Chapter Text
Morning in Philadelphia arrives soft and blue. Bette Porter steps out of her rowhouse and pauses on the stoop, smiling as her city hums around her. Old red-brick homes lined shoulder to shoulder, wrought-iron railings still cool from the night air. A woman down the block waters her plants. A bus groans past at the corner. Somewhere, a radio plays low jazz, faint and familiar.
Bette inhales. Philadelphia has a rhythm she understands; it’s not polished by any means, but it’s real and earned. She adjusts the strap of her cross-body briefcase, smoothing a hand over the front of her coat before stepping onto the sidewalk. Her heels click with intention against the pavement as she moves down the block, stepping into the same corner store she’s stopped at every morning for years.
“Morning, Jack,” she says as she walks past the cashier, who’s leaning back in his chair with his newspaper over his face.
“Morning Professor…just in time, just put on a fresh pot….”
Bette smiles as she moves toward the back of the old school coffee maker. “Not too strong, yeah?” She says as she grabs a cup.
“You get what you get, kiddo…” Jacke says as he turns the page on his paper.
Bette smiles as she pours her coffee, grabs her one sugar and cream, and adds them before walking to the counter and dropping the exact amount needed for the coffee. “Have a good one, Jack…” she says.
Jack lowers half of his paper and offers a gentle smile. “Don’t be too hard on the kids today, Professor…”
Bette laughs as she tips her coffee toward Jack. “We’ll see…” She winks, then steps back out onto the sidewalk, continuing her morning commute. The streets she’s known for years, the same mural splashed across the side of a building, bold, unapologetic color layered over history. She loves this city, her city deeply. The city that made her who she is…
***
The station is already alive when she reaches it. Commuters move with quiet urgency, coffee cups in hand, eyes half-focused on the day ahead. Bette slips through the crowd with ease, tapping her card and descending the worn steps to the platform. She checks her watch and smiles, right on time.
A distant rumble builds, growing louder until the train barrels into the station with a rush of wind and noise. The doors slide open, and Bette steps inside, finding a seat by the window. The train lurches forward, and she settles back, crossing one leg over the other as the city begins to move around her. Her favorite part of the morning is riding the El, watching the city blur past and studying how her fellow Philadelphians start their day. She reaches into her bag, pulling out her notes for the day’s lecture, but she doesn’t look at them right away. Instead, her gaze drifts to the window.
This city, its grit, its history, its refusal to soften itself for anyone, has shaped her in ways no classroom ever could. It’s why she teaches the way she does. Why does she refuse to let her students settle.
The train slows as it approaches her stop, the brakes screeching softly as it pulls into the station. Bette gathers her things, rising smoothly to her feet as the doors slide open. She steps off and finishes the last sip of her coffee, then tosses the cup into a trash can in one fluid motion as she steps onto the campus of the University of Northern Philadelphia.
She gives her watch a quick glance, then picks up her pace, her heels clicking with purpose as she moves toward the Art building.
Inside, the hallway buzzes with low conversation and the shuffle of students. Bette slips past them effortlessly, pushing open the classroom door. Her students are already talking, laptops half-open, notebooks scattered.
Bette smiles. She moves down the steps toward the front, placing her briefcase on the desk as the room gradually quiets. “Alright…” she begins, her voice calm but commanding. “Let’s pick up where we left off.”
Laptops snap open, pens hover over notebooks.
Bette glances at the projected image behind her, a bold, chaotic abstract painting. “This,” she says, gesturing behind her, “is what happens when an artist stops asking for permission.”
A few students exchange looks.
Bette paces slowly. “Art history isn’t just about dates and movements. It’s about disruption. Every major shift in art, every single one, comes from someone deciding the rules no longer apply.”
She turns, locking eyes with a student in the second row. “Impressionism? Rejected.” She steps forward. “Cubism? Mocked…... Abstract expressionism? Called meaningless.”
She allows the silence to sit. “And yet…” she continues, softer now, “those are the movements we study. The ones that changed everything.” She leans against the desk slightly. “So, the question isn’t whether something is art…” She pauses for a beat. “It’s who gets to decide.”
The room is quiet now, and everyone is fully locked in.
Bette allows herself a small, satisfied smile. “Assignment for next week,” she says, shifting gears. “I want you to find a piece, you decide the medium, that was dismissed in its time. I want you to tell me why… and whether you think history got it right…”
***
After class, students filter out, some lingering to ask questions before finally disappearing into the hallway.
Bette packs her bag, reaching up to power down the projector. She turns and pauses when she sees an unfamiliar woman, dressed in an immaculate skirt suit, descending the steps with quiet confidence.
“Hi?” Bette says, offering a polite smile.
The woman returns it warmly. “Hi there… hell of a lecture, Professor.”
“Thanks…” Bette replies, brows knitting slightly. “I’m sorry, are you new to the class? It’s a little late in the semester to—”
“Oh, no,” the woman interrupts gently, lifting a hand. “Nothing like that.”
Bette closes her briefcase and leans back against the desk. “Right… so then you are…?”
The woman extends her hand. “My name is Phyllis Kroll… Dean of Admissions at California University.”
Bette’s brows lift with recognition as she shakes her hand. “Ah… nice. You’re a long way from the lights of Hollywood, aren’t you?”
Phyllis smiles. “I am… but with good reason.” She pauses for a beat. “I’m here to talk to you about joining my staff.”
Bette lets out a soft laugh, crossing her arms. “Again… you’ve traveled a bit far in your search for an art professor, Mrs. Kroll.”
“You would be correct,” Phyllis says smoothly, setting her purse on the desk, “if I were only looking for a professor.”
That catches Bette’s attention.
Phyllis steps closer. “I’m looking for my next Dean of the Art Department.”
Silence sits between them for a few beats. Bette blinks once and then lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Right…” She points to herself. “And you’re suggesting you want me?”
“Yes,” Phyllis says, completely unfazed. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Well, yes,” Bette shoots back with a small smile. “Since when do prominent universities go headhunting for thirty-four-year-old deans?”
Phyllis doesn’t miss a beat. “Since they realize their art departments are becoming stagnant, damn near irrelevant.”
Phyllis’ statement lands. Bette’s smile fades slightly.
Phyllis continues. “I’ve read your work, Dr. Porter. Your MFA in Visual Arts. Your PhD in Art History. You were an assistant professor by twenty-six.” She steps closer, her voice lowering. “You have multiple widely cited journal articles… and a reputation for pushing boundaries in both theory and practice.”
Bette’s jaw tightens just slightly.
Phyllis tilts her head. “And yet… here you are.” A glance around the modest classroom. “Teaching bright students, yes, but in a department that isn’t built to match your vision.”
Bette inhales slowly.
Phyllis softens, just a touch. “You’re young,” she says plainly. “That’s exactly why I want you. I don’t need someone to maintain the department…” She pauses. “I need someone to rebuild it.”
Bette looks away for a moment, considering. “That’s… a big risk,” she says quietly.
Phyllis smiles. “Only if you’re afraid of what happens when you succeed.”
Bette lets out a breath, a small, almost amused shake of her head. “You’re very convincing.”
“I know,” Phyllis replies easily.
A group of students begins filing into the room for the next class, their chatter filling the space again.
Bette glances toward them, then back to Phyllis. “I can’t give you an answer right now.”
“I wouldn’t expect one,” Phyllis says.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a sleek card, placing it gently on Bette’s desk. “One final thing…”
Bette looks up.
Phyllis holds her gaze. “Don’t mistake where you are for where you belong…... I’m catching a red eye out tomorrow night after dinner…I have a reservation for two at Aquimero at eight…I hope to see you there so we can continue our conversation…” She then turns and walks up the steps, disappearing out of the room.
Bette stands still for a moment. The noise of the new class settling in blurs around her. Her eyes drop to the card on her desk. She picks it up and turns it over between her fingers. She looks up at her students and pauses for a beat. “Alright,” she says, stepping forward, her voice steady again—but something underneath it has changed. “Let’s begin….”
***
That evening, Bette is sitting across from her father in the quiet, polished dining room of his home. The table is set with precision, linen napkins folded sharply, silverware aligned as if measured. A half-finished glass of red wine rested near her hand.
Melvin Porter is sitting at the head of the table, posture straight, expression unreadable as he cuts into his steak.
Bette pushes a piece of food around her plate before finally speaking. “I received a job offer today.”
Melvin doesn’t look up immediately. “Mm.” He pauses. “From where?”
“California University. Los Angeles.”
Melvin sets his knife down, lifting his gaze to Bette. “And?”
“They want me to come in as Dean of the Art Department.”
Melvin leans back slightly, studying her. “And you’re hesitating?”
Bette exhales, picking up her wine glass. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She takes a sip, then sets the glass down. “It’s a big move,” she says. “It’s not just a teaching position. It’s administrative. Political. It changes the trajectory of everything.”
Melvin nods once, as if confirming something he already believed. “You should take it.”
Bette’s brows lift slightly. “That was fast.”
“It’s obvious,” he replies evenly. “Opportunities like that don’t present themselves twice. Especially not at your age.”
Bette tilts her head, considering him. “If I take it,” she says carefully, “I’m insisting that I get to lecture…that’s non-negotiable…and that they put me on the tenure track.”
Melvin gives a small approving nod. “That’s my girl…”
A faint smile tugs at Bette’s lips as she shakes her head. “I can’t believe I’m actually considering leaving…”
“Why is that?” Melvin asks.
Bette chuckles. “Well, because this is home, daddy… this is my city. My life is here, friends, family…” She pauses, looking at her father. “You…” she says quietly, feeling herself become emotional.
Melvin slowly sets his silverware down and wipes his mouth with his linen napkin. He then gives his daughter a gentle smile. “Sweetheart, home will always be here… you know that. If you decide you don’t like all the sun out there in Los Angeles, you can come back just like you did after Yale….” He reaches out and grabs Bette’s hand, squeezing it. “You are a young, brilliant black woman being offered a high-profile position at a prestigious university… you will not be turning this down on my watch, young lady….” He looks at his daughter with amusement. “Even if I’m going to miss you terribly….”
Bette smiles through her tears. “I’m gonna miss you too, daddy….”
Melvin picks up his Manhattan and holds it up. “To my baby…. Dr. Bette Porter, dean of the California University Art Department….”
Bette smiles as she picks up her wine glass and taps it against her father’s.
They both take a sip of their drinks. Bette then watches as her father tries to hide his emotions, quickly wiping away a tear. “I’m so proud of you, just wait until your aunts and uncles find out about this.”
Bette only smiles.
Melvin’s smile slowly fades. “When you do get to Los Angeles…” he continues, his tone shifting, “you need to continue keeping your sister at arm’s length.”
Bette immediately rolls her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “Daddy, stop it….”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not consciously keeping Kit at arm’s length,” Bette shoots back. “Kit stays away. That’s her choice.”
Melvin’s jaw tightens. “Your sister has made a decision,” he says, his voice sharpening, “to live in debauchery. I won’t have her drag you down with her.”
Bette lets out a frustrated sigh, dropping her fork onto her plate with a soft clatter. “Daddy, seriously… stop it.”
Melvin holds up a hand, as if conceding the point, for now. “Fine.”
Silence settles between them. The only sounds are the faint clink of silverware and the low hum of the house.
Bette picks up her fork again and cuts into her food. “On the bright side,” she says after a moment, her tone lighter, “Amanda and I broke up a few months ago, so I won’t have to have an awkward conversation about the move.”
Melvin stills.
Bette doesn’t look up right away, but she feels it, the cold shift that always comes when she mentions her sexuality. The tightening of his posture and subtle change in his expression. She glances at him. There it is, that familiar look, discomfort wrapped in denial. Her playful smile fades.
A beat passes before Melvin’s expression shifts, almost abruptly. He straightens slightly, a smile forcing its way into place as he gives her a small wink. He picked up his glass, taking a measured sip. “So,” he continued smoothly, “let’s discuss how you’re going to approach your salary negotiation.”
Bette watches him for a beat longer before she slowly leans back in her chair. And just like that, as usual, they move on….
***
Bette steps out into the night air, the door closing softly behind her. Philadelphia greets her the way it always does, cool and unbothered. Somewhere down the block, laughter spills out of a house. A car passes, music low, bass thumping just enough to feel. She pauses at the top of the steps, dinner sits heavy in her chest, not the food, but the conversation. Her father’s voice buzzes in her ear. “You should take it…... I’m proud of you.”
Bette exhales slowly, then descends the steps and starts toward the station.
***
The platform is quieter now. Late enough that the rush has thinned, but not empty. A few commuters linger, someone scrolling their phone, another leaning against a column, headphones in, lost in their own world.
Bette steps onto the train when it arrives and finds a seat by the window. The car hums to life, and the city begins to move again.
Bette leans back and just watches for a few beats. She then reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. A few beats pass as her thumb hovers and then taps search. California University – Art Department.
Videos begin to populate the screen. She clicks on one and watches a student-led exhibition. The camera pans across a sterile white room, paintings spaced too far apart, lighting too harsh. A handful of people stand around, wine cups in hand, nodding politely. No energy. No conversation that matters.
Bette’s brow furrows as she scrolls and taps another video. A faculty showcase. Beige canvases. Watercolors that bleed into nothing. Students with hands in pockets, checking phones, shifting weight from foot to foot. She shakes her head at the screen.
She exits the video. The train rattles on as she lowers the phone, gaze drifting to the window.
Philadelphia rushes past her again. Row houses with their narrow faces. The flash of a mural, vibrant against brick. A corner bodega’s neon sign. Bette inhales, slow and deep, then exhales. “Well... shit.”
An older Black woman peers over her glasses, one eyebrow raised.
Bette straightens. “Sorry...”
The train stops with a hiss. The woman rises, grips her polished-wood cane with a brass handle, and passes Bette. “You have a good night, young lady...”
“Yes ma’am...you as well...”
The doors close. Bette leans back, eyes closing. In the darkness behind her lids, those bland student works flicker, then transform into bold strokes, raw colors, canvases that demand attention. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, already sketching out lesson plans….
***
Three weeks later….
The campus of California University feels different the moment Bette steps onto it. Definitely warmer and much brighter, very polished.
After a full tour with Phyllis Kroll, complete with strategic stops, carefully worded praise, and a few too many mentions of “potential,” Bette finally finds herself alone in her office. She steps inside and stops. A quiet chuckle escapes her as she plants her hands on her hips, slowly turning in place.
The walls are a dull, outdated beige, somewhere between tired and forgotten. Heavy brown curtains suffocate the windows, blocking out most of the California sun that tries to push its way through. The furniture is solid, expensive even, but still lifeless.
Bette shakes her head lightly, amused. “Wow…” She walks further in, her shoes soft against the carpet, taking it all in with a critical eye. She’s dressed down, jeans, a fitted t-shirt, but there’s nothing casual about her presence.
She glances over her shoulder when she hears a knock, or more like a hesitant tap against the already open door.
A young man in a suit and tie steps inside, pausing just past the threshold. He looks confused. Slightly concerned. “Hi…” he says. He then frowns, pointing lightly at her. “Uh… I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be in here.”
Bette lifts a brow, intrigued.
“I heard the new dean was on campus,” he continues, stepping in a little further, “but if you want an appointment, you’ll need to make one once her schedule gets set up.”
Bette watches him for a beat and then smiles. “Hi. I’m Bette Porter.”
The man freezes. There’s a full second where his brain tries to catch up with what he just heard. His brows crease deeper. “As in… PhD Bette Porter? The new dean?”
Bette nods once. “That would be me.”
The shift is immediate. He straightens up so fast it’s almost mechanical. “Oh, wow. You’re not—” He stops himself, flushing slightly. “I mean… you’re not exactly what I expected.”
Bette lets out a soft laugh, glancing away for a moment. “I think that’s what Phyllis Kroll had in mind.” She looks back at him. “And you are?”
He steps fully into the office now. “James Monroe. I was old man Whitmore’s—” He pauses and smiles sheepishly. “I mean, Henry Whitmore’s assistant.”
Bette gently smiles.
James clears his throat as he continues. “I understand if you want to bring in your own assistant,” he adds quickly. “I can clear out my desk.”
Bette doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she turns, eyes drifting back to those long, heavy, aggressively brown curtains. She stares at them like they’ve personally offended her. “Nah,” she says casually. “I’m not doing all that shit.”
James blinks, relieved.
Bette turns back to him with a small smile. “What color do you think I should paint in here?”
James’s brows shoot up. “I—paint?” he repeats. “The new semester starts in less than a week. You’ve got a lot to handle before then, you know?”
Bette shrugs, completely unbothered. “I know.” She gestures toward the walls. “But there’s no way I’m living with these butt-ugly walls.” She then points directly at the curtains. “And that shit needs to be taken down, taken out back… and set on fire.”
James can’t contain his laughter. “Got it,” he says, nodding. “I’ll get right on that.”
Bette turns again, slowly walking the perimeter of her office, already envisioning something else.
James watches her for a moment, recalibrating everything he thought this job was going to be under the new dean. “Anything else you need?” he asks.
Bette shakes her head slightly, still scanning the space. “No,” she says. “I’m just going to… mingle around in here for a bit.”
James nods. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” He steps back toward the door, pausing just briefly before heading out.
Bette barely notices. She’s already somewhere else, mentally tearing the room apart, rebuilding it piece by piece. She stops in the center of the room again, looking around. This time, her expression shifts, no amusement…just complete focus….
***
Tina Kennard leans forward as her mint-green moped hums down the street. The thrum of traffic and distant chatter mingle with her engine’s buzz, and a soft click in her ear signals that Alice Pieszecki is on the other end of her Bluetooth.
“I still can’t believe you and Shane fell for the okie-doke and went back to school,” Alice scoffs through the speaker.
Tina laughs, shaking her head as she slows at a light. “We’re in grad school, Alice,” she replies. “We didn’t join a cult.”
“Suckers,” Alice fires back immediately. “You should’ve been like me, done my four years, and I was out. Got me a nice job, a nice apartment… where I can have adult company when I want or just tap the ol’ bean if the mood hits me…”
Tina smirks. “I don’t remember you having any hesitation doing any of that in our dorm room, Al.”
Alice laughs. “Okay, first of all, you were rude for listening. Second…. are you on that thing again?”
Tina rolls her eyes as the light turns green and she eases forward. “Yes, because gas is too expensive to be driving everywhere.”
“Are you wearing that ugly green helmet?”
Tina narrows her eyes, even though Alice can’t see her. “My helmet is not ugly,” she says firmly. “And yes, I’m wearing it. Because it’s the law.”
Alice giggles. “Nerd.”
Tina smiles despite herself. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Yeah, yeah, just don’t be late for beers and pizza tonight.”
Tina scoffs lightly. “When am I ever late for beer and pizza?”
She turns onto the next street, the California University campus opening up in front of her, wide walkways, students scattered across the lawn, the sun catching on glass buildings and palm trees, and then everything slows.
Across the street, a woman steps up to her car, tall and brunette, her long curls falling just past her shoulders. Tina watches as the woman clicks her key fob, the trunk popping open. She lifts her arms slightly, pushing her sunglasses up as she moves, her muscles flexing subtly beneath the fitted t-shirt she’s wearing.
Tina’s mouth parts just a little; she doesn’t look away. She can’t look away.
The woman moves with quiet confidence, unbothered, completely in her own space.
Tina keeps watching… and watching, completely forgetting she’s operating a moving vehicle. “Oh, shit….” she says when she finally remembers. The front wheel of her moped slams straight into a bike rack with a loud screech and a dull thud.
Tina jerks forward, catching herself just before she wipes out, her mint green helmet tipping down and covering her eyes. “Shit,” she mutters as she pushes her helmet up, her heart racing as she awkwardly steadies the moped and kicks the stand down.
She swings off, trying and failing to look like that didn’t just happen. Tina straightens, brushing her hands over her jeans like that somehow resets the moment.
She then looks across the walkway, and a tight cluster of students has gathered, their low murmurs drifting over. The woman with the curls pauses, a box tucked under one arm. She lifts her sunglasses, eyes scanning Tina with a flicker of concern, then a teasing curve of her lips. Without a word, she swivels on her heel and strides toward the Art Building…..
Tina just stands there, staring, processing absolutely nothing. Her brain finally catches up a full three seconds later. “…who the fuck is that?”