The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Nine EMILY

Chapter Nine

E MILY

I reread the description one more time to make sure this is the best choice. Per the back of the Benjamin Moore paint swatch: Hummingbird Green is vibrant, buzzing with energy and confidence. We have a winner. I’m sold on those keywords alone.

I’m not quite Action Emily, but I do feel different today, like I’ve taken a step or two back toward her. I’d never have guessed that mixing up my routine or punching things really hard could be just what the doctor ordered, could knock something loose inside me, yet here we are.

I’m tired of gray walls; they make me feel gray. I’m ready to add some color back into my life, and Hummingbird Green is just the ticket. What the description doesn’t mention is that it’s the color of the Brazilian canopy of jungle leaves at midday, when the sun is filtering down through them, but that’s probably only a selling point to me.

The thought of recapturing a tiny bit of the feeling I had when I first entered the rain forest is too profound to ignore. I can’t help but think of Jeremy that day by the waterfall. Maybe it’s dangerous to paint the walls a color that brings me back to an old love, rather than to my current one, but I sort of don’t care.

I texted Liv about my plans earlier and she texted back an endless string of hearts and an I love that for you!!!

“Hi, I want this one,” I tell the young paint store clerk. She’s a cool girl with pierced eyebrows and a purple streak in her bangs. She sets down her thick Sarah J. Maas fantasy paperback and takes the paint swatch from me.

“Ooh, solid choice—lots of dimension,” she replies. “This color reminds me of dragon scales.”

I’m taking this as a compliment.

We’re in the week before spring finals, so I have time to paint the living room—I’m using the same final exam as last year. A lot of professors change their exams from quarter to quarter, but since my students aren’t serious about this class, it doesn’t matter, anyway. If the students go into their fraternity test banks and study the answers from the last exam, maybe they’ll absorb something. Maybe they’ll just pass and move on. I don’t care.

As the paint shakes in the giant mixing contraption, I gather what else I’ll need: drop cloths, tape, paint rollers, really, everything. I haven’t done a single improvement to my place in the two years I’ve lived there. I plan to tackle the walls later, as soon as I finish office hours, and I’m actually kind of excited. I’ll get a big iced coffee, maybe listen to a jam band, make it a party. Miles hates Dave Matthews so I stopped listening to him. Today calls for a little Under the Table and Dreaming , I think.

I anticipate my office hours being busy. The kids who skipped all quarter will approach me with Hail Marys to try to pass the class. I’m guessing I’ll have at least ten dead grandmas, six ugly breakups, four cases of strep, three work-based dilemmas, two car troubles, and one wild card.

Truth? I look forward to the wild card. The wild card excuse for missing class could be anything from an alien abduction to a blistering case of gonorrhea. That kid I actually believed; if you could choose any lie—and I have heard them all—it wouldn’t be that. His attendance had been good prior to his ill-fated spring break trip to Matamoros. He shared more details than I cared to hear. There was some crying as well, ugly crying, necessitating a handkerchief. My advice to him was to (a) take a strong antibiotic, stat, and (b) never again accept a double-dog dare from the buddy everyone called Garbage Mouth. Fun fact: I have yet to fail a single student who’s hit me with the wild card. Sometimes their fabulism is the only thing that gets me through the quarter.

When I’m back in my office, my door flies open and Taylor launches in, uninvited. She’s all panic, no disco. She’s in such a state that she’s not even filming herself. “I thought we were dope?” she demands. She waves her term paper at me.

“Dope in what respect?” I ask.

“You said I could turn in my paper late, and then you failed me anyway? I don’t get Fs?”

Hoo-boy, that paper was a hot mess. She really should have tried to pass off AI as her own work. She put a lot of effort into demonstrating that not a single thing I’ve taught this quarter sank in. If possible, she lost knowledge. “Except in this case, you do. I didn’t fail you for a late paper, Taylor. I gave you your exception and I didn’t penalize you. You or anyone else, for that matter. No, I failed you because you demonstrated zero understanding of the importance of recycling—your chosen topic.”

She knots her impeccably sculpted brows. “I disagree?”

I say, “I’m feeling magnanimous today, so I’ll make you a deal, Taylor. If you can talk me through some of the concepts, I’m willing to reconsider the grade. Maybe you’re better at tests than essays. Does that sound fair to you?”

“I don’t know, but okay?”

“Great. Let’s do this. So, tell me, what is slurry?” I’m referring to the soupy mixture of insoluble particles, like lime or mud or concrete, often generated on construction sites. It’s crucial to test slurry before disposal because pollutants in the mixture can cause higher pH levels and they’re often toxic. Improper slurry disposal is dangerous because it can lead to flooding and erode metal. That said, slurry can also contain valuable nutrients that help mitigate ammonia emissions in agriculture. I actually saw how farmers used slurry in Ireland once, which resulted in a long weekend with a ginger named Seamus. This was in pre-Jeremy time. He had a neck the size of a corned beef. It was a glorious three days.

Thinking about Seamus reminds me that I had a pretty exciting life before Jeremy and it’s possible I could have one after. (How wrong is it that Miles isn’t even in the mix of my thinking?)

If Taylor can touch on any facet of slurry—hell, if she even mentions drinking a Guinness—I’ll chalk it up to poor wordsmithery and let it go. She can have her D.

Taylor appears hopeful. “Slurry sounds icy and delicious?”

I am trying to give this to her, I really am, but she has to show me something, anything. “Nope. How about this—what is photodegradable?” This is an easy one. It means capable of decomposing when exposed to light, particularly sunlight. If she just takes the prefix “photo,” which means light, and pairs it with “degradable,” which means ... degradable, she’s got this. Also, the infographic about this is two feet to her left. She doesn’t need to think, she just needs to turn her head and read aloud. I cut my eyes toward it, trying to give her a fat clue.

Taylor chews on one of her pointy nails while trying to come up with her answer. “When you’re tagged in a bad Insta?”

“Strike two.” In good conscience, I can’t pass her if she doesn’t demonstrate a kernel of understanding. But I also want her out of my hair next quarter, so I pitch her the lowest, slowest ball I can think of, even though that’s totally against my nature. “What does it mean to go green ?” If she doesn’t understand that I’m referring to being environmentally conscious, then abandon all hope ye who enter here.

She screws up her forehead, really trying to work this one through. I can almost picture the little hamster running in the Habitrail of her brain. “Something about St. Paddy’s Day?”

Heavy sigh. A first grader could answer this question. “Taylor, you didn’t earn an F. You earned an F minus. You literally didn’t grasp a single thing I taught you,” I say.

“Isn’t that more a reflection of your efforts than of mine?” she says with a pout.

Okay, that smarts and maybe requires some self-reflection, but today is not the day. “Your failure is my final answer, Taylor. I suggest you study hard for the final if you want to pass the class.”

“But I disagree? And I’d have to retake the class over summer school because I’ve already got my fall coursework set?”

I shrug. “Again, your destiny is within your hands, not mine. Hit the books. Maybe see if your sorority house keeps a copy of the exam on file and use that as a study guide.” I am trying to throw her a bone, truly.

She changes her tactic from righteous indignation to pleading. “But I didn’t use AI to write it?”

“Too bad. AI actually knows what it means to recycle,” I reply. “Here, I’m going to type ‘go green’ into Bard AI. It says: ‘ Go green is a phrase that means to make lifestyle changes that are more environmentally friendly. It can also refer to products or services that are considered environmentally friendly.’ Honestly, Taylor, that’s the answer I wanted. I can’t simplify it more, and trust me, I wish I could.”

Taylor scowls and crosses her arms. “Then why don’t I go talk to the associate dean about how unfair you are?”

Ah, I see we’ve moved on to threats. I came back from Brazil fearful of a lot that never previously scared me, but a ditzy, entitled nineteen-year-old isn’t one of them. “Then I’ll tell you where to find his office. He’s down the hall and to the left. His name is Miles. By the way, don’t stick your tongue in his ear; he’ll get vertigo.”

Taylor lets out a frustrated yip before turning on her heel and stomping off. I chuckle. If only she’d told me she had gonorrhea.

“Byeee!” I call.

Probably not necessary—or terribly mature—but damn, that felt good.

“How’s that for taking a different approach to what bothers me, Mr. Zeus It’s-Not-Important?”

Wait, what if I do need to know?

I think it’s time for a Google search. You can find everyone on the internet if you try hard enough. Fact.