Chapter 2 — First Impressions

Alex

Alex Harper sat in the second row of the seminar room, their notebook open and pen poised above the page. The clock on the far wall ticked with deliberate slowness, each second stretching taut. Around them, the room hummed with the low murmur of conversation—legacy students in tailored coats and pristine notebooks exchanging easy laughter. Alex’s thrifted blazer felt too tight, its frayed cuffs brushing against their wrists like a reminder they didn’t belong. The faint scent of old books and chalk hung in the air, grounding Alex in the weight of tradition that seemed to press against their chest.

The seminar topic—power and privilege in literature—was one Alex had been preparing for all week. Nights in the Ivy Hall Library spent combing through texts, scribbling notes into the margins of their notebook, had left them with a mix of exhaustion and fragile confidence. Yet now, as the discussion began, their insecurities stirred, the weight of their imposter syndrome pressing harder. They stole a glance at a note in the margin of their notebook—“Authority is contextual, not inherent”—a small anchor in the swirl of self-doubt.

Dr. Julian Cross stood at the front of the room, leaning against the edge of the long oak table that served as his makeshift lectern. His rumpled suit and salt-and-pepper hair gave him an air of effortless authority, his sharp green eyes scanning the room with a mixture of amusement and expectation. He posed a question, his voice measured and deliberate: “How does the author’s background influence the narrative authority in the text? And how might that authority reflect broader societal structures of power?”

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint scratching of a pen in the back row. Alex glanced around the room, noting the exchanged glances, the way some students shifted in their seats, avoiding Julian’s gaze. Their pulse quickened as they hesitated, fingers tightening around their pen. Finally, they raised their hand, the movement feeling both bold and reckless.

“Yes, Alex,” Julian said, his tone neutral but his attention sharp. The room turned with him, dozens of eyes settling on Alex like a spotlight. Pushing their glasses up the bridge of their nose, Alex cleared their throat, heat rising to their cheeks.

“I think... the author’s background doesn’t just influence the narrative authority—it determines its boundaries,” Alex began, their voice steadier than they had expected. “In the text we read, the protagonist’s voice is framed as reliable, but only because it aligns with the cultural norms the author comes from. The authority isn’t inherent; it’s constructed and legitimized by the same structures of privilege we’re critiquing.”

Julian tilted his head slightly, a faint pause stretching before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Interesting,” he said. “So you’re suggesting that narrative authority is inherently exclusionary?”

“Yes,” Alex replied, their confidence growing as the words found their rhythm. “And because of that, the text’s reliability isn’t universal—it’s contextual. It speaks to a specific audience, one that already shares its assumptions about who gets to be believed.”

Julian stepped forward, clasping his hands together. “And what does that say about us as readers? Are we complicit in reinforcing those structures when we accept the narrative at face value?”

Alex felt the room shift. The legacy students who had been whispering earlier were now sitting straighter, their pens moving hurriedly across their notebooks. Alex fought the urge to shrink under their scrutiny. “I think we are,” they replied carefully. “But I also think... recognizing that complicity is the first step toward challenging it.”

“Good,” Julian said, his smile widening. “Very good.”

A student on the opposite side of the room raised their hand, offering a counterpoint about the universality of human experience in literature. Another chimed in, their voice tinged with skepticism but building on Alex’s idea. The discussion gained momentum, and for the first time, Alex felt the energy of the room shift not just around them but because of them. Their heart raced, but this time it was less from fear and more from exhilaration.

As the seminar concluded, Alex lingered, gathering their things slowly as the room emptied. They didn’t want to leave just yet, not when Julian’s faint praise still echoed in their ears. They glanced at him, noticing how he lingered near the door, his hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze flickering toward them.

“Alex,” Julian called out as they slung their bag over their shoulder. His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of purpose to it. He waited until the last student filed out before speaking again. “Do you have a moment?”

Alex’s stomach clenched. “Of course,” they said, following him down the hall to his office. The walk was short but tense, the sound of their footsteps amplified in the empty corridor. Alex noticed the faded scuff marks on the floor tiles and the way Julian’s suit jacket bunched slightly at the shoulders, betraying its wear. They tried to focus on these details to steady their swirling thoughts, but their nerves prickled with each step.

Julian’s office door was slightly ajar, and he held it open for Alex to step inside. The space was smaller than Alex had imagined, its walls lined with overstuffed bookshelves and papers stacked precariously on every surface. A cold mug of coffee sat next to a black fountain pen, its silver accents gleaming faintly in the muted light filtering through the window. The faint scent of old paper and ink hung in the air, mingling with something sharper—perhaps coffee gone stale.

“Take a seat,” Julian said, motioning to the chair opposite his desk. Alex perched on the edge, their notebook still clutched tightly in their hands. Julian settled into his chair, leaning back slightly as he studied them.

“You had some interesting insights in today’s seminar,” he began. “But I noticed you hesitated before speaking. Why?”

Alex blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question. “I... wasn’t sure if what I had to say was relevant,” they admitted. “Sometimes it feels like everyone else in the room already knows the answers, and I’m just... catching up.”

Julian raised an eyebrow, his expression softening. “And yet, when you did speak, you shifted the entire discussion. Do you think that happens by accident?”

“I don’t know,” Alex said quietly, their gaze dropping to their lap. “Maybe.”

Julian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Let me give you some advice, Alex. Academia is full of people who speak with more confidence than substance. Don’t let them intimidate you. Your voice is valuable because it comes from a place of thoughtfulness. That kind of voice can change the conversation.”

Alex managed a faint laugh, more nervous than amused. “Easier said than done.”

“True,” Julian said, his gaze briefly distant, as though considering something unspoken. “But it’s worth the effort.”

He gestured to their notebook. “May I?”

Alex hesitated for only a moment before handing it over. Julian flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the densely packed notes and underlined passages. His fountain pen sat untouched on the desk, ink-stained and slightly worn, and Alex found their gaze drawn to it. It seemed out of place in the clutter—precise, deliberate, unlike the rest of the room.

“You’re meticulous,” Julian remarked, closing the notebook and setting it back in front of them. “That’s a good quality in a scholar. But don’t let it trap you. Sometimes, the best insights come from allowing yourself to be... messy.”

Alex wasn’t sure how to respond, so they simply nodded. Julian leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of a smile on his face. “I’d like to hear more from you in future seminars,” he said. “Don’t hold back.”

“I’ll try,” Alex replied, feeling a mix of gratitude and pressure settling in their chest. Julian’s words were kind, but they carried an unspoken expectation—a weight Alex wasn’t sure they were ready to bear.

As they left his office and stepped back into the corridor, the air felt colder, sharper, as though the world outside had shifted slightly. Alex clutched their notebook tightly, their mind racing with thoughts of privilege, power, and the precariousness of belonging.

They weren’t sure what Julian saw in them, but for the first time, they allowed themselves to hope it might be something worth proving.