She blushed, thinking of exactly who she’d been in such a rush to see. “Didn’t want to be late. First day and all.”
“What’s the deal with this guy?” he asked, and it took her a minute to register he was talking about Blake. Professor Morris, she reminded herself.
“What about him?”
“His face, for one thing.” When she scowled, he quickly continued. “And where did he come from? This is an advanced-level class. I can’t believe they gave it to a new adjunct professor.”
“It probably means they have a lot of faith in him.” The defensiveness surprised her. She’d have to watch that if she didn’t want people guessing they had something going on.
Jeremy looked at her speculatively. “Sure. Whatever.” He pulled out a laptop and plugged it into the wall behind them. “Besides, only one more semester and I’m out of here.”
She grinned. Now that she could relate to. “Me too.”
“Man, I can’t wait. I’m so done with this place.”
She was right there with him. With her degree, she would finally be able to support herself on more than loans. She’d finally be able to afford more than a shared, crappy apartment. Could she really blame Blake for speaking to Professor Jenkins or wanting to see her outside of work hours? She was his equal. Erin wanted that too.
She sneaked a glance at him. He’d gone back to his desk and opened his briefcase. The papers inside looked crumpled and disorganized. That was unlike him.
Distantly a buzz signaled the start of class. The newer buildings didn’t have bells, but this was one of the more historical buildings on campus, which meant the furniture was all scratched up and the A/C was constantly on the fritz. The low hum of conversation fell
into silent expectation. Blake set down the papers and came around the desk empty-handed. He turned one of the chairs around and straddled it.
In a way, meeting them all as equals.
Her heart softened. It must have been hard for him to face everyone on the same level, without the shield or props that most professors used, even ones without scars. But he wasn’t showing any nervousness. He looked calm, competent. Like an experienced professor instead of a man who’d been ripped apart, physically and emotionally. Like a soldier.
He introduced himself as Professor Morris but call me Blake. She smiled at that. He’d said something similar to her at the beginning when she’d showed up to clean his house, though it had been Mr. Morris. Back then, she’d instinctively resisted, recognizing that intimacy between them could grow like wildfire. So he was always Mr. Morris to her…until they’d slept together.
Now he was Blake.
He spoke with a smooth baritone, easy to hear and understand as he went over the tenets of the class, the schedule and the research paper that would account for the bulk of their grade. Everyone, including Erin, scribbled down the information.
“Okay, let’s get down to business. I’m told the class textbook was listed with the enrollment information.”
She’d been the one to tell him that. In his day, they’d only gotten that information on the first day of class. That was how he’d said it too—in my day. She had laughed. As if he was ancient instead of fifteen years older.
She pulled out her textbook along with the rest of the class. The books lay in a circle on the table, unopened.
He paused for a moment, as if thinking.
“This isn’t an issues class. I do expect you to stay up-to-date with what’s happening in the political sphere…and catch yourself up if for some reason you haven’t been following the news for the past five years. But I’m not going to tell you how to feel about euthanasia or whether you should support a candidate who smoked pot. That’s your job to figure out, as a citizen and as esteemed graduates of this program. This class is about giving you the means to convey those feelings and your support. The language. The tools.”
Another pause, and in any other class, there would be shuffling as students turned, disinterested, to their phones. Instead, there was only thoughtful silence. Erin found herself thinking as well. What tools did she have? Responsibility as a citizen…those were strong words, but he said them without rancor or judgment. With a certain sense of trust, as if he believed that a bunch of hungover college students really would come up with the right answers on their own.
“What’s your name?” he asked one of the boys across from her.
“Uh, Allen.”
“Allen, can you read the first paragraph of the first chapter, please?”
Pages rustled as everyone flipped open to the right page. The chapter heading said, PRECEDENT.
Allen read aloud, “A precedent is an earlier event or action regarded as an example or guide to be considered in similar circumstances or a principle established in a previous situation that may be applied to subsequent cases with similar circumstances.”
“Hmm,” Blake said. “That’s a perfectly whitewashed definition, but I think we can do better than that. Anyone want to give it a try?”
The room was quiet. Blake waited.