Page 11 of The Tartan Thesis

He’s less subtle when he corrects me. Almost every time I contribute, Torin clears his throat and says, “Actually…” before firing a missile at whatever point I just made. He’s usually right, but sometimes he focuses on such tiny details that it seems more pedantic than collegial.

He does this to everyone to some extent, but his tone seems different with me. He speaks a little slower, crisp and careful, like he’s worried the poor American might struggle with big words.

So I make a show of taking notes, nodding thoughtfully and thanking him for his input. But if I lay it on too thick, Maeve bumps my leg under the table.

“That’s the insight I was missing, Torin,” I say one afternoon. “I really appreciate how you’re consistently able to bring subtle minutiae to life in such a meaningful way. Thank you.” Maeve slaps my leg this time and Torin turns bright red.

I try not to let it bother me that he’s decided I need the most lessons in class. In some ways it’s actually helpful, which is why I take notes. But the best part is that he looks even hotter when he’s angry, which incentivizes my statements of faux gratitude.

After a couple of weeks, though, some of our classmates are getting more than a little tired of his perceived need to be the smartest person in the room.

Maeve and I are grabbing coffee after our Scottish history lecture, discussing the merits of the Kirk’s staunch Presbyterianism when Isla walks up with Blair, a Religious Studies student who’s in Professor Drummond’s class with us.

I don’t even get out a hello before Blair asks, “Why is Torin such a bawbag to you all the time? Did you talk shite about his mother or something?” Maeve snorts into her coffee while Isla gives Blair the side-eye. As Professor Drummond’s teaching assistant, she has to toe the line.

“Torin’s not being a bawbag,” I say, a little too quickly. It’s embarrassing that a classmate has taken note of the situation, but I don’t like talking behind anyone’s back. “He’s just protective of his history. I can’t blame him for that.”

Blair shakes his head. “Nah, he’s got it out for you, right enough. I don’t know as you’ve ever spoken in class without him jumping in with a snide comment.”

“It’s a welcome challenge,” I tell him. “I didn’t come here for things to be easy. Torin keeps me on my toes.”

Blair looks at me like I’m the dumbest person alive, so I give in a little.

“Fine, I don’t love his approach.” Blair nods eagerly for more. Torin is certainly difficult at times, but he’s also incredibly smart. And incredibly attractive. Which might be why I’m defending him. “But he’s an excellent intellectual sparring partner. I say bring it. Whatever’s going on with him, I’m sure he has his reasons.” And I hope to find them out in time.

“That’s a good attitude to have,” Isla says, and Maeve hums her agreement.

“You’re a better man than I,” Blair says. “If he talked to me the way he talks to you, he and I would have a wee blether, and I can tell you he wouldn’t like it.”

Maeve studies my face, then lifts her coffee. “Right,” she says. “Let’s study.”

We claim a small table by the window and spread out our books. Maeve and Blair dive straight back into the lecture with Isla playing the devil’s advocate, challenging them like the professor does. I follow along, nodding when it seems appropriate, but I’m not quite seeing things the way they do. My pen hovers uselessly over the page, and my mind wanders.

Despite his efforts to make me feel unwelcome, I can’t bring myself to resent Torin. Partly because I suspect he has a point. Charging into another country and expecting to understand it immediately might have been a little… bold. The other part is harder to admit. Every time his eyes are on me, something fluttery starts up in my stomach, even when those eyes are drilling into me with raging condescension—maybe especially then—for reasons I should probably explore in therapy.

It’s disappointing he isn’t more amicable. When I found out we were in the same program, I’d been excited. I thought I could pull back on the flirting I overdid on our first encounter and we could be friends at least.

Or maybe even get the chance to make those green eyes roll back in his head in pleasure…

I rip my mind from thoughts of Torin—something I have to do multiple times per day—and force my attention back to the discussion. My pen scratches across the page while Maeve and Blair debate the finer points of the tenets set forth in the National Covenant. I shift in my chair, hoping my bulge doesn’t continue to expand. If I’m going to succeed here and prove my family wrong, I can’t spend every lecture fantasizing about the guy who seems hellbent on making me feel like I’m never right. I underline a sentence with unnecessary force. Torin can keep correcting me all he likes. I’ll learn from it, but I won’t let him distract me or get under my skin.

Our next lecture with Professor Drummond yields more of Torin’s corrections than usual. The fifth time he clears his throat, I start having an almost Pavlovian response, but instead of salivating at a bell, my shoulders tighten and I cringe.

An edge must creep into my voice when I reply to him one more time than I can handle because Maeve puts a calming hand on my thigh. With her other hand, she writes BREATHE at the top of her notes and circles it. Twice. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d gotten till then.

Blessedly, Professor Drummond ends the discussion there for the day.

“Right, thank you all for your contributions today. I’m impressed with your grasp of the subject matter so far, and I’m looking forward to preparing you for the midterm exam.”

The room goes instantly quiet. Pens stop moving. We’ve done some writing this term, but midterms will be a whole new level of academic stress.

Professor Drummond glances around the room, as though he can feel the collective dread settling in. He almost seems apologetic as he goes on.

“Also, I want to remind our first-year students that you should already be considering your thesis proposal. While it is not due until the summer, that deadline will be here before we know it. The proposal should be a groundbreaking topic upon which you will write your final dissertation. I encourage you to meet with your advisors in the coming week to get started. Together you will clarify your topic, build a reading list, and identify requirements for additional primary sources.”

Nerves sit heavy in my stomach. I have a million ideas and no clue which to pick. How am I supposed to work on the proposal while struggling to keep up with my classmates? Professor Drummond dismisses us, but I barely hear it. My books stay open as my mind fails to bend around how much I have to do and how little of it I feel prepared to manage. The imposter syndrome is strong today.

Maeve’s hand lands on my shoulder, her brows furrowed. “Are you coming?”