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My students looked at me as I launched into a clumsy introduction.
“Hello. I’m Professor Taylor, and I will be teaching English 106. I trust all of you have gone through the syllabus. What’s your favorite part of it?”
A girl on the front row let out a little giggle. I looked at her, stuck between a frown and curiosity.
“Yes, would you like to volunteer an answer?” My British accent came out involuntarily, although I usually did my best to gel with the crowd here. Some of the students at the back wolf-whistled.
She giggled harder. Then, the whole room broke into snickering.
Man, this was going to be harder than I’d thought.
I turned my back to the class and launched into an explanation of French-English History, which was the topic I’d prepared for today.
“More than a third of our current English vocabulary owes its very existence to the French vernacular.”
I still hadn’t made up my mind whether I wanted to be an authoritative professor or a cool one. I ended by making up my mind on the spot. About fifty times.
“How d’you feel about that, my dudes?” I turned and flourished my chalk at the class.
Then I immediately backtracked. “I mean, what’s your opinion on this?” I raised my chin, trying to be more... pedantic.
Man, I wanted to be back home cuddling Sally and reading to her.
This was a comic tragedy.
Then a portly old man came into the classroom and opened a thick file of papers. “Good morning, class, and welcome to Economics 341.”
I snorted. “Economics 341? Sir, you have the wrong class.”
He looked at me with raised brows. “Well, for the last fifty years, this classroom has been designated to Economics 341.”
I wanted to whack this old man, bless his heart.
That’s when a boy in baggy pants and dreadlocks groaned. “Hey, Prof Taylor, you got the wrong class, dude. Lit is in room 49 in the north wing. This is the east wing.”
Oh, fuck.
I stumbled out of class and ran toward the north wing.
Which would have been quicker had I not collided head-first with curly hair, waist-length, impossibly soft. Her eyes looked mortified at first, confused next, then apologetic.
“Sorry.” She raised her hands and took two steps back as I leaned down to help her pick her books up.
“I’m so sorry,” I muttered.
“No, I’m sorry.” She looked about as lost as me.
Those eyes, though. How were they so green? Or were they blue? Both?
Heterochromia. One iris was green as an emerald, the other shone blue like the Pacific. Oh, beautiful nature. She was like a fucking fairy forest.
Man, this was not the time for me to be inventing corny lines or going into apology overdrive. I retrieved my satchel and bolted.
The scent of jasmine lingered in my mind.
3
Rory
