My Professor Read online

  He steps away from the podium and, using his remote to switch between slides, starts to run through a list of famous buildings. While doing this, he delves into a discussion of how buildings can act as talismans, transforming the space around us, converting a pile of stones into a sacred icon.

  His lecture is so interesting that we make it fifteen minutes in before I realize I haven’t written down a single thing.

  “Shit,” I whisper under my breath, and the students around me laugh at my apparently not-so-quiet curse.

  I hurriedly try to jot down the last few pertinent points, and when I look back up, Professor Barclay has paused his lecture and is staring straight at me.

  Blue, I realize now. His eyes are a glacial blue.

  For a long aching moment, he keeps his gaze locked on me, and I don’t move a muscle.

  Then slowly, he steps toward my section of seats, and my heart drops.

  “Ms…” he begins, obviously wanting me to fill in my last name.

  “Mercier,” I say, so quietly I have to repeat it again for him to hear me. “Mercier.”

  It’s obvious his patience with me is dwindling as his gaze narrows gently.

  “Ms. Mercier, unfortunately you’ll have to be my example for the class.” He sweeps his attention across the room. “We have a lot of ground to cover in a relatively short amount of time. Each week, we’ll work through a chapter of Mayer’s A Richer Heritage as well as Haywood’s Historical Preservation in America. If you want to disrupt class…if you want to waste my time…” He pauses to look back at me, and it feels like the floor is falling out from underneath my chair. “I suggest you save us all the trouble and stay home.”

  It’s a complete misunderstanding. He thinks I was talking in class, and while I technically was, it was only the one word.

  I know better than to argue though. I nod and accept my fate, trying to ignore the sympathetic stares from my classmates.

  How mortifying.

  I shift my attention down to my notes while my heart races in my chest. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

  I can barely focus the rest of class. His lecture seems to stretch on endlessly, and I sit in my seat, trying to keep perpetual waves of embarrassment from making me squirm. I cannot believe that happened to me on the first day. Me! He doesn’t realize who he’s dealing with. I’m a straight-A, no-nonsense student. I take my academic career seriously. I’m paying tuition with money from my own pocket. Well, technically the bank’s pocket, but that’s even worse!

  I have to salvage this somehow.

  I decide the best course of action is to continue as planned. I’ll approach him after class and explain the misunderstanding, he’ll apologize, I’ll laugh, and we’ll move on. When I ask him about advising my thesis project, he’ll be flattered and accept, of course. All men love a good stroke to their ego.

  At the end of the lecture, he reminds us to keep up with the reading for Thursday’s class, cuts off his slides, and begins to pack up. The class follows suit. I take my time, glad I have a lunch break before my afternoon class.

  “Sheesh, he really singled you out, didn’t he?” Sonya says. “All that nonsense about making an example out of you. You know what? He can make an example out of me anytime he wants.” When I don’t play into her teasing, she continues, “Honestly, he seemed kind of intrigued by you.”

  I rear back. “Intrigued?”

  “Yeah, I mean, when he first looked up at you…I swear there was something in his expression. You didn’t notice?”

  “Ire. That’s what you saw.”

  “Guys! Psst!”

  We both look up from where we’re collecting our things to see our friend Annette hustling up the aisle to join us.

  When she reaches us, Sonya squeals and throws her arms around her for a quick hug. “I didn’t know you were in this class!”

  “I got off the waitlist last minute. Can you believe my luck?”

  “How about Emelia’s luck?” Sonya says, nodding her head in my direction. “Did you see what happened?”

  Annette’s eyes widen. “Wasn’t that intense?!”

  Yes, it was. It was also one of the worst experiences of my life here at Dartmouth.

  “Word is he’s single,” Annette adds, wiggling her eyebrows at me.

  Sonya claps. “Yes! Perfect! Emelia will go where no student has gone before. Where’s your next class, Annette? Let’s walk and plot.”

  I’m barely listening to them at this point, having turned my attention back to the front of the hall. It’s obvious Professor Barclay is in a hurry. He’s already heading toward the side door with his leather bag in hand. A student stops him, though, a smiling blonde who stands an inch or two closer to him than necessary.

  “I need to hang back for a second, remember?” I say, already shuffling toward the center aisle. I need to be fast or I’ll miss my opportunity. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  Nerves start to set in as I carve a path through the swarm of bodies heading in the opposite direction, out of the auditorium. Talking to any professor is intimidating, but this is worse. Anyone can march up to the grandpa teaching freshman English. This is Professor Barclay…

  As I make it to the front, I remind myself he’s just a person, someone who cares deeply about his field and was annoyed to think I wasn’t taking his lecture seriously. That’s all. It wasn’t personal.

  “I’d really appreciate it,” the blonde says once I’m in earshot. “I already have a topic of interest.”

  “Good. Email me and we’ll set up a time to discuss it then go from there.”

  She beams and ducks her head, hiding an obvious blush.

  That must get so annoying for him: the constant tittering of his female students.

  Having wrapped up his conversation with the girl, he’s about to step past her and head out the door when I reach out and touch his arm.

  “Professor Barclay.”

  He jerks, obviously uncomfortable and taken aback, and I immediately drop my hand, realizing my mistake a moment too late. He turns, his face hardening once he sees it’s me who’s stalled his exit.

  Good god.

  My view of him from my seat, while spellbinding, was nothing compared to this. Up close, I tilt my head back ever so slightly and stare at the face of a fallen angel. My brain—never one to wax poetic before this moment—feels like now is a good time to start. Whip out that sketch pad you’ve never used and start drawing because this is a face you’ll want to remember.

  It’s sad, though, that I have no time to truly appreciate the full extent of him, especially since he’s waiting for me to speak.

  “Ms. Mercier,” he prompts.

  “Emelia,” I add with a timid smile, hoping to thaw the ice between us.

  But if anything, it only solidifies as he glances down to check his watch, a Patek Philippe with a silver face and black leather band. I only recognize it because I saw an actor wearing the same one in the most recent James Bond movie. Never mind that the actor was playing the part of the villain…

  “Umm…I just wanted to take a moment to clarify that I wasn’t talking during your lecture. I—”

  His jaw ticks. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

  Heat spreads up my neck and cheeks. “Oh, okay. I won’t keep you long. It’s only…”

  He clears his throat and looks away.

  Right. Crap. This is going worse than I anticipated. I abandon my earlier agenda and decide to go straight to the most pertinent issue.

  “I was wondering if I could schedule a time to meet with you concerning my junior thesis project?”

  “No,” he says at the same time I continue with, “I don’t have an adviser yet.”

  Since we speak over each other, it takes my brain an obnoxious amount of time to realize he’s outright rejected me.

  “No, you don’t have time for a meeting?” I ask, my voice lilting with hope.

  “No, I’m not advising any more undergraduate students this s
emester.”

  My brows furrow in confusion as I point to where the blonde was just standing. “But I thought I heard you talking with that other student about being her adviser?”

  This does not go over well. His blue eyes sear into me as he looks down and waits for me to come up with a better course of action than admitting to eavesdropping on him with another student.

  “I just thought that’s what it sounded like…”

  I wish I could stuff my fist into my mouth. At this point I’ve dug myself into a proper-sized hole, and there’s no coming out of it.

  This is when I would love to hear the blare of my alarm clock stirring me from my sweet slumber. Wow, what an awful dream that was. Can you imagine? Me embarrassing myself like that in front of my professor on the first day? Sheesh.

  But this isn’t a dream, and there’s no way to come back from this disaster.

  “Is there anything else, Ms. Mercier?”

  I shake my head, at a loss for words. Then he turns, pushes the side door open, and lets it bang closed behind him.

  Chapter Three

  Jonathan

  * * *

  Someone as busy as I am doesn’t have a lot of room in their life for social activities outside of work. Especially in the last few years, I’ve relied on old friendships, easy acquaintances, relationships with no strings attached. Lately though, even those have gone by the wayside. I’ve become so isolated outside of work.

  However, there has been someone. One constant.

  Last fall, I was sitting inside my small office at Dartmouth, preparing before a lecture, when I looked up and saw a girl sitting in the courtyard just outside my window. She was on a bench with her legs propped up across from her and her back leaned against the curved armrest. She had her textbook open across her lap and a coffee cup in her hand.

  Nothing about the tableau was unique. Students study all over campus, and I never pay them any mind. I should have turned away and refocused my attention on the lecture I was about to finish, but I didn’t.

  She was alone and unaware, and I had a full view of her through my window.

  Her lips were glossy and red. Her brown hair was cut short in a way that didn’t hide her delicate jawline. When she turned to glance over her shoulder, I had a full view of her face. Her eyes were large, brown, and catlike. Her nose small and pert. Her lips bow-shaped and full.

  I stared longer than I should have. She was intoxicating, and I realized right away that it wasn’t just in her appearance. She was a contradiction, childlike with rosy cheeks and a clear complexion, and yet there seemed to be an old soul lurking beneath her winsome features as she stared off into the distance, contemplating something with a deep-set frown.

  I watched her try to refocus her attention down on her textbook. She chewed her bottom lip and finally heaved a sigh, swiveled her feet off the bench, and left.

  It felt strange to watch her go, like I was watching the ending credits of a movie I’d hoped would last just a little longer.

  I don’t take much notice of students around campus. Every semester, there are a few that seek me out for guidance and advising. Of course, requests for recommendation letters flood in once final grades are posted, but over the years, only the brilliant few have stuck in my memory.

  Still, none of them have piqued my curiosity like this girl.

  After the first time I saw her, I worried that was it, but a few weeks passed and then she was back on the bench outside my window again, reading and eating a croissant. This time I didn’t try to delude myself into thinking I wasn’t intrigued by her. I pushed my computer monitor a few inches to the left so it wouldn’t impede my view and watched her study. She wore a hunter green dress. Her hair was half up in a bun. She finished the croissant, checked the bag for any last bits, sagged with disappointment, and then went right back to studying.

  For almost a full year now, she’s come to sit on that bench. I lament the fact that I likely miss most of her visits since I’m only on campus two days a week. I find myself growing desperate when weeks lapse with no sight of her.

  I still know next to nothing about her—what textbook she reads from, how she takes her coffee, or whether she’s even a student at this university—but every time I look up and see her through my window, I feel a tiny jolt of something.

  Against my better judgment, I’ve started to seek her out every time I’m on campus. I look for her in coffee shops and around Dartmouth’s dining halls. I’ve never seen her anywhere but in that courtyard, until this morning when I heard a commotion during my lecture, glanced up, and found her sitting in the auditorium.

  Emelia Mercier is her name.

  Seeing her there of all places is the cherry on top of my shit-filled day.

  The illusion is shattered. She’s no nymph, no siren, no dream.

  She’s an undergraduate student in my class.

  The realization hits me hard. Her existence in my life, however small, was more significant than I’d previously realized. In my head, she was so simple, a two-dimensional character I could place into any scenario, any scene. On a hard day, a sighting of her would be enough to lift my spirits. And if I’m being honest, I’d come to develop feelings for her, or if not feelings, a sense of hope. A crush.

  I’m on the train riding back to Boston after my class, contemplating whether or not I should order a custom window shade for my office back at Dartmouth to block my view of the courtyard, when my phone rings.

  My mother calls me more than I call her, something I perpetually tell myself I’m going to work on and never do.

  She always starts talking quickly, as if she knows my time is precious.

  “Oh good, you answered. I won’t keep you long, I promise” is how she starts today’s conversation.

  “It’s fine. I’m on the train to Boston from Hanover.”

  “The train?” She sounds personally offended. “Why aren’t you driving? Or better yet, being driven? Your father has a fabulous driver we always use when we’re on the east coast. I can call his secretary and have her forward you his information.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t mind the train.”

  She scoffs. “I can practically feel the scent of urine searing my nostrils as we speak.”

  “Lovely.”

  She sighs. “Right, well, I have nothing all that important to discuss with you. I just had a note on my calendar to ‘Call Jonathan’ so here I am, performing my maternal duties like the good mother I am.”

  I smile and shake my head.

  Lucille Barclay doesn’t fit into a simple box. Outsiders looking in always assume she’s severe and cold, but in truth, my mother is whip-smart, fiercely loyal, and one of the most sarcastic, funny people I know. She taught me how to make the perfect martini at age twelve. Shaken not stirred, Jonathan. We heed Mr. Fleming’s advice in this house.

  “When are you coming home next? I have someone I’d like to set you up with. She looks very fertile.”

  I cough to conceal a laugh. “Aren’t three grandchildren enough for you? You’re getting greedy.”

  “Yes, well, Nancy O’Neil just had her fifth and won’t shut up about it. You should hear her bragging about it at the club. She showed me a picture of one of them the other day, and I barely covered up my gasp of horror. It was like a little gremlin. I swear she could tell I was lying when I said it was cute. Anyway, since your sister seems to be tapped out at three, you’re my only hope of one-upping Nancy. I can send you this girl’s photo if you’d like. She seems nice enough. Maybe a bit dim, but as I mentioned before, the hip-to-waist ratio is there, and that’s what matters.”

  “It concerns me that you might not be kidding.”

  “Jonathan…of course I’m not kidding,” she deadpans.

  We both laugh then, and a wave of homesickness overtakes me.

  “I just want you happy and settled,” she adds after a beat of silence.

  Her sincerity makes my chest ache, but, never one to dwell in actual feelings
, I turn the conversation around.

  “Would you settle for tired and overworked?” I quip.

  “Is it so important? Everything you’re doing?”

  “It feels like it.”

  “Do you make room for your life? Your real life? The possibility of finding a partner?”

  What little room I had was dedicated to the girl outside my window…Emelia—or the idea of Emelia. Pathetic, I know, and now that door has been shut and sealed.

  I sigh, feeling the weight of my day settle heavy on my shoulders. It’s not yet 1:30 PM. I’ll be at the Banks and Barclay offices for at least another seven to eight hours.

  “I should go.”

  “Good. Avoidance is key. I’ve heard the recipe to a happy life is to work endlessly and avoid any kind of a social life at all costs. You don’t want to look back at 80 and regret not spending another Saturday tied to your desk.”

  “Point taken.”

  Chapter Four

  Emelia

  * * *

  Before Thursday’s class, I replay my conversation with Professor Barclay no less than fifty times in my head. Surely, it wasn’t as bad as I remember it. Surely, my brain is warping the memory and making it worse than it really was.

  I show up with a plan to start fresh. I’ll sit right up front, zip my lips, take dutiful notes, and fly completely under his radar. Except, when I arrive a few minutes early, every seat is already full, which is absolutely ridiculous. The registrar wouldn’t overload the class. They know how many students this lecture hall holds.

  I scan the room, looking for Sonya, and I find her up in the very front row alongside Annette. She looks back, spots me, and holds up her hands in an apologetic shrug, as if to say, I tried my best. I edge toward the back, trying to carve out some space on the floor or against the wall.

  I squeeze by two girls in the corner who seem deeply annoyed to have me near them, but there’s not much else I can do at this point. I drop my bag on the floor and start pulling out my printed lecture slides.