How to Fail at Flirting(82)
Jake: Yeah?
Forty-four
President Lewis stood at the front of the main lodge in a TU sweatshirt and jeans. I glanced around the room, wishing there was anyone near me who would share my incredulity. Is our seventy-year-old university president wearing skinny jeans? The people to my left and right, including my stuffy colleague Anita, looked unperturbed. Joe would have at least given me a raised eyebrow, but he was still recovering and on strict orders from Elaine to step back.
We’d departed early that morning from the parking lot outside the main administration building, piling into a charter bus. Professors from nine departments settled in awkwardly, stilted conversation buzzing through the vehicle as people whispered about “Camp Job Search” and “Retreat to the Unemployment Line.” I’d wanted to ask Jake a hundred times what to expect, but everything between us still felt fragile, so I’d held back, even though we’d made plans to meet up that night by the lake to talk.
Flip walked across the front of the room where forty of us sat in folding chairs. “Thank you all for being here. I know we’ve been tight-lipped about this, and I appreciate the trust you’ve placed in me and this process.” Despite his grandfatherly tone of voice and an impressive ability to pull off wearing those jeans, the room vibrated with anxiety. “So why are we here? Put your minds at ease; this is not ‘Camp Pink Slip’ or any of the other colorful nicknames you’ve heard.
“I wanted all of you here as we figure out how to move forward with the consultants’ recommendations. There will be cuts, but none of your programs are in that position.”
I let out a breath along with the rest of the room before Flip spoke again.
“Not yet, anyway.”
The older man kept speaking. “The boys from the consultation firm will walk you through it, but before I sit down, know this—” He paused, and I admired his bright white tennis shoes that looked fresh out of a box. “Many of you know I don’t go in much for traditional. I like to shake things up. I think that’s why the trustees hired me, and I’m sure that, someday, that’s why they’ll fire me.” He smiled, eyes crinkling, and a chuckle moved through the assembled group. “But until then, it’s my job to make sure TU is the best damn university in the country, and you’re all going to help me make that happen.”
My muscles unclenched, and a surge of air left my lungs— my job was safe. I could keep studying and teaching the things I loved.
Carlton and Jake walked to the space just vacated by Flip. Jake wore a pale blue polo shirt and dark jeans. I loved him in blue, and I wondered if he’d worn it for me. I bit the inside of my cheek, attempting to suppress the myriad of emotions I felt in the moment.
“Thank you, Flip,” Carlton said. He explained that they had placed all departments of the university into four categories along the axes of success and potential. As Carlton spoke, Jake illustrated on a nearby whiteboard, drawing the four quadrants.
“And we didn’t measure success just in dollars—we included notoriety, reputation, and student enrollment, among other factors,” Jake chimed in over his shoulder.
“First, we had the high success/high potential programs—your cornerstones that are doing well. Think of accounting and engineering. Second, low success/low potential programs—unpopular programs not doing well. Those are easy to move forward on.” Carlton motioned to where Jake had scrawled on the board.
“Next, high success/low potential programs. This is more complex. Take, for example, a program that brings in lots of money, but for which there is little recognition for research or few job opportunities for graduates.”
Some heads around the room nodded, everyone piecing together where their department fell. I was surprised when Anita nodded and leaned forward.
This might be the first time in twenty years she’s been interested in something someone else is saying.
“Now we get to all of your departments, which fell in the last quadrant—low success/high potential programs; what we’re titling ‘stalled programs.’” The room met him with a stony silence, expecting more explanation.
I desperately tried to focus on what this meant for my job and not on the curve of Jake’s shoulder blades as he turned to add something. “Your nine departments are here,” Jake said, pointing to the fourth quadrant. “All have a high potential for impact—job prospects are good for graduates, faculty could bring in big research dollars, and the potential for solid enrollment is high; unfortunately, successes aren’t there yet. In terms of TU’s goals, your departments are stalled, and we will work together to push them forward.”
To do: Tell Joe we’re safe.
Jake scanned the crowd as he and Carlton took questions about the model. He held my gaze for a moment, the corners of his lips tipping up, before focusing on a woman asking a question two rows ahead of me.
“Let’s get to work,” Carlton said, clapping his hands together before breaking us into small groups.
Forty-five
Hours later, the sun was low in the sky, casting the lake and surrounding woods in a shadowy, warm glow. We’d been released from our work, and most of the crowd had joined Flip for dinner in the camp’s dining center. I’d ducked out, the sloppy joes doing little to entice me. Instead, I grabbed a granola bar from the kitchen and trekked toward the lake where Jake and I’d agreed to meet. I was early, but I figured I could find a spot and run through what I wanted to say.