But when she goes through the door into Goodlaw Hall room 117, she sees not Nye standing at the front of the room where he’s always perched, looking over his notes, his brow furrowed like he isn’t quite certain he can pull off teaching what he has to teach. Instead, she sees Dr. White and Dr. Hoffman. The two men stand off to the side, their heads leaned in toward each other, whispering in low voices. The students who are already in the room sit in silence at their places, looking like obedient kids from a posh boarding school instead of the ragtag batch of creative writing majors they are. Normally before class they lean over toward one another, telling jokes, showing one another videos, laughing and joking and complaining about anything they could think of.

Rebecca wonders what the hell is going on and tries to slide into her desk unobtrusively. Once, when she was nine, her parents went out and the usual babysitter was sick with mono. Her parents called her mom’s great-aunt Sylvia, who must have been eighty-five years old, and she came over and sat with Rebecca while her parents were gone. That’s what it feels like to have White and Hoffman standing at the front of the class and not Nye. No one knows how to act, so they stare straight ahead like mannequins.

Except for the two frat boys next to Rebecca, the ones who always look right through her. They start whispering to each other. The one closest to her says to his friend, “Do you remember when Hoffman told that girl to add more details about her breasts to her poem?”

“Dude, she was pissed,” the other one says.

Rebecca takes out the book of short stories they’re reading, wondering if they’re still going to have a quiz, but Dr. White clears his throat and steps forward. He rubs his hands together, his forearms exposed by the perfectly rolled-up sleeves. Rebecca has never taken a class with White, but she’s heard he’s difficult. Very, very difficult.

“Okay,” White says. “I’m here because we have an announcement to make. As you can see, Dr. Nye isn’t in class today, and I’m sorry to tell you he won’t be for the foreseeable future. He’s dealing with a personal problem, unrelated to his work at the university, and so your class will be taught by Dr. Hoffman for the rest of the term. As I’m sure you know, Dr. Hoffman is an excellent poet and teacher, and you’re in very capable hands going forward.”

White gestures toward Hoffman, who smiles and nods to the students like he’s a game show contestant.

The guy next to Rebecca mutters under his breath, “God, not Hoffman.”