Nadine moves to California, takes a new job as an adjunct professor at Berkeley. She put three thousand miles and a few years' distance between herself and her old life, but then who should show up in her lecture hall one day but... Jason McCord?
She runs through the syllabus and then (to the bewilderment of several students) launches right into the first lecture of the course. As she talks, she notices a student seated in the upper rows, toward the back; recognizes him, but can't quite put a name to the face. The son of one of her friends, perhaps? She hasn't studied her roster beyond the time it took to see that there were one hundred and sixty-two students signed up for her class (the majority of whom seem to be present today, which is a good start), because she had assumed there was no reason for there to be anyone on it she'd recognize.
She can't put a name to this young man's face, that is, until he comes down to the lectern after her class.
"Jason McCord," she says. In her last job she hadn't much interaction with her boss's children, though she'd have known their faces anywhere. At that time, Jason still had traces of a child's cherub cheeks and a defiant teenager-y attitude that opposed it. Now, he looks more like the young man she imagines Henry once was. The resemblance is unmistakable. "No one told me you were studying international politics."
He shrugs. "I am my mother's son, as it turns out. Although she would have liked it better if I had gone to UVA."
"Is this your first year?"
"Second."
She shakes her head. "God, you kids grow up so fast." She squints at him a little. "You know, I seem to remember you to be more of an anarchist back in the day."
"I was," he admits, "but after I voted my mom for President, it seemed a little hypocritical to continue to be one."
The corner of her mouth twitches. "You know, I think President McCord would agree."
"The President won't let me live it down," he complains good-naturedly. "Anyway. I just wanted to come down and say hi. I didn't realize you were teaching this course — I mean I did; I just didn't connect the dots. But anyway. I've heard good things."
It's polite of him to say. Nadine is well aware that amongst the poli-sci students, her class has developed something of a reputation. When her evals come back each semester, they are generally positive but always read as slightly traumatized. "I'm sure you'll do great. I'm looking forward to reading your papers."
"Don't set your expectations too high," he says, and grins as he re-shoulders his backpack. "Anyway. I have to get to my next class. I'll see you around, Nadine. Professor."
"Give your parents my best, okay?"
/
She refuses to show favoritism toward Jason McCord, and when she tears apart the first paper he writes for her class, she hopes her old boss won't find fault with her for it. She doesn't think they will. Actually she thinks Elizabeth (and Henry, for that matter) would agree with her assessment, because they were both teachers too, after all. The fact is, Jason's paper is just not that good and that's all there is to it.
When Jason comes to her office indignant and seething just a little, she's practically expecting him. She's ready to debate his entitlement.
"I'd heard you were a tough grader, but geez," he says. He holds up a printed copy of his paper. "Don't you think this is a little harsh?"
She lifts an eyebrow. "Don't you think your essay was a little lacking?"
"I think my views are perhaps at odds with your own and you marked me down for the audacity of having them. And I think that is totally unfair."
Nadine chuckles, but it's not unkind. "Show it to your mother and see if she thinks I was unfair."
"I think you're holding my work to a higher standard because of my mother; because of who she is," he accuses, boldly.
"I think your mother would disagree," Nadine says tartly, "because I disagree." She leans forward in her seat. "Jason, I don't play favorites. You can ask any of my past students or colleagues. The fact is, this is not good. Your arguments are disorganized and underdeveloped and honestly, it reads like a paper that was written the night before it was due." She raises an eyebrow.
"I-" he begins, but stops himself short. "Yeah, maybe," he allows begrudgingly.
Nadine softens. "I know you're better than this. So show me that. Impress me."
He considers her words, nods slowly. "Okay. Okay, fine." He readjusts his backpack over his shoulder. "Thanks Nadine. I'll work it out," he says, and heads for the door.
"And Jason?" she calls after him, and he turns.
"Yeah?"
"Just so you know, I couldn't care less who your parents are or aren't." There's a little twinkle in her eye. "For the record."
He grins then. "Understood, Professor."
Her mid-term paper is 'Influences of Third World Actors on the Progression of the Cold War'. Nadine has no doubt that Jason can write the hell out of it if he tries, and it's his mother's area of expertise. She smiles to herself. She hopes it's the best damn paper she's ever seen.
