Chapter 2 — Drew’s Introduction

Drew

The Departmental Lounge was a curious amalgamation of formality and clutter. Mismatched chairs with varying degrees of sagging upholstery were scattered around old, rectangular tables bearing the faint rings of countless coffee cups. A humming coffee machine in the corner struggled valiantly to brew its next pot, the faint smell of burnt coffee wafting through the room. Drew Moreno stood by the machine, trying to decipher its arcane buttons, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up as if ready for battle.

He felt the weight of the room pressing in on him. Clusters of senior faculty murmured in low voices, their laughter muted, their words clipped, their conversations laced with the unspoken codes of academia. Drew’s fingers fidgeted with the strap of his leather-bound notebook, his grip tightening as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He ran a hand through his dark curls—a nervous habit masquerading as nonchalance—while his gaze flitted to the coffee machine’s blinking lights.

Finally, he pressed a button, and the machine sputtered in protest before yielding a thin, bitter stream of coffee. Behind him, a voice, low and precise, cut through the soft din.

“The first pour tends to disappoint. Much like conference coffee, it flatters to deceive.”

Drew turned sharply, his hand nearly knocking over the Styrofoam cup. Dr. Eleanor Voss stood just a few feet away, her tortoiseshell glasses catching the light as she regarded him with a look that was equal parts patience and scrutiny.

“Ah, good to know,” Drew replied, his tone light but his heart hammering. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll try not to take it personally if this cup doesn’t meet departmental standards.”

Her lips quirked in what could almost be a smile, though it lingered just shy of her eyes. “We’ll chalk it up to a learning experience.”

Her words hung between them, charged with that peculiar mix of teasing and testing that left Drew unsure of how to respond. She had already turned away, her dark brown hair swept into its usual low bun, her posture as upright and contained as the department’s Gothic-style architecture. Drew watched as she crossed to the far end of the lounge, where two faculty members instinctively parted to make room for her. There was something about the way she moved—precise, deliberate—that both impressed and intimidated him.

Drew exhaled, gripping his cup and retreating to a corner table. He opened his leather-bound notebook, the coffee-stained cover soft under his fingers. The pages inside were a chaotic riot of ideas, arrows linking related concepts, and half-sketched diagrams. His handwriting sprawled unevenly, a mix of shorthand and full sentences. The notebook was his lifeline, a place where his thoughts could be messy without consequence.

He pulled out the syllabus for Dr. Voss’s seminar on critical theory, one of the most sought-after courses in the department. His first task as her teaching assistant was to review the syllabus and prepare a summary of the assigned readings for the undergraduates. It seemed simple enough in theory, but the sheer weight of the material—dense, labyrinthine texts that wove between philosophy, literature, and sociology—was daunting. As his eyes scanned the list of readings, he couldn’t help but wonder how Dr. Voss navigated such intellectual terrain with such apparent ease.

The syllabus bore her name, “Dr. Eleanor Voss,” typed neatly at the top. Drew traced the letters with his eyes, imagining the gravitas it carried in academic circles. Intimidating. That was the word for her. But it wasn’t just her reputation; it was the way she’d looked at him—like she could dissect him in an instant, lay bare every insecurity he tried to hide. And yet, there was something magnetic about her presence, something that made him want to measure up, to prove that he belonged in the same room.

The door to the lounge opened, and Samira Patel strode in, a stack of books precariously balanced on one hip. She spotted Drew immediately and made a beeline for his table.

“Hey, how’s the first day of TA-ing for the queen bee?” she asked, dropping her books with a satisfying thunk. Her kaleidoscope scarf fluttered as she sat, the vibrant colors a stark contrast to the muted tones of the room.

Drew smirked. “Intimidating. She basically looked through my soul and found me lacking.”

Samira laughed, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “That’s her thing. Don’t take it personally. She once made a room full of grad students cry during a conference Q with nothing but a raised eyebrow.”

“Comforting,” Drew muttered, flipping a page in his notebook.

Samira leaned in, her expression softening. “She’s tough, yeah, but she’s fair. And if she picked you as her TA, it means she sees something in you. Just… don’t screw it up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Drew’s tone was dry, but Samira’s words stuck with him. Did Dr. Voss really see something in him? Or was he just a warm body assigned to fill the role?

The coffee in his cup had gone cold by the time he left the lounge, his notebook tucked under his arm. The walk back to his apartment took him across the river, the footpath winding between trees just beginning to shed their leaves. The air smelled faintly of damp earth, a reminder that autumn was settling in. The university’s Gothic spires loomed behind him, their silhouettes sharp against the overcast sky.

His apartment was as modest as they came. A narrow studio on the less affluent side of town, it was crammed with mismatched furniture and stacks of books that seemed to multiply on their own. The single desk by the window was cluttered with papers, pens, and a small framed photo of Drew and his mother, taken years ago at his undergraduate graduation.

He set his notebook down and rubbed his temples. The syllabus still loomed in his mind, along with the grading he needed to finish for another professor. But his focus was already splintered, his thoughts drifting to his mother.

Her voice called out from the next room. “Drew? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Mom, it’s me,” he replied, stepping into the small living area where she sat on the couch, a blanket draped over her lap.

Maria Moreno had always been a formidable woman, but illness had softened her frame. Still, her eyes, warm and sharp like Drew’s, hadn’t lost their spark.

“How was the first day?” she asked, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

“Busy,” Drew said, sinking into a chair across from her. “I met Dr. Voss. She’s… intense.”

Maria raised an eyebrow. “Intense good or intense bad?”

“Too early to tell,” he admitted, though even he wasn’t sure what he meant.

Maria chuckled softly. “Well, if she’s as brilliant as you say, maybe you’ll learn something. You always did like a challenge.”

Drew smiled faintly, but her words pressed against his chest. He did like challenges, but sometimes they felt insurmountable. His mother’s illness, his responsibilities at home, his ever-present imposter syndrome—it all coiled around him like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap.

Later that night, as he sat at his desk, grading papers under the dim glow of a desk lamp, he opened his notebook again. His fingers traced the coffee stain on the cover, then flipped to a blank page.

“Dr. Eleanor Voss,” he wrote at the top, then paused.

Ideas spilled onto the page in no particular order: her precise speech, her sharp gaze, the way her tortoiseshell glasses made her look both intimidating and intriguing. He jotted down fragments from her syllabus, notes on how to approach the readings, questions he wanted to ask her.

Somewhere in the middle of his scrawled thoughts, he realized he was smiling. There was something about her that made him want to try harder, to be better. Maybe it was the challenge she represented, or maybe it was something he couldn’t quite name yet.

For now, he let the smile linger.