Pupil: Inspired By a True Story Page 2

  “Part of the Earnsley philosophy is to treat students like peers,” she says. “We’re all scholars, researchers, artists... it’s a vast and vibrant community of passionate learners. It really is a special place.”

  “Noted.”

  She’s still typing feverishly. I imagine that rhetoric spews from her mouth on autopilot at this point.

  “Please, Adam, have a seat. Can I get you some water?”

  I say yes, just to watch her get up and get me a drink. The wheels of her chair squeak against the wood floor as she pushes away from the desk, standing up to reveal the long legs I expected. Her high heels are dark, chocolate brown pumps with a double strap around the ankle. She returns with a small bottle of water, handing it to me in my seat.

  “Thanks,” I say with a smile.

  She nods and turns on one heel back to her seat.

  “Clark!”

  A much younger man than I expected to be meeting with today stands in dark wash jeans and a casual shirt in the doorway to the foyer. His skin is tan, he’s in good shape. He might as well be stretching his arms above his head and doing pull ups from the dark wood door frame.

  “Mr. Sterling?” I stand, picking up my portfolio.

  “Such formality!” He slaps me on the back and leads me into his office with a big grin.

  The door to his office is covered in stills from movies. Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, The Usual Suspects. There’s one of Uma Thurman sitting across from John Travolta in that restaurant, Jack Rabbit Slims. Below a silver plaque with his name engraved on it is a quote is printed out on thick paper. It says:

  “First, kill all the lawyers.”

  I like this guy already.

  The inside of his office looks like it’s inhabited by a twenty-two-year-old who just graduated film school. He shuts the door behind us as I take it all in. A large, shiny poster sits directly behind his head, stretched almost end to end with the wall, a scene from the movie Blow Up. His silver hair is the only thing that gives away his age. He sits behind his large oak desk in a plush leather swivel chair and I sit down across from him, trying to identify the action figures lined up at the front of the desk. I start to laugh. I can’t help it.

  “You’re wondering how the fuck I landed this job, huh?” he asks, reading my mind. “My mother graduated from Earnsley. I’ve always loved the school. Well, not during ‘the dark times, when that horrible woman was running things and tried to make it into something it’s not. It’s not conservative. It never will be. You should hear the stories my mother tells from the 1970s! It was a really exciting place, and that’s the heart of the institution. Anyway, I digress. I spent some time in LA as a producer.”

  I nod, sitting back in my chair.

  “Not as glamorous as it sounds. Mostly reality TV. I helped produce the first few seasons of The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, The Millionairess, other shit like that. When old Denninger died, that’s the name of the previous head of the visual arts department, I applied for the job. Some strings got pulled, I think, but the producer cred helped things.”

  This has got to be the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.

  “Anyway, I got your name from your friend Lana. We knew each other back in the day, she’s from LA, but I’m sure you know that. Great makeup artist. Her aunt used to teach our poetry department before she switched to administration. Woman has been here for decades. Anyway, she slipped me your pictures. Holy shit, man. That’s some hot stuff you’ve got there.”

  I might land this job after all. I’ve identified the action figures. They’re Zed, Marcellus, and Butch from Pulp Fiction. Bruce Willis’ character, but I forget the other guys’ names.

  “My real passion is film, if you couldn’t guess.” He laughs. “I studied at Columbia then went out to LA, like everyone else looking to get into the entertainment industry. Now I’m heading up this department, and grit and edge like yours is exactly what we need here. I saw some of the old Earnsley spirit in your photos.”

  I lean down to my messenger bag and take out my portfolio. I hand it to him. He starts flipping through the colorful portraits of my clients, a sea of red lips and push up bras. He sits back in his chair, so far back I’m afraid he’ll fall over.

  “The kids would go nuts for this. This is exactly what the photography department needs, man. Some life. Something exciting.”

  “Here’s my resume...” I offer, handing him the hard copy I took the time to print out on 100% cotton, exceptional resume paper.

  “Yeah, I have it,” he says, not looking up from the photos. I put the resume down on his desk. “Mmm. Yes,” he says, slapping the booklet closed. “Okay, so you’d be teaching one class to start, since it’s the beginning of the spring semester we’d add you to the course catalog really quickly. Can you come up with a concept and a description? Something that integrates your experience? You’d have to run it by me and the rest of the department for approval, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He prints out a piece of paper and hands it to me. “This is what the position pays. We offer full benefits. I had to fight really hard to make that happen.”

  The figure is modest, but certainly more than I’m making with my portraits. I could pay my rent and commute to and from this lovely little college, and hopefully Joe won’t bug me too much. Yes, I like this vision for myself.

  “This looks really good to me. Are you... you’re trying to return Earnsley to its roots, right?”

  “Yeah. Totally.” He leans in. “Look, Adam. I like you. I love your work. I trust Lana. The position is yours if you want it. I know a hundred MFA grads who’d slit my throat for saying that, but there it is. I really think you could bring an important voice to the school. At least you’d help enrollment! The young hipsters would go crazy for you!”

  I can’t believe he just offered me the job on the spot. I’ve hit the MFA holy grail.

  “Anyone who tells you Academia isn’t full of nepotism...” he says, trailing off.

  “Joe, this looks great. I’d love the position,” I cut him off before he implicates himself any further.

  He smiles and stands up, offering me a strong handshake. After a quick visit to their HR department, I have a start date. I’m still skeptical as Rose, the woman I met at the front desk, takes me on a small tour of the campus. Her sensible heels are clicking against the pavement as she braces her weight walking down the hills.

  “And over there, that’s another set of dorm rooms. Gorgeous, really. The Tudor-style buildings really make you feel like you’re in Stratford-on-Avon.”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

  We’re passing throngs of young women and a few lanky skinny white guys who obviously have inflated egos. There’s seven women to every guy. I do not envy these guys the rude awakening they’ll get when they graduate and these gorgeous, smart women are no longer giggling at their jokes or twisting their hair in admiration.

  The three-piece suit was a good idea. I fit right in as a well-dressed professor type who knows how to take care of himself. And I’m getting a hell of a lot of looks and smiles. I keep reminding myself how young they all are. It’s becoming something of a mantra, to be honest. If Joe’s LA version of business attire was any indication, I don’t need to wear a suit to teach here. A young woman in a tight sweater passes Rose and me, flashing me the kind of smile that makes me wonder for a split second if perhaps I should.

  Chapter 3: Carrie

  I feel like I’m sitting in the middle of a witches’ coven. Crouched in a circle of girls on the dark blue carpeted floor of the Roden Performance Hall, we’ve all got our heads in a book. The hall is empty except for me and about eight of my female friends, and we all have copies of the shiny hunter green spring semester course catalog open, blocking our faces. I look up and over my book for a moment to see all of my friends deeply engaged, reading the material. That’s one of my favorite things about this school. I’d say it’s almost an expression of my
personality. Passionate, ambitious, and academic, but with a dirtier mind than you realize. I don’t care who tried to make this school conservative, I’ve been here two years and it’s just as debaucherous behind closed doors as it was before the former dean took office.

  The courses here are amazing. They offer things like a philosophy course entitled “Ruminations on Death,” another course called “Theatre from a Forensic Perspective” (whatever that means), “Light and Shadows: A Study in Cinematography,” and of course, my beloved actor workshops.

  “Carrie, why are you even looking for seminars, aren’t you doing a theater concentration again?” my friend Michelle adjusts her glasses and asks.

  It’s true. I’ve starred in almost every single theater production Earnsley has put on since I got here. I even got to play Cleopatra in Antony and Cleopatra last semester. Michelle was our stage manager and I couldn’t do anything at all without her. Seriously. That girl is a goddess of productivity and competence.

  “I’m doing a theater concentration but it’s only taking up two-thirds of my course load. I want to explore other things.” Michelle looks at me, a deeply confused expression on her face. In theater, there are no other things. “Things like, history. Or photography.”

  “Holy. Fucking. Shit.” Alexis calls out like her book is on fire. She clears her throat for emphasis.

  “Click the Shutter- Pinup!” she reads aloud. “Can you believe this? Listen to the description. ‘This studio class will explore aesthetic and conceptual facets of photography. Students may use analog (film) or digital capture to make either black-and-white or color photographs. The class is inspired by Professor Adam Clark’s extensive experience as a freelance pinup and boudoir photographer in Brooklyn, New York. Along with his team of stylists, Adam is hired to bring out each client’s inner beauty, helping them to see all the possibilities of feminine expression. The goal of this course is to inspire students to the medium to discover and express a personal aesthetic vision. Flip to page 339 for more about Adam Clark.’”

  Alexis flips feverishly to Adam’s biography page. Once there, she raises an eyebrow and lowers the book toward her lap, legs crossed. Her mouth is slightly open.

  “What? What is it?” we all yell.

  “Look at this sexy motherfucker!” she says. “He’s like, our age.”

  She turns the book toward the coed coven and we all gasp. This guy is absolutely gorgeous. The sight of him gives me shivers. You know, when you see someone who is just so ridiculously handsome that your brain sends shivers down your spine in disbelief? Yeah, like that. Adam is smiling in a black and white photograph. He’s in a three-piece suit, his head is tilted to show off his chiseled jaw, his sandy blond hair is cut short but looks thick and wavy, exactly the kind of hair you want to run your hands through over and over. I can tell he’s a tall drink of water from looking at those limbs. Mmmm.

  This picture looks like it’s from a spread in GQ. He’s sitting on a ledge with his legs propped up, looking off into the distance. Who the heck ran this picture in the course catalog? Ha. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing, that’s who. His enrollment is going to go through the roof. I wish my headshots looked that good.

  “He’s older than us, for sure, but not by much,” I say as I bite my lip.

  “Uh oh,” Michelle says.

  “What?” I ask, indignant. “He could be married. Or have a girlfriend.”

  “Ha. We all know what that means. Redhead on the loose.”

  My friends think I’m going to seduce a teacher, how ridiculous. I’ve never done that,actually. I’ve dated around campus, that’s true, but there are so few men here anyway that every guy you meet has dated at least two of your friends. It’s kinda gross.

  “Oh please. Don’t you guys have a little more faith in me than that?”

  They all look up at me, different colored eyes blinking. Some brown, some blue, some hazel. The only green ones are mine, a redhead with green eyes and alabaster skin. Everyone tells me I look like Alexandra Breckinridge or Emma Stone. I’ll take it. They get lots of lead roles.

  “Now, where do I sign up for this damn class?” They all collapse in laughter. I sit up a bit straighter. “Guys, think about it. He structures entire photoshoots around making women feel beautiful in lingerie. Tell me, which one of you wouldn’t want a guy like that photographing you in lingerie? I can’t believe they approved this course. Who am I kidding, I probably won’t even get in. I’ll get bumped and be stuck taking Buddhism with Cardoni again.”

  “You’re sure thinking a lot about this already,” Alexis teases.

  I look down at the picture and there’s that jolt of excitement again. Who cares. Maybe I am. I start packing up my messenger bag.

  “Gonna go stalk Mr. Clark?” Alexis teases me again, her voice in sing-song. I wink at her, and the entire group “ooooooooohs” at me like we’re in middle school. This will be fun.

  I have to drop some papers off in the main theater building first. I still get a thrill from seeing the Antony and Cleopatra poster blown up the size of the whole front wall. I’m pictured front and center. The black wig they had me wear wasn’t completely terrible. My parents drove up from Boston for it, and they were so proud.

  “Oh, honey! You looked just like Liz Taylor! And you played the queen even better than she did!” my father gushed on opening night, almost knocking my wig off with his bear hug. He’d worn a shirt and a blazer that night, even though he’s a jeans and flannel kind of guy. My mother had tears in her eyes behind a huge bouquet of flowers.

  My father drives a truck for a living, or at least he did until he retired. My mom works at the local library. Neither of them went to college, and they’re so proud that I’m here on a theater scholarship. My mother’s obsession with film made me want to be an actor, and I spent most weekends growing up watching old screen sirens ooze power and sensuality. Rita Hayworth is my idol, and that one scene from Gilda where she flips her hair forward cemented it for me. It was completely magical.

  Most of my friends at Earnsley grew up with more money than I can fathom. I took a class in social psychology my freshman year (I thought it would help my acting), and the professor asked how many of us had grown up with a nanny. We were a class of about twenty kids. I was one of two who didn’t raise their hands.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. I fell in love with it when my high school had a college fair. I spent an hour talking to the admissions rep, who told me about the rigorous academic program, the small student/teacher ratio, and the fact that the student body is made up of mostly either writers or theater kids. My own research acquainted me with the reputation for the school. I didn’t tell my parents that bit, nor did I get my hopes up that I’d ever be able to attend until I got my scholarship info in the mail. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me to date. Well, that and every show I’ve ever worked on.

  Ah ha. Here it is. The signup sheet for Adam Clark’s “Click the Shutter-Pinup!” course. I almost spit out my sip of green tea when I see how many names are already on the list, almost all of them female. There are thirty spaces and all of them are taken up. I pick up the pencil that’s hanging from a string on the wall, feeling like I’m signing up to audition for a role. I basically am. I scratch the words “Carrie Desmond” below the last line.

  Chapter 4: Adam

  It’s the first day of classes. My alarm went off at an ungodly hour, but I jumped right out of bed. I’m determined to do well at this. I’m in the shower soaping up and my mind starts running through all the ways this class could go. I can’t believe how many people signed up for the course. We’re at capacity. Joe was right. I was reticent about the use of that picture in the catalog, it’s a headshot that Lana took of me ages ago. Joe went completely nuts over it, though, and insisted. He really wants to beef up those numbers. I turn the water off and grab a fluffy white towel, wrapping it around my waist. I find my cat, Angie, sitting creepily in front
of the bathroom door when I open it.

  “Hello, miss,” I say.

  She’s a long-haired calico of sorts. She blinks at me slowly, and I’ve been told that means she loves me. As I move to the closet, she follows me. Cute.

  With Lana’s expert assistance, I’ve acquired another suit as well as separates to go with my bespoke one. I have all the material for the lesson I’m teaching in my bag. It’s been quadruple checked.

  I let the towel fall to the floor and get dressed. I go to the gym almost every single day now, and my abs are defined to prove it. I splash some cologne on. I’m not shaving today. I’ve really perfected the one-day “oops, I didn’t mean to be hot” stubble. Angie weaves around my feet.

  Once dressed, I drop a bowl of wet food next to her water dish. She trills at me, pushing into my hand as I pet her.

  By the time I get to the train, I have my usual bagel and coffee from Zaro’s in Grand Central. My palms are practically sliding off the cup. Come on, Adam. They’re just kids. I’ve opted for my three-piece suit with a different shirt. In forty minutes, I’ve reached the Earnsley campus.

  I make my way to my classroom, weaving through students and faculty. A tall brunette winks at me over her books. Her friend punches her in the arm. It seems like a lot of the female students as well as a lot of the male ones are looking at me most intently this morning. I laugh to myself. That damn picture. Okay, here it is, the visual arts building. I take the elevator to the fourth floor and pass the office I’m sharing with one other faculty member. He teaches on Mondays and Wednesdays, I’m Tuesdays and Thursdays for now. He’s a huge fan of Annie Leibovitz, if the walls are any indication.

  I make my way to room four-fifty. I can see through the classroom window that the round table is completely packed with women. Not a seat empty. The class doesn’t start for another five minutes. Guess I won’t have any latecomers today. I chuckle. God, I hope this goes well. I take a deep breath and turn the knob.