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“I have the exact number of seats for my roster here,” the voice calls out again, holding up a clipboard and I finally catch a glimpse.
Holy shit.
It’s the movie man. The scruff of beard, the thick dark waves of hair that hang just the slightest bit over his forehead. Even the irritated tick of his jaw only highlights how sharp his features are.
His face doesn’t fill with the recognition that I thought it would, that I’m almost certain mine does. So I clear my throat and pretend right along with him.
“My schedule says otherwise,” I tell him, determined to not look like a fucking idiot. “Care to take a look?”
He waves the hand holding the clipboard, as if he deigns to do anything to remedy the situation. I’m still standing, looking around as he calls out names. And when he gets to mine, I press my lips together before clearing my throat again.
“Here,” I answer, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do.
“And do you intend on standing there for the entirety of class?” he asks, an edge of irritation in his tone that angers me in juxtaposition to the way his accent that curls around his pronunciation excites me. What the fuck is his problem?
“Would you like me to sit on the floor instead?” I challenge, lifting a brow. I glance around the room once more to see if I maybe missed an open seat and he leans back against his desk as he regards me, crossing his arms.
“You may do whatever you’d like…” he glances back down at the clipboard, “Sabrina Milas.”
And I’m dismissed as he continues on his list.
No one stands for me, no one even bothers to look my way as they watch him with rapt attention.
Am I in the fuckingTwilight Zone?
I pull out my schedule, ignoring the people who look at me as I rifle through my bag.
History of Film,Beginnings to 1959
Professor Pugliesi
It was a last-minute decision,adding this elective to my course load. But I needed to get my classes done in order to graduate early and not have to return in the fall. And classic movies are kinda my thing.
Apparently, they’re Professor Pain in the Ass’s thing too.
“My name is Abraham Pugliesi. You may call me Professor. Most of you will butcher my beautiful surname, so don’t bother using it.” He straightens from his position on the desk. “If you’re here to learn about anything post-1959, you’re going to be thoroughly disappointed.”
I try not to react to his accent, to the baritone thrum of his voice as it echoes through the room, to the way his charcoal vest hugs his chest, and the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt gives an air of casualness that stops the moment I look at his face.
He’d warned me that he was an asshole and now I’m going to find out for myself.
“Due to an alarming amount of participation, in the coming weeks, I will be dropping most of you from my course.” He turns his back to the room as he reaches for chalk.Who the fuck uses chalk anymore?“I do not like my time wasted. So, if you’re here to mention a manuscript you wrote or an idea you have for a movie, you may leave.”
He starts writing and I cringe at the sound of the chalk as it scratches at the board.
I’m trying to connect the man I met last night with the one standing at the front of the room, but with one look at what he wrote as he steps back, I realize we aren’t in fucking Kansas anymore.
He reads it out as he points.
“I. Don’t. Care.” The chalk is cast from his hold at the last word, and I start to connect the dots as I watch it scatter into pieces on the floor.This guy is the famous director?
What the fuck?!
“If you’re late…” He pauses to glare at me. “I don’t care. If you miss class, I don’t care. If your dog died…” He gestures out toward the class and some of them mumble the rest of the sentence for him.
I lean against the wall just as someone stands, grabbing his things and storming out of the room. I’m sitting in his vacated seat when Professor Pugliesi speaks again.
“Damn it. I think we lost the next Spielberg.”
Some students laugh and I look around, baffled.
We’re all on the fucking chopping block. By the end of the semester, he’ll be teaching an empty classroom.
And this man keeps looking at me like he wishes I would disappear.
Is he going to pretend not to know me for the entirety of this semester?
Or at least stop acting like I fucked up his day, walking through the door?
I’d asked him what his name was last night. And now it was going to haunt me for the rest of my last college semester.
