My Professor Read online

  When we arrive at his closed door, we knock, but no one answers. I assumed with all of our stalling, he would have beat us here, but his office is empty. There’s a wooden chair—like the one I sit on in class—beside his door. I wave Sonya toward it and lean against the wall.

  Voices carry from down the hall, but we don’t utter a single word.

  A door opens, and I hear confident, bold steps making their way toward us. My ears perk up, but I can’t bring myself to lift my gaze. If it’s him, I’ll know it soon enough. If it’s not, well, lucky me.

  The person approaches, and I catch sight of a pair of tailored gray slacks and nice brown leather oxfords. His cologne is subtle and intoxicating…a warning.

  “I’ll speak with you two separately. Ms. Mercier, wait out here.”

  Sonya stands and follows him inside, and I only look up after I’ve taken the seat Sonya’s just vacated.

  Somewhere, a clock ticks.

  My palms sweat.

  My stomach ties itself into a tighter knot.

  I hear the faint murmur of their conversation but no clear words. At least he’s not shouting at her, I suppose, though to be fair, he doesn’t seem the type.

  What kind of punishment is he doling out, I wonder, and will mine be the same?

  It feels like I sit outside his office for hours wringing my hands before that door finally opens and Sonya steps past me. I know better than to try to speak with her. Professor Barclay is at her heels, holding the door open and waiting for me.

  I stand quickly, duck my head, and brush past him. When his door shuts behind me, a shiver runs down my spine. I’ve trapped myself in a room with a monster.

  “I assume you know why I asked to speak with you today,” he says, and I finally turn back to look at him.

  He’s no monster, I’m reminded. He’s just a man with short brown hair, astute eyes, and large hands with veins that protrude in that lovely masculine way. A man who looks deeply annoyed to have me here in his private office.

  He seems younger in this setting, more tangibly human.

  I wish I hated his lectures. I wish he droned on endlessly in a monotone voice we could all barely stay awake for, but no—I sit in that auditorium enraptured by him.

  Already, I’m working ahead in his class, reading multiple weeks’ assignments and trying to keep pace with him. I want to learn everything I can from him. I want to impress myself—and him.

  “The picture,” I finally say, choosing to keep my reply succinct lest my mouth gets me into more trouble.

  Disappointment clouds his features. What a shame that it’s all I seem to draw out of him: disappointment, annoyance, anger. It’s probably better though. Would I survive a smile?

  He rubs his temple as he gives me a wide berth, moving to take a seat behind his desk.

  I pivot and turn to face him, hands wrapped around my stomach.

  “I’d like you to explain it to me.”

  I gulp.

  “The…picture?” I ask, voice wavering.

  “Yes.”

  “It was nothing. Sonya…I mean we were just playing around.” I can’t let her take the fall for everything even if she deserves to. “She superimposed your face and my face on top of a picture of a celebrity couple.”

  I wish desperately that he’d find a bit of humor in this, but he’s completely stoic. He sits at his desk, and I stand a few paces away, aware that he’s not asked me to take a seat. His office is neat and orderly. Behind him, a bookshelf is filled to the brim with volumes of text on architecture. I wonder if it’s his own private collection or if the books are on loan from the library.

  When he stares on, not speaking, I realize he’s waiting for me to elaborate.

  “It wasn’t a real picture, obviously. She was just trying to be funny, playing around in this dumb app she found.”

  I think I see his jaw tick.

  “Why was I involved?” he asks harshly.

  “I…”

  I can’t admit the truth. I will not tell him out loud what Sonya’s true motives were. I’d die right here on the spot. I take the coward’s way out.

  “I don’t know.”

  He sits forward in his chair, and I gulp.

  “Try again.”

  I inwardly groan, knowing there’s no way I can get out of this the easy way.

  Sonya, you’re dead.

  “Okay…well…how do I put this delicately? Um, surely you must realize you’re not like other professors at the university, obviously. You’re…” I almost say attractive, but then I think better of it and switch course last minute. “Young.” He doesn’t seem to understand what I’m getting at, so I add, “It’s why all those girls sit in on your class even though they’re not officially enrolled.”

  Finally, realization dawns, and I almost, almost feel bad for him in this moment. Ah, the plight of the ridiculously handsome.

  “Sonya was trying to be funny, putting your face in the image. I can assure you there was no malice behind it.”

  “No malice,” he repeats as his jaw tightens in anger. “Right. Well, I’ll tell you the same thing I told your friend. Though it might have been a joke to you, a picture like that could ruin my career. Do you realize that? It could jeopardize my standing with the university. A rumor is an idea, and ideas are hard to kill.”

  Oh jeez, he’s taking this really seriously. Did Sonya show him the picture? Did he see how silly and unbelievable it looks? I want to explain that to him, but I bite my tongue. Instead, I assure him we would have never showed anyone.

  “She just had it on her computer. It would have never gone anywhere or been shown to anyone else.”

  His blue eyes burn with anger. “And yet somehow other students already managed to see it and warn me.”

  I flinch at his biting tone.

  This is not going well.

  “I gave your friend a warning, but this is your third strike, Ms. Mercier. There is no way you and I can possibly proceed from here.”

  If I speak, I know my voice will break.

  Proceed…

  Does that mean…?

  “How can you maintain enrollment in my class through the remainder of the semester? You seem to be a constant distraction to the other students and a nuisance to me.”

  Ouch.

  I drop my gaze.

  “The drop date hasn’t passed,” he notes, his tone gentling only slightly.

  So he wants to be rid of me.

  I can’t say I blame him.

  “I need this class,” I beg in a whispered tone. The four words are all I can manage. My throat is squeezed so tight with stifled emotion.

  “There are other upper-division architecture courses,” he says, leaning back, as if already finished deciding my fate.

  “None like yours. I want to study conservation in graduate school. I need this class to reflect my interest in that area.” I force myself to meet his gaze once again. “Please.”

  He studies me then, and it’s the first time I’ve seen his brows almost relax into thoughtful repose. His blue eyes are so soft now.

  You are a thing of beauty, Professor Barclay.

  He looks away and notes, “Professor Lin teaches this course in the spring. You can take it then.”

  So that’s it.

  My fate is decided by him in such a cavalier way, as if I mean nothing. I’m a problem he needs to solve quickly. A nuisance, as he put it.

  The courage I’ve been trying to muster finally finds me. My shoulders rise and roll back, and my eyes lock with his, sparring. My words are biting when I ask him, “Is that all?”

  The worst thing of all, the absolute worst thing is that he doesn’t even seem fazed by this show of confidence. He looks…bored. He nods, says, “Yes,” and then waves half-heartedly toward the door as if he’s not sure why I’m still standing there in his office.

  I’ve never in my entire life hated someone more than I hate Professor Barclay right now.

  I almost…almost flip him
off before turning on my heel and walking out of his office, pointedly leaving the door open behind me. If he wants it closed, he can damn well get up and do it himself.

  Chapter Six

  Emelia

  * * *

  Tonight is supposed to be fun.

  It’s my twenty-first birthday, after all.

  My friends absolutely refuse to let it pass by without a full-on production. I’ve tried to wriggle out of it. I’ve used the excuse about it being a bad week (truly abysmal since my meeting with Professor Barclay on Tuesday), I’ve conjured up a pretend headache and a faux homework assignment, but they aren’t budging.

  We’re going out.

  And worse, we’re going out in themed attire.

  It should come as no surprise that Sonya concocted the plan and set the agenda for the evening. She’s been groveling all week, baking me my favorite cookies, buying me flowers and setting them on the nightstand in my room, and apologizing every chance she can get about what happened on Tuesday. She even offered to meet with Professor Barclay again so she could come clean and explain that the picture was entirely her idea, but at this point, I don’t think it would help. I don’t want to be in his class. I can’t imagine going into that lecture hall and taking a seat in that wooden chair ever again. In fact, if I could set that damn chair on fire, I would.

  My costume is waiting for me on the edge of my bed.

  It’s a schoolgirl outfit that’s supposed to look like what Britney Spears wore in her iconic “Baby One More Time” video, but Sonya couldn’t find an exact replica. Instead, it’s a cropped white button-down top and a navy-blue pleated skirt, both of which are tiny and tacky. She wants me to put my hair in braided pigtails, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Besides, it’s not long enough for that.

  Everyone else is going all out too. Sonya is Britney during her “Oops! I Did It Again” era in a red spandex catsuit. Annette is wearing a fire-engine red wig and black dominatrix outfit inspired by “Toxic”, and CJ (who’s taking his role very seriously) is channeling Britney from the “I’m a Slave 4 U” video. He came into our apartment wearing nothing but a green sports bra, black biker shorts, and a huge stuffed boa constrictor wrapped around his neck.

  “It’s Britney, bitch” has been said upwards of two hundred times, and we haven’t even left the apartment yet.

  Everyone is already in character, out in the living room belting out songs at the top of their lungs.

  I’m in here, hoping they’ll forget about me.

  Ever since my mother passed, my birthday has become just another day of the year that seems extra sad and depressing. Every year, I plan for it. I know it’s going to be that way and I try to psych myself up to make it better, and every year, I fail miserably. I don’t want to be this way. I wish I had Sonya’s love of life. She has more enthusiasm in her pinky toe than I have in my entire body, but in my defense, my life is sort of…sad. Before, at least my mother would call me on my birthday, but she’s gone now so there’s no one other than the three Britneys in the living room who even realizes what today is. If I didn’t have them, the day would go entirely unnoticed. My whole life would, really. It’s a strange feeling to be completely without family. I mean, I have family, technically. It’s just…complicated. The family I “have” are definitely not the type to call me up on my birthday. In fact, we don’t speak at all.

  That doesn’t mean I’m not curious about them.

  Right now, for example, I’m scrolling through social media looking at posts about my brother Alexander. Before this, I was stalking Emmett. It’s something I do from time to time. I find my older brothers’ lives incredibly fascinating. It’s always an endless array of parties and fundraisers and Formula I races, summers in Dubai and winters in Aspen and spring in Paris, and it’s hard to even wrap my head around.

  I’m engrossed in an image of Alexander at a benefit when I’m suddenly overtaken by my friends. They must have synchronized their attack because Annette wrenches my computer out of my hands, Sonya grabs my costume, and CJ loops his arms underneath mine and hoists me up and off the bed.

  “Enough! No more wallowing! No more being Depressed Britney. It’s time to go out! Make mistakes! Take shots! Act your age!”

  “Speaking of shots,” Sonya says, holding a clear liquor out for me.

  I make a face. “What is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  She brings it to my lips, and it burns like hell on the way down.

  “We’ll get you dressed and then you’ll have another.”

  “What am I, being hazed?”

  “Yes, exactly,” CJ says, waving his neon-colored stick-on nails in front of his face to show them off. Then he snaps at Sonya. “Yank her shirt off.”

  “Hey! Easy, jeez. I’ll do it!”

  To show a good faith effort, I take my shirt off then cast it aside. Sonya and CJ whistle as if they’ve never seen me in my bra before.

  “Jesus CHRIST, you’re hot. What I wouldn’t give to have been born in that body,” CJ says with a wistful shake of his head.

  “Okay, enough. You’re hot too. Stop staring and hand me that shirt,” I say, covering my chest and yanking the white button-down out of Sonya’s hand.

  It’s tight and I feel just as ridiculous wearing it as I thought I would.

  Sonya ties it off above my navel and then I don the skirt, because what else can I do? Is this my exact dream birthday? No. Is it extremely nice of my friends to go out of their way to do this for me? Absolutely. I know they want the best for me. I know they don’t understand why it’s so hard for me on days like this, and it makes sense. There’s still so much about me they don’t know, and even the things I have shared don’t tell the full story.

  In the beginning, no one could get the details straight.

  I remember a conversation I had with CJ when I was first getting to know him freshman year.

  “Where are you from again, Emelia?” he asked. “I thought it was England, but you don’t have an accent.”

  Sonya had laughed. “How long do we have before our next class? Because this is going to take a while…”

  “Right, so I’m a dual citizen of both the US and Scotland.”

  He frowned. “So…you’re Scottish?”

  “No. My mom is American and my dad is French, but I grew up in Scotland for the most part.”

  “Are you following?” Sonya asked him.

  “Barely.”

  She grinned. “Don’t forget to add in the boarding school.”

  “Oh yes, and I went to boarding school in York before coming here, which I think is where you got the English part from?”

  “So you’re basically equal parts Scottish, American, English, and French.”

  I grinned and gave him a little round of applause. “You get an A+!”

  “That explains the accent then.”

  “Don’t I sound a bit British?” I teased, doing my best impersonation of my boarding school friends.

  They laughed. “Only when you’re putting it on. Otherwise, you just sound plain ol’ American. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  I like explaining my life this way, making it all seem silly and fun. It’s easier to spare them the truth: a strange childhood spent in a dilapidated castle in Scotland, a French father I’ve never met. When friends ask about him, I lie and say he’s an architect. I say he’s the reason I’m so curious about the field. And when they ask about my mom, I tell them the truth: cancer killed her when I was seventeen. Not much family then, someone always says with a pitying downturned smile, and it’s at that point that I always change the subject.

  “Who’s the hotty?” Annette asks, staring at my laptop. “Wait.” She leans in closer. “Alexander Mercier? Are you related to this guy, Emelia?”

  “No,” I insist emphatically, and well, it’s the truth. We aren’t related. I walk over and close my laptop before turning to the group with a question I know will pique their interest. “Now,
what should I do with my makeup?”

  Hanover is a small college town, and short of taking the train to Boston or crashing one of the frat parties around campus, there’s only one other place to go out: Main Street. It’s right near campus and houses everything from CVS to Starbucks, and jam-packed in the center of it all is a row of quintessential college bars that are filled to the brim on most weekend nights. Each one has its own vibe. The Roosevelt Room is upscale and expensive. The Nightingale is dark and a little dirty and usually has live music and good drink specials. Murphy’s on the Green is my favorite. It’s themed to look like a library inside, rows and rows of books on shelves, dark wood furniture, low-burning lights. Unfortunately, it’s everybody’s favorite. Most weekend nights, it’s standing room only in there. Our plan is to start at The Roosevelt Room and end at Murphy’s, if we make it that far.

  “So what’s the situation tonight? Are you single single? Single but hung up on someone? In a relationship but it’s complicated? Or fully committed to someone?” CJ asks as we head inside.

  “I’m single single.”

  CJ squeals with glee.

  “What ever happened to Owen?”

  “We broke up last spring.”

  “We broke up.” Sonya snorts. “She says it like she didn’t rip the poor guy’s heart out. He was obsessed with her. For weeks after the breakup, he showed up at our apartment to try to win her back.”

  “Sounds like he had some groveling to do. Did he cheat or something?”

  “Owen? Never. He’s not the type.”

  “Why do you almost sound disappointed by that?”

  I immediately retrain my voice. “I don’t. I mean, the guy was great, we just weren’t a good match.”

  “Our little Emelia likes it…a certain kind of way, and Owen was too vanilla.”

  “SONYA.”

  “What?! It’s the truth. Don’t be shy. The guy was a total dud—I can’t imagine what sex with him was like. Straight missionary, no talking, in and out like a medical procedure.”