I must thank Pam for the chapter inspiration. She presented the issue to me, and I took it and ran with it. I used her exact wording at one point, so here's my footnote even though it's above it...


I really regretted wearing those shoes. Seriously. If the students pay 40 gazillion dollars a year, you think that the University could afford a proper snowplow. Apparently not, though, the sidewalks are rough and over sanded. Not salted, sanded. It does no good. I stumble and twist on my shoes and I curse them and the University every time. And Marc, but that's just because I blame him for everything.

I finally made it to the Centre without twisting or losing an ankle. Whereupon I was greeted by a horrific sight. There were sorority girls ALL over the place. Doing...sorority type things, and it frightened me. No, it wasn't that. They were doing some sort of pancake thing. Some were wearing aprons, and some were wearing big dorky hats and there was much abuse of the colour pink, and much collar poppiness. But that was not the worst assault on my eyes, no. Bar none, this was the worst.

The sign only caught in the edge of my vision, so I stepped closer to read it. It was one of those hippie type posters. I like reading them normally because they make me laugh – whatever cause they were supporting this week could only serve to lighten the mood that had been so pinkified.

The University Wants to Make Your Classes Suck More!

Intrigued, I decided to read more. I wish I hadn't.

In smallerish font, there was a large long paragraph. Someone needed to explain to the hippies the requirements of signmaking. Short, sweet slogans get your point across. People don't like to read!

"Normally, professors are required to teach three classes a semester." I counted on my fingers. Yes, I was teaching three. "And these classes, 56 of students say, are mediocre choices." Hey, made up statistics! I can do that too! 100 percent of history professors who are likely to get fired this semester are mildly amused by this poster! Oh, right, focus. "They want to change the requirements to: teaching 3 classes one semester, but other semester they want to teach only 2 classes."

Who wants to do that? I hadn't heard about this! No one tells me anything, I grumbled. But I kept reading. "We cannot stand for a decrease in class choice when already the choices are thin." All I could think of was the repetition of the word choice. But the students had a point. The last line listed some contact info for some group definitely opposed to it. Then, as I was reading it, it was ripped from the wall. "Hey!" I snapped. "I was reading that." The kidnapper turned and revealed the face of Seleznick.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Professor." He sneered. I thought about slapping it off his face but then remembered how much trouble that got me in before.

"Never mind, I shouldn't be surprised that you're against this."

He grinned. "Yeah, I'm against it."

"I just—nevermind."

"Why are you in agreement, Professor?"

"What do you care? You never attend class anyway." I turned and walked away. Carefully, because I really did not want to fall in those heels in front of him. I'd found a new cause to add to my reasons to fire me. Oh, dammit, I still had to confront the Dean Squad about Lindsay tomorrow. Perhaps the trip to SFU would be a nice respite from all of this negative energy here.

As I stepped in line, Ethan Frieda came up and tapped me on the shoulder. "A.J., I've some bad news."

"What's that?"

"I'm not going to be teaching here next year. You'll have to find a new partner for the FSC."