Divided House Becky Hagenston (bio) 1. Megan’s work was suffering. The scholarship files were mislabeled, she was taking 15-minute bathroom breaks, and she answered the phone with “What?” Diane knew she had to say something: it was impossible to supervise someone who didn’t give a shit. Today, Megan returned from a 30-minute bathroom break and lay down on the floor behind the work study desk, arms spread like she was trying to make a snow angel on the carpet. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Diane had been practicing that sentence in her head so it would come out stern yet friendly. “You’ve been a mess all week.” “Nothing’s wrong,” said Megan. She peeled herself from the floor and stood, all six feet of her. When Diane was in college, in the ’80s, students weren’t nearly so tall. Megan was 20 years old. History major. She’d been a reliable employee for the first three weeks of the semester. “I just have a headache. Don’t you ever get a headache?” Diane gave her a look like, Really? “Seriously, what’s going on? Is it a case of the love sickness?” She was aiming for sarcasm, but it came out sounding like something a witchy fortune teller would say. Megan laughed, then burst into tears and fell into Diane’s arms. It was very dramatic. She was heavier than she looked. Diane pushed her upright. She didn’t say, “Oh, spare me.” She said, “It’s almost noon. Let’s go somewhere for lunch. I’ll treat, and you tell me all the gory details.” She didn’t think of Megan as the daughter she never had; she’d never wanted kids or dogs or cats. Her brief marriage two decades ago felt like a movie somebody told her about once. He was a car salesman from Tupelo. They’d met at a truck stop outside Boston where she was waitressing, and two weeks later she followed him to Mississippi. Now here she still was, 45 years old, business manager in the history department of a small religious college, even though she wasn’t religious. This town was full of churches and bars and boutiques selling wedding and prom dresses. [End Page 15] But she was young once; she remembered heartbreak. Also, she was nosy. She was bored. She took Megan to a café on College Avenue and ordered a glass of chardonnay and ignored Megan’s raised eyebrow. Megan, she’d learned last week, belonged to one of those churches where if you drink alcohol, you go to hell. Diane asked gently: “What’s his name? Let’s start there.” But who was she kidding? She knew exactly who he was: maybe not specifically, but generally. One of the khaki-pants-wearers, ruddy and pale-haired, wore Dockers, drove a white pickup truck, business major, grew up in Mississippi but once went on a mission trip to Guatemala or Bermuda, drove home every weekend to see his family. Maybe he was sexually repressed, secretly gay, or already involved with a girl back home. That was still no excuse for Megan to be a terrible worker. “Well,” said Megan. “I suppose it’s kind of a secret.” She pursed her lips, suddenly prim. Two girls walked a schnauzer down the sidewalk, and they waved at Megan, who waved back. “I suppose you’re fired then!” Diane said, irritably. She took a big sip of wine. “All I can say is get over it. Boys are idiots.” She wanted to be helpful, but Megan was making it difficult to be helpful. “He’s older,” Megan said. “There. I’ve probably said too much.” “Dear God. Not one of your professors?” Although this would be more interesting than a khaki-pantsed boy. “No! I didn’t meet him on campus at all.” Megan stabbed her lemon with her straw, ignored the veggie burger deposited in front of her. “He’s married, so I guess it’s a little not-ideal. And that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want you to fire me. I need this job.” Diane didn’t say...
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