We’ve Always Got New York. Jill Knapp

all definitely get drinks sometime after class,” Angela said, breaking the silence. “Amalia, do you like tequila?”

      Amalia raised an eyebrow just as a loud, masculine, southern-style voice boomed through the old transistor-sounding speakers.

      “Excuse me, you five in the front of the room?” His voice was smooth and commanding, the sound of it made me shudder. I caught eyes with Amalia, who also appeared nervous. “Please do be so kind as to find your seats. Now.”

      He was older than most of our other professors had been. He had to be in his early sixties. He was wearing a navy-blue-colored suit, unusually over-dressed for the faculty at NYU. Most just put on nice pants and a button-down. His brown hair was thinning more than a little, but he still held his head up with an intimidating air of confidence.

      I reached for Alex’s hand and led him to a row of empty seats in the back of the classroom. Amalia, Michael, and Angela numbly followed.

      “Who is that?” Michael whispered to us. “I thought Dr. Browning was teaching Social Psych.”

      “Me too,” Angela whispered back.

      One by one we fell into position in the furthest row back, with Alex to my right and Michael to my left. Leaving Amalia sandwiched in between him and Angela.

      “Most of you probably haven’t heard yet, but I will be taking over this class for Dr. Browning,” the professor said, slamming a large, over-stuffed briefcase on the shaky wooden lectern. “He quit last week, just before the syllabi were due. The man is more useless than a screen door on a submarine.”

      Alex and I just looked at each other and then slowly reached for our laptops.

      “So, there you have it. I’m Professor Greenfield and I just moved to this godforsaken city a few weeks ago. I spent the last twenty years teaching and doing research at UNC-Charlotte, and now it looks like I am here for good.”

      I glanced over at Michael, who was nervously fiddling with a pen. It wasn’t like him to show any signs of vulnerability. It wasn’t clear if it was the professor or Amalia’s return who was making him nervous.

      “That’s Dr. Greenfield? The professor you were talking about this morning?” Amalia whispered to me. As soon as she did, the professor shot up and directed his attention to our back row.

      “Excuse me, miss?” Dr. Greenfield’s southern drawl landing on the word miss. “Do you have a question?”

      “Actually, I do,” Amalia said, shocking us all. Maybe Brazil had done wonders for her self-esteem.

      “Well then, stand up so I can hear you,” Greenfield challenged.

      Amalia and I exchanged glances. Alex kept his head down and Angela pretended to be engrossed with whatever she was writing in her notebook.

      “Go ahead, you’ll be fine,” Michael whispered to her.

      “I am fine,” she shot back.

      She stood up, and I half expected her to pull a microphone out of her purse. But instead she stood there immobile as over fifty pairs of eyes turned around in their seats to watch her. Finally, she swallowed hard enough for us to hear and spoke.

      “I heard you were running a work-study program and that you are looking for research assistants. Is that true?”

      The entire room spun back around, eager to hear the professor’s response. Dr. Greenfield just smiled, the kind of smile where you can’t really tell if the person is happy or has just figured out a marvelous way to spend the next few months torturing you. He pulled out his chair, which made a scratching sound as it dragged across the old hardwood floors, and slowly lowered himself down.

      “You want to be part of my research team?” he smirked.

      “I do,” Amalia said, unwavering. “I think it’s a great opportunity.”

      I heard a few students whispering to themselves. I couldn’t really make out what anyone was saying. Just a few select words like stipend, difficult, and competitive.

      “Well, then, you can email me tonight and we can set up a time for you to be interviewed,” he said calmly, sitting back down in his chair. “That goes for all of you. Anyone who thinks they have what it takes to work with me for the next year or two can email me after class and schedule an interview. The program will begin next semester, and if you are accepted you will have to take the second half of this course. Which is also taught by me.” He cracked his knuckles and gave us all a nod. “Oh, and I’m only picking three of you.”

      Amalia sunk back down in her chair. Alex gave my hand a little squeeze and whispered in my ear, “You should set up an interview.”

      I whispered back, “Maybe I will.”

      “One more thing,” Dr. Greenfield added, standing back up again. “This research position will be paid through work study, which means you have to treat this as a job. The last research assistant I had didn’t treat it that way. He was slower than molasses going uphill in January, so I fired him. Don’t make me fire you. It also means you need to first find out if you even qualify for work study. Don’t schedule an interview until you find out whether or not you qualify.”

      I made out about every other word of Dr. Greenfield’s speech, then turned to Amalia and whispered, “We’ll sign up together.”

      She didn’t say a word. She just sat in silence and nodded over and over again.

      “Now if y’all don’t mind, I’d like to start my class,” Greenfield said, pulling out a large textbook from his briefcase. “Welcome to your second year of graduate school. Only one more year to go. Let’s hope you all make it. As I’ve already said, I’m Dr. Greenfield and this is Advanced Social Psychology. This class will begin promptly every Monday morning at 9 am and it will end at 11. It will not be easy. The word Social does not automatically imply that we will be watching Girl, Interrupted and then writing an eight-page paper on how it made us feel. You will work hard, and your work will be handed in on time. If you can’t do this then by all means, please leave.”

      No one dared move.