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No cell phones in class.
No ChatGPT for help with writing.
No plagiarism.
Do not turn in anything less than your best.
“You are who you choose to be.”
—Me
I stare at the quote,knowing I’ve heard it somewhere before.
Crossing my arms, I hope this guy isn’t serious about being anti-plagiarism while taking credit for something he definitely didn’t write.
As if he can hear my thoughts, he crosses out the word “me” but then he writes “Mr. Donovan” under it instead.
So, we’re being taught by a proud plagiarist this semester? Perfect.
He sets down the marker and finally turns around to face us.
OH. MY. EFFIN. GOD!
This can’t be happening…
Liam is smiling, revealing a set of dimples I didn’t catch the night we met. He’s exchanged his domineering trench coat and suit for well-pressed khakis and a bright white button-down shirt that loosely clings to his muscles.
Putting on a pair of reading glasses, he looks around the room.
His smile vanishes once his eyes meet mine, and my cheeks burn as he stares at me for several seconds.
“Welcome to Intensive Creative Writing.” He looks away from me. “I know most of you were expecting Mr. Jenkins, but he’s still recovering from surgery, so I’m stepping in as his replacement this semester. You can call me Professor Donovan, and—”
“I hope you’re permanent and not just a substitute.” Someone in the front row interrupts.
He smiles, ignoring that comment. “I’m taking a break from years on Wall Street to try my hand at something new.”
Rosalind Jacobs raises her hand in the air.
“Yes?” he asks.
“So, you’ve never taught before?”
“I taught college students a few times,” he says. “I was told that being here is pretty similar. Is that true?”
She blushes, nodding.
“Then I don’t expect we’ll have anytrouble.” He emphasizes that last word while looking at me. “As you know, half your grade depends on Thesis Day at the end of the spring semester, so I suggest you set aside time every week to work on it, as it’s impossible to write twenty compelling pages at the last minute for one senior class, let alone all of them.”
“When I call your name, raise your hand so I can return one of your essays I graded this weekend.”
He walks around the room to pass them out, earning blushes and smiles with every step. When he gets to my name, which happens to be last, he shakes his head before handing me my essay.
“Okay.” He returns to the stage. “Let’s discuss the dramatic themes in Ralph Ellison’sInvisible Man. Who wants to start?”
A flurry of hands flies into the air, so I flip through my paper’s pages. For some reason, every sheet is bleeding with red writing.
“Uninspired diction.” “Please invest in a thesaurus.” “This paragraph makes no sense.”
