36 Inches (Size Matters 3)

Dr. Ethan. His name is written on the board, and that’s when I realize, Dr. Ethan Wesley likes to be called by his first name. I’ve had other teachers like that, and it was nice then. With all the stress of college, it isn’t so bad when a teacher wants to be a little informal.

But with him?

“Lateness is another thing that will not be tolerated, which, if you arrived on time, you’d know…” He pauses for my name. God, I see all kinds of people in the room, fawning over him, and here I am, thinking about how sensual his voice is.

Oh, shit. I should actually answer.

“Emmaline,” I say my name quickly. “Emmaline Travers.” I say my first and last name for him in this too quiet classroom. No one is moving a muscle, either transfixed or paralyzed by him.

I sit down behind someone, trying to keep my eyes off of him.

But that’s not enough.

I’m taking notes through class, getting to know what his course is going to be like. How am I supposed to focus on this class when the sound of his voice stops my pen and puts my heart in overdrive?

I keep trying to take notes, leaving ten of the graph squares on my note paper blank for marking up and calling out things later. I’ve never sat in any lecture and started to lose track of what the teacher was saying. Yet, here I am, hanging onto Dr. Ethan’s every word and forgetting to even write things down.

I’m relieved when he says that we’re going to now write our first paper.

After the intimidating lecture, which I only caught the tail end of and even find myself a little freaked out about, no one dares groan when he says that he expects everyone to keep writing until the end of class. The second handout contains the paper that we are to turn in next c

lass.

He is demanding. But for some reason the idea of Dr. Ethan as being so domineering and demanding just makes me squirm in my seat. When I do, I catch a quick glimpse of him. Thank God he’s looking in the other direction because if his eyes lock on mine, I might faint in class.

Wouldn’t you figure? I’ll make sure and tell Delia when we have coffee tomorrow (I promised to make it this time) that apparently being attracted to a guy gives me, like, narcolepsy.

My brain has the good sense to not let me freak out when I take my copies of the assignments and then pass them on.

I’m a freaking English major. This is a writing assignment. Even though I’m a planner in so many ways, I have no problem writing something off the cuff for class. The size of the booklets he gave us, well, he’s expecting a lot.

Why do I feel a flutter in my stomach when I think about him reading my paper, maybe being pleased by it?

Okay, that’s the kind of pressure that I don’t need. I take a deep breath, shove the second assignment into my bag, and get my pencil case out to start on this one.

I read the assignment prompt.

‘Discuss an experience that changed your opinion. Use this to explain your story, but not to persuade. The reader should be able to picture your experience.’

For about three seconds, I think about writing about Delia convincing me that trying a vibrator would make my life easier. I decide against buying a ticket on the train to inappropriate land and try not to imagine Dr. Ethan reading about me masturbating.

Girls throw themselves at him all the time, I’m sure. The guy in front of me looks like he’d rather skip lunch and have the professor instead. Can’t blame him, but that’s not me. This whole foolish fantasy needs to stop. I need to write about something.

I think for a second, indulging my bad habit in holding the capped end of my pen in my mouth.

I’m 19. Opinions are supposed to be changed like underwear. Deeply held, then discarded, right? For a maddening few seconds, I don’t know what to write, but then I put my pen to paper.

My topic is a little strange. I write about the death penalty, and how my nextdoor neighbor getting murdered ended up changing my mind about the death penalty. I never saw much of the girl my age who lived there, Carrie I think her name was, and what I saw of her parents, they weren’t great … but it wasn’t like their death was a good thing to me. Then, after someone went down for that murder, the whole neighborhood seemed to be out for blood. I thought the death penalty was just part of justice, and I didn’t feel that way when some stranger ancillary to my life might be on the execution block.

My brain flits to the idea that my narrative might not be that insightful, or well written, but I can’t let myself think about that and I just write instead.

I get lost in the writing, and I try to think about only that. Every few paragraphs, I start to imagine how this paper is going to be in Dr. Ethan’s hands, and I start to run my fingers over the paper. As if, somehow, by touching the paper, I’m running my fingers over his hand. Totally inappropriate, and I pull myself back into the story. It isn’t inherently personal. The story is internal. The writing might be insufferable. But when I write, I don’t let my doubts go beyond knocking on the door. The more I write, the less I hear them.

When class is out, everyone passes their papers up. I pass mine, and I head out of class as quickly as possible. The room is suddenly stifling, and I shuffle out of there and fill my lungs with the outside air as fast as I can.

I settle under a favorite tree of mine for my between class sessions, pulling out my phone and earbuds. I’m grateful to have my normal rituals, and my general excitement for being back at school with a new semester is all that’s on my mind.

I click the music app on my phone, but my screen goes black and then a call notification blurs out my home screen’s apps.