Page 7 of A Storybook Wedding
That woman from before (Lucy, I remembered) was at the table as well, seated alongside the one and only Dillon Norway. The MFA gatekeeper. The admission decider. He personally chose these individuals to be in this program along with me, so who was I to judge their makeup or their choice of facial hair? Artists come in all shapes and sizes, I reminded myself. Dillon Norway himself was about five feet, eight inches tall, with thick, gray, wavy hair and wire-rimmed glasses thoughtfully perched along the bridge of his long nose. He wore a hunter-green polo shirt tucked into tan pants with a classic leather belt and brown shoes. He could have been a walking advertisement for Banana Republic if he was about thirty years younger and Banana Republic was still a thing. (Is it? I have no idea.)
He gently tapped the end of his soupspoon on the side of his water glass, quieting the small group of diners. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Hi, there,” he said, immediately channeling his inner Mr. Rogers. He should have been wearing a cardigan, removing his shoes while “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” played in the background. “I’m delighted to welcome you to Matthias University’s MFA program, and thank you for joining us at this little introductory lunch.”
Simultaneous nods permeated the space, along with polite half smiles.
“I’m Dillon Norway, and I’m happy to see each of you. Hope you all had safe travels to the island and have had a chance to settle in a bit.”
More head bobs.
“My role here is technically MFA director, but I really prefer to think of myself as the conductor of a symphony. You all represent the instruments, and with the help of my colleagues, our goal is to turn your work into beautiful music.”
Ah. Such a gorgeous metaphor. I love you already, Dillon Norway, I thought.
He gestured at Lucy, who was seated to his right. “I’m happy to introduce Lucy Jones, my assistant. She’s responsible for all the meticulous items in your welcome packets, the surveys, the room assignments, basically everything that makes our world go round here on the island. She’s your point person for questions about anything in the weeds, anything specific.”
The woman beside him, who was collating and clipping stacks of paper (instead of eating lunch), raised up a hand as if in solidarity but failed to give any further introduction.
“I’m good for your global issues,” Dillon Norway continued. “I’ll help assign you to a mentor who you’ll work with for the semester. I’m here if you feel yourself gravitating toward a specific concentration, like poetry, perhaps to your own surprise or even chagrin,” he chuckled. “I keep office hours, which are on your schedule, and so does Lucy, so you can check your folder to know where and when to find us should you need to.” He paused to take a sip of water. “Now, I’m not great at this part, but we should really all take a turn to properly introduce ourselves. Maybe just share your name, where you come from, what you do there, and a goal or two that you have for the program. Who would like to start us off?”
Sudden, deafening silence swept the room. Not wanting to disappoint Dillon Norway, the only breathing soul in this entire program with whom I felt a kinship, I raised my hand.
“Sure. You.” He pointed at me and offered a friendly nod, then sat down and took a spoonful of tomato soup.
I stood up and smoothed out my dress.
“Oh, you don’t have to stand,” he said. “I mean, you can if you want to, but this is, like, informal.”
Heart pounding, I sat back down. “Sorry,” I began. “I’m Cecily Jane Allerton. I write fiction, and I’m a children’s librarian in Queens, New York, which is where I’m from. This is my second master’s degree. The first is in library sciences. I’d say my goal here is pretty simple. I want to become an agented, published author of commercial novels with strong heroines.” I smiled my best just passed my road test driver’s-license smile and added, “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to be here.”
I thought I heard a sidebar comment at the table, but I ignored it. Dillon Norway thanked me, and Mustache Man went next. The salutations continued until everyone had a turn. Despite my determined efforts to be nonjudgmental, I unfortunately did not leave that particular exercise feeling the potential for kinship with any of my cohort members. None of the rest of them shared goals that seemed like goals to me. Mustache Man said his goal was to “harness his inner power,” and one of the Post Malone fangirls said she wanted to “just, um, figure out my life.” I had to physically restrain myself from shaking my head. And I have to be honest—it made me wonder a little about Dillon Norway’s sense of good reasoning as a gatekeeper, but that sounded rude, even locked up in my own brain, so I admonished myself by pinching my thigh and continued smiling courteously at the group. After everyone had a turn, Lucy took over the meeting. She gave us the rundown on what to expect for the next nine days, explained the importance of the whiteboard, and shared how to submit surveys at the conclusion of each seminar, disseminating a packet of them to each of us.
The rest of the day continued as per the schedule. There was far more free time than I was comfortable with, so I grabbed one of the new YA novels I’d brought along and made my way down to a quiet bench overlooking the water until the 3:00 p.m. mixer, which I could easily have done without. I decided to stay on that bench (a safe haven, seeing as how my bedroom had been invaded by Gurt) until the very last minute when the mixer began, and as a result, I arrived with my book in tow. My paperback became its own sort of icebreaker.
“Pep Rally Pretender?” an older man asked. “What’s that about?”
“Oh! It’s a story about a dead girl whose ghost disguises itself as a high school student and becomes really popular. It’s super interesting.”
He stroked his beard while I spoke—a fully-grown-in-mountain-man situation, mind you—and then replied, “That sounds like a children’s story.”
“Well, it is. I mean, it’s YA, actually. It’s trending on TikTok though, so…”
“I’m reading Perimeter Spaces by Ulto Blankin. It’s an allegory about the machination of our borders by the man.”
I coughed. The fuck? “That’s nice,” I said. “Did you say the author’s name was Ulta? Like the cosmetics store?”
Scruffleupagus dug his fingers deep into his beard and gave a hearty tug. What is it with men and their chin hair? I wondered. “No,” he said. “I’m not familiar with that store.”
I nodded. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m just going to go grab another drink.”
Another dude, this one a giant at easily six feet five inches, completely bald (a welcome change), and thin as a rail, opened with a similar line. “Whatcha got there?” he said in an unexpectedly thick Irish brogue.
I had to stop myself from laughing because my immediate thought was, You’ll never get your hands on me Lucky Charms! Instead, I remained silent in an attempt to keep my face from exploding and simply held up my book so he could see its cover. “Ah, Pep Rally Pretender then. Is that the one where the woman goes on a journey of self-discovery after a divorce?”
At this, I couldn’t help but giggle. “I think you’re thinking of Eat, Pray, Love.”
I think I embarrassed him though, because he side-shuffled his way into a conversation with a person to my left almost immediately after I laughed at him.
My bad.