Elizabeth the First Wife (14 page)

I backed off. “There's nothing to worry about, Dad. It's a couple of months and then I'll be back, hopefully recharged and ready to remodel. Maybe even with a book deal. See, all good. But I won't be back with my ex-husband. I promise you.”

He looked relieved and satisfied, as if he had to hear me say out loud that I had no interest in FX so he could really believe it. With newfound confidence, he took in the scene around him. Maya Kim, a student from last semester, walked by and waved. I returned the gesture. My father noted the exchange. “You know, you're a much better teacher than I am.”

Okay, now I was slightly astonished. “Really? Then where's my Nobel?”

“That's for research, not for teaching. I hate teaching. It's a necessary evil so I can continue my work.”

That's not the reality I remembered. “Your students love you. I grew up with all those adoring grad students hanging around the house, drinking Mom's coffee. I saw the way they looked at you, like you were Jesus with a laptop.”

He laughed. “My students don't adore me, they fear me. And they should. I have no patience for fools, and most eighteen-year-olds are fools.”

“Some, not all,” I countered.

“See, that's what makes you a better teacher. Every couple of years, a kid comes along with real talent, someone who deserves my time. But most of them? They're smart and they end up with PhDs, but then they go into managing hedge funds or writing computer models for the oil industry, not advancing physics. But you believe in your students and their promise.”

I was touched. And then I felt a little foolish. I really did think every kid deserved a shot. So many of my students had done amazing things to get this far: escaped extreme poverty, learned English from cartoons, worked two jobs to support their families and pay for college. They embodied the work ethic of yesteryear, not the
expectations of the entitled generation. True, not every student was a poster child for the American Dream, but a lot were. “Is that a weakness?”

“No! Have you seen your ratings on
rottenprofessors.com
?” I let out a big belly laugh. The image of my father checking out the evil but all-powerful professor-ranking site was too much. “You have four out of five stars! And three chilies for hotness. I only have two stars and no chilies.”

Now he was killing me. “That's because you have like ninety percent men in your classes. I'm sure the few female students you have think you're hot. They just don't rate statistically. You're at least two chilies.” And then, because it seemed impolite to ignore his efforts and because it had been on my mind, I asked, “Do you really think I should put together a resume and send it to your friend at Redfield?”

“Nah. Not unless you really want to. But tell your mother you did and then we're both off the hook.”

FX had taken to texting me at all hours of the day and night with little bits of information and inspiration: Heard Ashland has great farmer's market. Or: Theseus is asshole. Don't remember hating him this much in college. Even quotes from the play that tickled his fancy: Joy gentle friends. Joy and Fresh love accompany your hearts.

The texts were little pick-me-ups and a way to stay close but not too close, as I finished up the last few weeks of school and prepared for the summer. I'd spend a few moments composing witty replies, then get back to grading papers or doing research.

But on this particular Wednesday, FX texted me with a simple statement: Taz is in. Then he followed up separately with a message that seemed less than manly: !!!!!!!

I'll be honest, of all the aspects of my gig with FX, working
with noted director and creative genius Taz Buchanan was the most terrifying. Advising a movie star ex-husband was nothing compared to monitoring the man
Time
magazine called “The Visionaries' Visionary.” (Guess they needed to sell some magazines that week to the TED crowd.) Taz Buchanan had pushed theatrical productions to the level of grand opera and turned small, dark stories into movie mega-musicals. No Taz Buchanan production was ever just on the surface level. He dug deep. He dug sideways. He turned things up on end and over again. His take on
Death of a Salesman
, set against the fall of Lehman Brothers, was currently burning up the boards in the West End, thanks in part to the brilliant casting of Jon Bon Jovi as Willie Loman. He had an innate understanding of the material, the ability to see the contemporary in the classic, and a rocking sense of theater. Love it or hate it, a Taz Buchanan production was always an event.

There's no telling what Taz might do to
Midsummer
to put his personal stamp on it. And it was my job to make sure that his personal stamp didn't become
Coriolanus, Part Deux
and ruin FX's reputation. I considered Googling “How to tame a wild director.”

Instead, I texted FX back: !!!!!

Which Shakespearean Bad Boy Is for You?

ARE YOU AN URBAN GO-GETTER?
You work hard, you play hard, and lately, you've been finding that old reliable boyfriend a little soft. You don't have a lot of time between your high-pressured job, your parcours workouts, and
The Bachelorette
. You're just looking for someone exciting you can squeeze in every so often.

YOU NEED A GUY WHO:
Puts the booty in booty call.

MEET:
Bertram, the cad from
All's Well That Ends Well
. He's rich, he's hot, and he's totally above you. Plus, he's married. But that doesn't stop him from stepping out on his wife, so if you can put up with his attitude, give him a call. Like Tiger Woods before rehab.

ARE YOU A NAVEL-GAZING BROOKLYN BOHO?
If only you had a hit TV show and a wardrobe of unflattering Peter Pan–collared dresses like Lena Dunham! You're so close to full-fledged self-absorption, with your Chinese character tats and low-paying job in publishing.

YOU NEED A GUY WHO:
Makes you feel worse about your body than you already do but will also be the heartbreaking subject of your bestselling memoir in twenty years.

MEET:
Prince Hal. Someday he'll become the honorable Henry V, but now Prince Hal is a spoiled rich kid who parties hard and loves a good prank—just like a Kennedy! He's the kind of guy who might take an interest in the intellectual girl in the corner, if only to win a bet with his drinking buddies. And you can bet he'll never call back! But think of the advance on your book:
My Night with Prince Hal
.

ARE YOU A SUBURBAN SORORITY SISTER?
Five years from now, you'll be walking down the aisle in a big white dress with ten bridesmaids and a wicked hangover. Until then, you're going to have some fun, fun, fun, especially on football weekends!

YOU NEED A GUY WHO:
You can't take home to Daddy.

MEET:
Falstaff. Yes, that Falstaff, the pleasure seeker, the lover of wine, women, and song. He's way too old for you, it will never last, and besides, he's a liar, a thief, and a cheat, but he epitomizes the lovable rogue. Think Vince Vaughn circa 2005. See? Kind of appealing, right?

ARE YOU A BOOKWORM BETTY?
You were honored to be voted Most Likely to Become a Librarian, and your membership in the Jane Austen Society means the world to you. It's just that you haven't had a real date since prom, unless you count that hookup at the Renaissance Faire three years ago.

YOU NEED A GUY:
With a large…vocabulary. That's right, a large vocabulary.

MEET:
Mercutio, Romeo's homey. Funny, scene-stealer, life of the party. And believe me, he gets invited to all the best parties. Possible drug issues, maybe bipolar, but always a good time. Today's version: Lil Wayne.