"So you don't think I have enough time?"
"Not if the date is truly the 27th, no. But..."
"I'll call tomorrow and double check."
"Ok," she says, looking at me strangely. I can't tell if it's pity or a milder sentiment. "Let's keep in touch, then, let me know what you find out."
"Of course. And I'll work this weekend using this new draft for a foundation."
"Good. Well, bon week-end!"
"Merci! A vous aussi."

I leave, she locks her door behind us, pausing to wave a little. I don't know if she's just waiting a while so we don't have to awkwardly walk down the stairs together, or if she is really going the other way, but it doesn't matter. I catch my breath, stop for a second in a dark corner, and breathe out. I feel sick and thirsty. Laughing, I shake my head and head down the stairs, focusing on the sound of my flats slapping the treated concrete. No one else is in the stair well, and the lump in my throat is getting larger. By the time I get down the three floors to the doors leading outside, I can barely swallow, and I'm hiding well behind my black sunglasses.

A girl looks at me strangely; she is entering the building through the door next to mine as I leave. I look back at her, about to challenge, when I realise my cheek is wet. I toss my head and lift my chin, at least superiority is easy to assume behind disks of anti-light. Fixing my cheek is easy; going to pick up my check from work and joking with my co-workers is the hard part.

Professor J. Sheeler

I seriously considered changing Sheeler's name, but as I was considering it, the realization dawned that I have absolutely nothing terrible to say. I suppose changing a name is more a protection for me than for the person involved, but, hey, it doesn't hurt to be kind.

I met Prof Sheeler about a year ago, in a reporting class at school. I believe it may have been his first semester teaching at the university, his alma mater. I remember walking into the classroom and thinking, "Oh my gosh it's Stephanie's dad."

My friend Stephanie's dad is small, slightly timid, and grins sideways when he doesn't seem to be exactly sure of what's going on. Sheeler seemed to be the same way: very slender, just below average height. I guess what really made the connection was that he was wearing khaki slacks and a white long-sleeve button-down shirt with a dark tie. Loafers and light brown hair parted on the side completed the ensemble of an altogether unassuming persona.

The students in my class arranged themselves relatively silently as we waited for the quiet man poking his fingers at his Mac to say something. Maybe he was nervous; I'll probably never know. When we found out the kind of writing he'd done in the past, my peers and I raised our eyebrows. How such a quiet-looking man could be an award-winning obituary reporter who'd also happened to write an award-winning book was nearly beyond me.

And then, all of a sudden, it made perfect sense. I thought of the past reporting/journalism professors I'd taken classes from in the past and suddenly I knew that there was no way I would have opened up during an interview with them as I would have talking to Sheeler.

As much as I generally do not enjoy reporting, Sheeler made the process much less painful. No question, at the end of the semester, the entire class was pretty much set on the belief that Sheeler was/is one of the best teachers who has ever graced the halls of the Armory.

I'm pretty sure that he's married with kids, although I don't know how many children he has. Two? Three? I could probably look up the information, but I'd rather not. It's like writing about people who have died or who have gone through terrible things has made Sheeler a calmer man, one who understands the meaning of being a person and not a source who gets quoted in the nut graph.

People in the J-school love Sheeler. He doesn't make it easy; he still makes us work for our grades and for our experiences. He's the kind of person who, if I ever saw him yell or even raise the level of his voice higher than just below speaking level, would shock me like crazy. Yet it also strikes me that the person he is in class could be altogether different from the person he is off of campus. Maybe he's a graffiti artist goth who spends his free time pulling off spiders' legs in the women's restroom. But as fascinating as that would be, I like it better that Sheeler is approachable and doesn't wear black lipstick. I feel like that would take away from his general cool-guy persona.