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“Total slut,” she whispers once we’re past her. “Oh, and over there in the tennis uniform is Renee Roebuck, and yes, that’s ‘Roebuck’ as in the ‘Sears and Roebuck’ business dynasty.”
“You’d think she’d be a decent player with all the money her parents have poured into her training, but she sucks ass.”
I blink. She sounds like more a teenager than a professor.
“Don’t worry, though,” she says. “Our tennis team is still the best in the country, even with her dead weight. Miss Edwards makes sure of that.”
I don’t ask her which “Miss Edwards” she’s talking about.
“Okay, now slowly stop walking and pretend to tie your shoe.” She’s suddenly whispering.
Wary, I follow her instructions, and then she bends down with me.
“If you look straight ahead at those rose bushes on the quad, that’s where the drug deals go down.”
“What?”
“Adderall, weed, molly, you name it,” she says. “These rich kids get their hands on everything, and that’s one of the most popular drop off spots.”
“Why do we need to bend low to see it?”
“So we can intercept some weed for ourselves.” She smiles. “Who are they going to tell if it gets stolen?”
“Right…”
“Oh, well! There’s nothing there!” She loops her arm in mine and pulls me up. “Pay close attention while we go through the Phelps Science Center and the library. You need to be well aware of who talks to whom and who sleeps with whom, in order to make strategic alliances.”
This woman is officially insane.
Like an unwitting accomplice, I follow her around the entire campus.
She gives me the dirty history behind the stately buildings, and when we venture into the nearby small town, she doles out gossip about every small business owner.
I manage to escape her grasp before class.
When I arrive, the theater is half-full with students, even though my session doesn’t start for another hour.
Mostly girls. Well, and two guys.
I set my briefcase at the front and prepare for today’s lesson.
Since Mr. Jenkins left far too many romances to read for my liking, and I disagree with every paper he’s published, I need to dismantle his ideas sooner rather than later.
“Love is not a choice”
I mar the whiteboard with those words and turn around once it’s time to start.
“Anyone want to take explain why you agree or disagree with this concept?” I ask.
A redhead in the front row raises her hand, and I glance at the seating chart.
“Yes, Miss Howell?”
“I agree,” she says. “Love is definitely not a choice.”
“Okay. Care to elaborate on that?”
“I did.” She smiles. “I added ‘definitely.’”
