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A book? I haven’t even finished an article and Dwight, who’s taught Clinical law a year less than I have, has completed a book. In the world of academia, professors don’t write textbooks alone in their attics, penning one page after the next, coming out with a masterpiece after years of isolated toiling. They circulate ideas and parts of papers; they e-mail and conference; they collaborate and argue. How could he possibly write a book on Clinical Law, the first textbook ever, without my knowing about it? Am I mad? Yes. Jealous? Yes. Worried about my Clinic’s future? Yes. Adding insult to my injured ego, the Dean and the trustees have awarded the Chair I coveted to the charter member of the men-who-broke-Marilee’s-heart club. For the last decade, I’ve successfully avoided spending time alone with Dwight, but as a Clinic professor he won’t be just another professor, one with whom I share a few faculty meetings and the occasional lunch. Dwight and I will have to work together every day. The ASU Legal Aid Clinic is like a law firm in which the students practice law pursuant to Student Practice Rules (think Legally Blonde but not so well dressed) under the supervision of the Clinic faculty team, me, Gail, and now Dwight. I wish I could disappear under my chair, but I’m too big for that. I’m not too large to leave, though. I stand slowly, hoping no one will notice if I don’t rush, and turn toward the exit at the back of the room, only twenty steps away. Perhaps I have to leave early for some legitimate, adult reason. Maybe I’m in labor. Maybe I have a doctor’s appointment. Maybe a scheduled court appearance requires my presence. I can think of any number of clever excuses, but, before I have lumbered up three steps, Dede is next to me, her mouth close to my ear. “Marilee, turn yourself around,” she whispers insistently. “You can’t leave!” I have to admit she’s right. I’m not free to act mad or jealous or worried, at least not here in this room surrounded by my colleagues. I need to act like a reasonable, responsible grown up, even though I feel like a rejected, neglected child, so I’ll congratulate Dwight and welcome him to what until this moment (although officially named the ASU Legal Aid Clinic) has simply been referred to as “Marilee’s Clinic.” Faculty members surge toward Dwight to wish him their best and congratulate him on this prestigious award and a job well done. As he shakes hands, he looks around, searching for someone. I wonder if Lana is here and I survey the room for a tall, thin, gorgeous brunette.
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