There was still a tightening in Ayanna’s chest and throat as they approached the path, but she knew it was coming. Felix was talking to some people; she had thought he would be alone out here. Ayanna told herself she could not meet any more people while being a complete emotional mess. If one more person kept giving her soft eyes, making references in some way to being gentle to herself, she would scream. On all levels, she knew it was better than the year before when it seemed like no one could see or cared to see that she was having a complete mental health crisis. But Ayanna longed for the impossible: to be neutrally seen.

Felix was there with two people who were clearly professors. One was sitting on the ground and drinking from a water bottle. The other was complaining about how their laptop didn’t work here. Felix was lying on the golden path, clearly trying to meditate, but couldn’t focus because of all the chatter.

“Hi, everyone, I want to introduce you to our new work-study student, Ayanna,” Professor Collins said.

“Ahnna?” the under-the-tree professor said.

“A, as in the letter, yah-nuh,” Felix said.

Ayanna hadn’t realized this whole thing had been a job interview. It was too lucky to pass up, though.

“She was a member of Pathsong growing up,” Professor Collins said.

“I have so many questions for you.”

The professor under the tree turned out to be a creative writing professor. It was hard not to wonder if she was the one Jane had last year. Jane had told Ayanna not to bother taking an intro to creative writing class. It was either people writing vague poems about being sad or referring to their genitals as peach pits. The professor had assigned an anthology where every story seemed to be either about a white guy who was a bad husband and/or father or about someone who had been molested and somehow thought they were too good for therapy. And then the professor had the audacity to get bored when everyone kept writing semioffensive stories about sexual violence despite her choices in course texts. They read a few stories by Black people but they either talked with what Jane called “massa accents” or every part of their life was fucked and despairing. Jane was still an English major because all her comms classes were too stupid, but she had no idea if she could finish the degree.