Third Degree by Maggie Barbieri

president. My experience had led me to believe that if Etheridge wanted to see you, it couldn’t be good.
    I fingered the Miraculous Medal on my desk and said a quick Hail Mary.

Nine
    Remind me again why I do this teaching thing?
    The day was long, the students not really prepared, the answers to my questions verging from inane to so bad that they were brilliant. Most of them eyed my shiner suspiciously, looking at me as if I were not someone to be trifled with. That was a good thing; setting a good precedent for toughness never hurt. There were a few gems in this crop, those students whom I would be proud to call English majors, but I prayed that the rest of them would think about nursing or communications as viable majors when the time came to choose.
    I packed up and went out the back door, careful to avoid the cracks in the risers of the steps on my way up to the parking lot where I had left my car. My mind on things other than school—namely, how does a seemingly healthy man drop dead if not from a blow to the head?—I missed one step and took a header toward the next step, catching myself with my hand but not before banging my shin and wrist. Oh, for God’s sake, I thought, will it never end? My messenger bag went flying and, with it, all of the papers that had been inside. Fortunately, it wasn’t windy, and everything stayed pretty much where it was supposed to. The unfortunate part? The wrap part of my dress, which was doing a poor job of holding everything in to begin with, was now ripped from the force of my fall and holding nothing in. I quickly gathered the front of the dress together, got up, and began to shove everything back in my bag, not even knowing if I was hurt, but knowing that I was fully humiliated.
    A few freshmen had gathered on the hill next to the steps and were staring at me, a college professor with a black eye, and probably a skinned knee, her boobs hanging out in the ugliest bra they had probably ever seen. “I’m fine!” I called over and they stared at me in gape-jawed wonder, probably reconsidering what it was that they saw in this school and its curriculum in the first place. Not one of them made a move to help me, so I quickly jogged up the rest of the steps, noting a sharp pain in my wrist but able to move freely otherwise.
    I cursed and muttered all the way to the car. I’m not known for my grace, but this was just ridiculous. I had been trying so hard to avoid falling down and had fallen harder than I would have anticipated. Still holding my dress together, I sped out of the parking lot, slowing down for one of the many speed bumps around campus that always hampered my time getting out of there. I looked to the left and to the spot where I usually said a silent prayer to the stone angel sitting on the wall in front of the library that had been there since before I had been a student at St. Thomas. Instead, all I saw was an empty pedestal, no angel in sight.
    The angel was gone, apparently ripped right off its antique perch. This was going to be quite a class if they were already vandalizing the campus.
    I continued home, ready to wash my wounds, and wipe this day right out of my mind.
    Things picked up considerably upon my arrival home. The sight of Crawford, drinking a beer and sitting on my front stoop, did more to cheer me than anything could have at that moment. Trixie sat beside him, overjoyed at seeing me; her tail wagged back and forth, slapping Crawford in the face. I stopped at the end of the driveway and called out to him. “What are you doing here?”
    “I took some lost time,” he said. “Come on. I’ll take you to dinner.”
    I pulled the car up the length of the driveway and parked in front of my detached garage, gathered my bag and a sweater I had left on the front seat, and hobbled over to Crawford, who had come around to the back of the house. He took in my appearance and whistled.
    “That’s a good look for you,” he said, taking in the ripped dress