I hold up one hand, stopping her.
“I have nothing to do with the process,” I say. “When I find out when and where your exam will be, I’ll tell you. Now, I need to start class.”
“Who do I talk to about this?” she asks, not moving.
“That sounds like an excellent question for your advisor,” I tell her. “Please take your seat.”
Angela’s not happy with that answer either, but she sits, neatly arranging a pen and four highlighters next to the syllabus she’s already pulled out.
I straighten the stack of syllabi on the table up front, take one, walk to the lectern, center it, adjust the glasses I usually wear for the first few weeks of class, since they make me feel more professorial.
“Welcome to Honors Calculus 102,” I begin. “I’m Professor Loveless. If you’re supposed to be in Modern Dance, you’ve got the wrong classroom.”
It gets a ripple of polite laughter, as usual.
“Today will be a fairly short class,” I say, launching into my usual spiel. “I’ll just be going over the syllabus, policies, and expectations, and we’ll begin instruction on Wednesday. If you’ve got any questions…”
As I talk, I look over the students, who I swear get younger every year. They’re sitting in neat rows, some watching me, some reading along in the syllabus. It’s the first day, so no one is looking at their phone during class yet.
At this point in the semester, they’re still bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, optimistic, even the ones who are required to take this class for their major. That’ll probably change in a few weeks, as things get increasingly complex.
“…will count for forty percent of your grade,” I’m saying, the same thing I say every semester. “Your midterm will count for thirty percent, and the final for —"
I stop short, frozen. My voice sticks in my throat. I can’t even draw a breath.
For a long, long moment, silence reigns in the classroom. Papers shuffle. Pens click.
I stare, disbelieving.
From the back row, spine ramrod straight, eyes wide as saucers, Thalia’s staring right back at me.Chapter EightThaliaI want to melt into the floor and disappear into the cracks between the ugly tiles.
I should have left the second I saw him at the front of the classroom. Yes, I need this class to graduate, and yes, this is the only section that works with the rest of my schedule, but taking five years to graduate suddenly doesn’t sound so bad.
Not when my math professor is the same man who pushed me against a wall last night, kissed me like our lives depended on it, and told me he wanted to make me orgasm.
Just the memory of it makes the heat rush to my face again, my hand squeezing my pen so hard it’s a miracle that it hasn’t —
Crack.
— And there my pen goes. I drop it quickly and it lands on my Honors Calculus syllabus, deep blue ink oozing out thickly.
I just stare at it. Caleb — no, Professor Loveless, oh God — is talking again, and now he’s moved on to his absence policy. At least I didn’t get too much ink on my hand, though now I can’t follow along on the syllabus, as if I was doing that in the first place.
He’s my professor.
Last night, I felt my professor’s dick. When it was hard. While his tongue was in my mouth.
And it got me very, very turned on.
I want to disappear.
I glance at the doorway, and contemplate making a run for it. It’s not far. I took a seat in the back row on purpose, for no other reason than I simply could not stand the thought of my peers looking at me in my current state of agony.
But I don’t. I stay put, because making some sort of ruckus would be worse than staying quiet, right? Maybe if I stare at my ink-stained syllabus for long enough, when I look back up that won’t be Caleb any more, it’ll be some other hot professor with glasses —
Nope. Nope, it’s still him.
I don’t look up for the rest of the class period, not until everyone else is shoving papers into their bags and standing.
That’s when I hear, loud and clear: “Thalia Lopez, could I see you for a moment? Everyone else, I’ll see you Wednesday.”
I wait for everyone else to leave before I make my way to the front, tossing my ruined syllabus into the trash, along with my busted pen, rubbing the ink on my palm into a big smear. Two other students are asking him about something — grading policy, it sounds like — so I stand back and try to think about literally anything but last night.
Finally, the last one leaves. Caleb — nope, Professor Loveless, God in heaven I can’t believe this is happening — and I both watch him go.