“Hey,” she asked. “Do you know if we can use this class to fulfill the arts requirement too?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t go to undergrad here.”
“Wait. Didn’t go?” She looked me up and down, scrutinizing me. “You mean you’re not a freshman?”
I grit my teeth. “No,” I said.
“Are you a grad student then?”
“I’m a doctoral student.” I knew what was coming next. I braced myself.
“But you look so young,” she said. “You look like you’re not even eighteen yet.”
I had recently turned twenty-one, so if anything, I should’ve looked like an upperclassman. But I have my mother’s round face and puffy cheeks, her circular eyes. Mom and Dad used to call me their ‘little cherub,’ until at ten years old, I demanded that they give me a new nickname.
I wasn’t going to admit how old I was. That I was their age.
“Nope. Doctoral student,” I said again.
“Are you the TA?”
Why did they have so many questions? “Nope.”
“Oh. Are you his girlfriend?” This time, it was the woman who had called Dr. Evans dreamy. I could give them credit for being an inquisitive bunch.
The door to the lecture hall slammed open, and out came the so-called dream god himself. A professor. Supposed billionaire. The eligible bachelor. The man out to prove that everyone else was wrong.
None of that mattered to me. All I needed was for him to work with me in the contest.
“I’m Dr. Evans,” his voice called out, deep and reverberating in the hall. He went down the stairs to the pit, setting up at the table. All one hundred and sixty students pulled out pens and paper and snapped open their laptops. “This is Fear, Loathing, and Literature of Las Vegas. If you aren’t in the right class, then get the fuck out.”
A chuckle murmured through the room. I had noticed that professors used profanity to get a rise out of the students, to make sure that they were paying attention.I’m not like your high school teacher, I’m a cool professor.After years of studying for my bachelor’s and master’s, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.
Dr. Evans handed out the syllabus and the reading list. After a few minutes of lecturing on the depravity and power dynamics lingering in a city that survived on sex and gambling, he dismissed the students. Everyone shuffled out, but I stayed in my seat, waiting for the aisles to clear. A few eager students lined up to talk to him, including He’s-So-Dreamy. In the midst of the rush, I recognized a fellow graduate student waiting down below. Dark brown hair and an oval face, dressed to perfection in a stylish retro outfit, Jessica was in her second year of the doctoral program. I had seen her at the meet-and-greet during orientation week. She waved to me. I could use a friendly face.
But as I walked towards her, Dr. Evans made his way towards the staircase leading up to the ground floor, briefcase in hand.
“Dr. Evans,” I said.
He hurled his shoulders in a complete circle, catching me off guard.
“What?” he asked.
Dr. Evans stared at me, his light blue eyes piercing, like a double-edged sword. His shoulders were strong, broad, taking up space, commanding with his presence. A sweater vest pulled tight over his solid chest, a tie tucked beneath it. If clothing told a story, maybe he was a billionaire. Dr. Evans’s clothing looked new and of expensive quality, better than the tattered clothing I was used to seeing professors wear. That I wore myself. Not that I cared. But there was something different about the way he held himself, the dominant stance, as if he were the sole ruler, and Las Vegas University was his empire. And yet his eyes were completely on me, as if we were the only ones in the room.
Self-assured with a touch of asshole. And something else.
“Dr. Evans,” I said, focusing myself, “My name is Mara Slate. I’m a first-year student in the Ph.D. in Humanities Program, and I—”
He held up a hand. “I have office hours for discussions like this.” He swiftly strode up the stairs, exiting through the door and into the afternoon light. I stared up at the doors, watching them swing shut.
What had just happened?
“I wouldn’t take that seriously,” Jessica said. She patted me on the shoulder. “Dr. Evans is kind of like that. Always ready to say no. To disagree. To decline.” She shrugged. “It’s kind of his thing.”
“How can that be someone’s thing?” I asked. The students that were left, including the two of us, filtered up the stairs. “How does that get him anywhere? Especially as a teacher?”
“Don’t know,” she said, lifting her brows, “But he’s up for tenure this year. We’ll see how that goes.”
