I should care about my grade. I should take notes, or at least pretend. But I’m drowning, and the only thing I want is to let myself go under.
When the class ends, there’s a slow shuffling of backpacks and a flurry of whispered conversation. I gather my books and stand up, letting the skirt ride up another inch. Thomas erases the board with aggressive, even strokes, then glances over his shoulder.
“Miss McCall. A word?”
I freeze. Victoria/Veronica glares daggers at me as she packs her bag, but I pretend not to notice. I walk to the front, heart hammering, and set my books down on the desk.
He waits until the room is empty before he speaks. “You’re not turning in assignments, Miss McCall. Is there a reason?”
I bite my lip. “I’m just overwhelmed. With everything.”
He watches me, unblinking. “You’re smart. You have a voice. Don’t waste it.”
My cheeks flush. “I won’t.”
There’s a long pause. He puts both hands on the desk, leaning in so close I can see the flecks of silver in his stubble. “You’re better than you think, McCall.”
My breath catches. For a second, I wonder if he can see how much I want him, if it’s written all over my face. I hold his gaze, and something shifts—an understanding, maybe, or a warning.
He straightens up, the moment over. “See you next week.”
I nod, grabbing my books with shaking hands, and practically run from the room. The corridor is empty, echoing with the tap of my sneakers. I don’t know if I want to scream or laugh or cry, but I know one thing for certain:
I’m in way too deep.
The next week,I get to class early. Not just on time—early, as in before even the bored TA starts fiddling with the A/V cart. The seats are mostly empty, the light is still a muted blue, and I have my pick of any spot I want. For exactly two seconds, I consider moving up to the front, but I can’t stand the thought of being a follower. I take my old seat in the back, crossing my legs high, the skirt riding just enough to make me feel in control again.
It’s only a minute before the other students filter in. Victoria/Veronica—the bitchy girl with the fake lashes and double-Ds—is first, and she makes a show of strutting to the front row,dropping her book bag with an exaggerated little bounce. She turns around to see who’s watching, then catches my eye and smirks. I give her a look so blank and sweet it would put Splenda out of business.
The room fills up. Some of the guys in the middle rows toss half-interested glances my way, but they’re amateurs. I’m playing for the championship here, and the only judge is the man himself.
Professor Thomas walks in, dress shirt rolled to the elbows, no jacket today. He has a stack of blue books and a coffee, which he sets down with calculated care. When he turns to write the day’s theme on the board—OBSESSION—I get a perfect view of his back, muscles pressing the fabric. He’s so hot it should be illegal. Honestly, it probably is in three states.
The class starts, and the front-row girls are practically vibrating in their seats, one-upping each other with their most thoughtful facial expressions. But Victoria/Veronica takes it a step further; right as Thomas launches into his lecture, she stretches, slow and feline, her arms over her head, chest straining the seams of her top. It’s not subtle. She’s stacked, and the movement brings all the male attention in the room to her humongous boobs. Seriously, the old men in oil paintings would blush. She finishes the move with a little shake, her girls bobbling, then drops her arms and grins to herself.
Something competitive and primal flickers in my chest. Who does she think she is? If this is a contest, I’m not here to lose.
I wait until Thomas starts pacing, reading from his own annotated paperback ofMoby Dick. The moment his eyes sweep to the back, I catch them and hold, like a dare. Then I tilt my head, letting my blonde hair fall in a slow, shiny wave over one shoulder. With my left hand, I twirl the end of it, windingit around my finger, then letting it unspool. I do it again. And again. I add a slow, crooked smile—not a bimbo smile, but the kind that suggests I know exactly what I’m doing, and it’s dangerous for everyone involved.
He keeps talking, but his rhythm wobbles for half a second.
I up the ante. I pick up my pencil—pink, mechanical, with a bitten-off eraser—and set it gently between my teeth. Not biting, not chewing—just letting it ride there, lips a little parted, tongue flicking out to taste the plastic. I know what it looks like. I want him to know, too.
He gets to the part about the whale’s “divine malice,” and there’s a tiny stutter in his voice. “Uh. Divine malice—excuse me—Melville means… He’s talking about, uh, fate. Destiny.” Thomas’s eyes flick to the back row. To me.
My heart is hammering, but I keep the show going. This is better than Adderall, better than Red Bull. I cross my legs in the other direction, making sure he can see, then slowly, as if absent-mindedly, I tug at the hem of my skirt, pulling it up a fraction more. My thighs are bare. I’d worn a thong today just for this, but now I kind of wish I hadn’t worn anything at all.
I uncross, recross. No one has any idea of what I’m doing because I’m the only one in the back row today.
Professor Thomas tries to regain his footing, but now he’s reading his notes with both hands, knuckles white on the page. There’s a bloom of pink rising up his neck—barely there, but unmistakable.
Victoria/Veronica is watching him, confused, and for a second, her smirk falters. She senses what’s happening, even if the rest of the class is oblivious.
The lecture resumes. Thomas calls on a few people, never looking at me directly, but always, always glancing my way when he thinks nobody is watching. I don’t give him a break. I chew my pencil, tongue curling around the tip, eyes never leaving his.
He goes back to the board to write a quote. “The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush!” His voice cracks ever so slightly on “rush.”
I decide it’s time for the main event.
