Read Online Red Dot Irreal by Jason Erik Lundberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jason Erik Lundberg
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
a two-year contract. You’re seriously telling me that after teaching here for such a short time, after I moved halfway around the world, that you won’t have any work for me come January?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s out of my hands. It was hard enough getting this program approved in the first place, but the purse-strings have been tightened university-wide, and anything that doesn’t show an immediate and urgent importance to our students’ future professional lives becomes unnecessary fat to be cut away. Their words, so you know. Not mine.”
“But you have to find me other classes to teach, right? My work visa explicitly states that I can only stay in the country if I’m teaching.”
“I’m sorry there too. Your contract states that Singapore Management University can terminate your employment at any point. And there just aren’t any open English-related classes that need teachers right now. We’ll of course keep your records open in case positions do open up. Meanwhile, you could try some adjunct teaching at NUS or NTU.”
“What, go back to getting paid twice a term? Not knowing if I’ll have a job after every semester? Having to scrabble and scrounge for classes just so I can pay my rent? I did that in North Carolina, and I don’t want to go back to it. Isn’t there anything else here? No other introductory comp classes? Remedial? Whatever?”
Sunita sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She’d apparently had this same conversation four times already today. “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up. I like you, you’ve taught good classes, your students seem to enjoy your teaching style, and did well on their final papers. I’ll ask around.”
I sat back in Sunita’s guest chair and exhaled. She single-handedly managed the Centre for English Competence; as bad as I felt, I knew her own position was also tenuous. SMU could easily decide tomorrow to do away with the entire CEC curriculum altogether, and those in charge wouldn’t spare another thought about it.
I left Sunita’s coat closet, said goodbye to the admin staff in the outer office, took an escalator up to street level and walked down Stamford Road toward the City Hall MRT station. Through the throngs of Raffles City shoppers, down the escalator, through the turnstile, and down another escalator to the platform. While waiting for the train, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick SMS to Nicole: Some not-so-great news. Can I come over? She always laughed at the formality of my text messages; sometimes our ten-year age difference might as well have been thirty. Her response: yah. home now. rents out. It still struck me as odd that young people in Singapore lived as long as they did with their parents, staying with them sometimes even after they got married. Americans just didn’t do this; at eighteen, my own parents practically kicked me out the door. Nicole was twenty-two, and in no fear of being booted out of the nest anytime soon.
A crowded breathless train ride later and I alighted at the Tanah Merah station. Up to street level, waited ten minutes for the number 9 bus to carry me down three more stops, then afive-minute walk to Nicole’s parents’ condo. I suppose I could have walked the whole way, but I didn’t feel like showing up at my girlfriend’s house sweaty and out of sorts. I rang the bell and she opened the door straight away; she must have been watching TV in the living room whilst waiting for me. Without a word, she pulled me into a forceful kiss, and then breathed, “Upstairs.”
On top of the naughty rush I got from sleeping with a student (even if she was legally an adult) was the illicitness of doing it in her parents’ house. Her mom and dad were nice people (yet still unaware that I was their daughter’s teacher), but, as with many Singaporeans, on the conservative side when it came to whom their little girl chose to date. And as an ang moh , I was not exactly their
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s out of my hands. It was hard enough getting this program approved in the first place, but the purse-strings have been tightened university-wide, and anything that doesn’t show an immediate and urgent importance to our students’ future professional lives becomes unnecessary fat to be cut away. Their words, so you know. Not mine.”
“But you have to find me other classes to teach, right? My work visa explicitly states that I can only stay in the country if I’m teaching.”
“I’m sorry there too. Your contract states that Singapore Management University can terminate your employment at any point. And there just aren’t any open English-related classes that need teachers right now. We’ll of course keep your records open in case positions do open up. Meanwhile, you could try some adjunct teaching at NUS or NTU.”
“What, go back to getting paid twice a term? Not knowing if I’ll have a job after every semester? Having to scrabble and scrounge for classes just so I can pay my rent? I did that in North Carolina, and I don’t want to go back to it. Isn’t there anything else here? No other introductory comp classes? Remedial? Whatever?”
Sunita sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She’d apparently had this same conversation four times already today. “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up. I like you, you’ve taught good classes, your students seem to enjoy your teaching style, and did well on their final papers. I’ll ask around.”
I sat back in Sunita’s guest chair and exhaled. She single-handedly managed the Centre for English Competence; as bad as I felt, I knew her own position was also tenuous. SMU could easily decide tomorrow to do away with the entire CEC curriculum altogether, and those in charge wouldn’t spare another thought about it.
I left Sunita’s coat closet, said goodbye to the admin staff in the outer office, took an escalator up to street level and walked down Stamford Road toward the City Hall MRT station. Through the throngs of Raffles City shoppers, down the escalator, through the turnstile, and down another escalator to the platform. While waiting for the train, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick SMS to Nicole: Some not-so-great news. Can I come over? She always laughed at the formality of my text messages; sometimes our ten-year age difference might as well have been thirty. Her response: yah. home now. rents out. It still struck me as odd that young people in Singapore lived as long as they did with their parents, staying with them sometimes even after they got married. Americans just didn’t do this; at eighteen, my own parents practically kicked me out the door. Nicole was twenty-two, and in no fear of being booted out of the nest anytime soon.
A crowded breathless train ride later and I alighted at the Tanah Merah station. Up to street level, waited ten minutes for the number 9 bus to carry me down three more stops, then afive-minute walk to Nicole’s parents’ condo. I suppose I could have walked the whole way, but I didn’t feel like showing up at my girlfriend’s house sweaty and out of sorts. I rang the bell and she opened the door straight away; she must have been watching TV in the living room whilst waiting for me. Without a word, she pulled me into a forceful kiss, and then breathed, “Upstairs.”
On top of the naughty rush I got from sleeping with a student (even if she was legally an adult) was the illicitness of doing it in her parents’ house. Her mom and dad were nice people (yet still unaware that I was their daughter’s teacher), but, as with many Singaporeans, on the conservative side when it came to whom their little girl chose to date. And as an ang moh , I was not exactly their
Similar Books
