Unfortunately, the monthly Faculty Senate meeting was preempting her regularly scheduled pitiful plans. She wasn’t exactly sure how she’d gotten roped into being on this committee, but it was almost certainly a byproduct of her advisors’ advice before she went on the job market. It was rare these days to get a tenure-track position on the first try, but Deja had, and she knew how lucky she was. She also knew that a terrifying amount of her job security depended on making sure that her colleagues liked her. She loaded up on service assignments and the large intro courses no one else liked to teach and ran herself ragged trying to prove herself as a “good colleague,” even though she wasn’t entirely certain what that meant; especially not what it meant for her senior colleagues to be “good colleagues” to her. But still, she went to nearly every departmental event, listened intently during faculty meetings and contributed thoughtfully — but always deferentially — because she wanted them to like her and feel certain that she didn’t plan to challenge departmental hierarchy.

And what had all that good behavior gotten her? After two years, she’d gained all her colleagues’ vaguely condescending respect and developed regular bouts of stress-induced insomnia. She had perpetually dry, itchy eyes and a worried optometrist, but not a single new publication on her curriculum vitae. But the cherry on top of all that wasted time was that Deja’s third-year review was looming. At the beginning of the next academic year, she’d have to submit her portfolio for review, and anything less than glowing reports from her department might jeopardize her chances of getting an affirmative tenure vote at the end of her seven-year probationary period.

She understood it in concept, but she’d only just now come to appreciate that the tenure track was akin to a rain cloud hanging over her head for nearly a decade, and it was currently spitting down on her like a torrent. No matter what she did, what she hadn’t done and couldn’t do mattered so much more.

“Next.”

Deja’s mind had started to drift away into the familiar and very personal bubble of self-pity where she lived, more often than not, and she didn’t hear when the cashier called out the first time. When they yelled for the next customer again, Deja started and smiled awkwardly at the cashier, who smiled back even though it didn’t reach his eyes.

She ordered her latte with an extra shot and then moved quickly toward the pick-up counter. The line was almost spilling out into the student union lobby. Deja pressed herself against a wall, doing her best not to contribute to the obvious fire hazard. She fantasized about sitting on her couch and eating a frozen pizza — even her fantasies were pathetic — and hoped above all else that none of her students noticed her.