My Professor(2)

I answer the call with a nice, clipped “What?”

Christopher’s already mid-curse. “—assholes on the zoning board won’t listen to the fact that we’ve already filed a variance request concerning the sidewalk we have to remove—”

“Have Joan call. They usually listen to her.”

“We already tried that! When are you getting to the office?”

“Not until two, and that’s if I’m lucky. I’ll be taking the train back from Hanover.”

“The train? You’re kidding. Why?”

“A kid crashed into me an hour ago on I-93. I still haven’t made it to Dartmouth.”

“Christ! This fucking day!” Christopher explodes. “Who did we piss off? Who put a curse on us? Do we need to get a shaman in here to sage the office?” He sighs. “Why don’t you just get a car back to the city?”

“I could, but…”

I clear my throat and have the decency to stop talking before I admit aloud that the train doesn’t come with an annoying driver.

As if on cue, my driver speaks up, “Sir, it looks like I’m getting low on gas. Do you want me to stop and fill up or…”

“Or what?” I press, because I need him to see this from my perspective. What’s the alternative? Run out of gas on the highway?

He nods. “Right, yeah. I’ll pull over and fill up.”

“Christopher, I gotta go.” …before I lose my mind.

I hang up and check my watch again.

Ten minutes until class.

Ten minutes.

Shit.





Chapter Two





Emelia



* * *



I’m sitting, minding my own business on the first day of my junior year at Dartmouth. Having succeeded in banking a perfect GPA for two straight years, I’m feeling confident and excited for what this semester has to offer. I’m going to keep my nose to the grindstone and stay focused. No distractions, no—

My best friend slides into the chair next to me and her shoulder collides with mine, jostling me out of my internal pep talk.

“Oof, sorry about that.”

Sonya’s apologetic puppy dog eyes are as adorable as the rest of her. A round-faced redhead with fair skin and striking brown eyes, she’s completely unaware of the fact that she’s still crowding my personal space. She and I have roomed together since freshman year, and she’s always crossing boundaries, leaving her things strewn about, borrowing my clothes without asking. Once I found her using my toothbrush and nearly vomited. She didn’t seem to think it was weird.

“Oh my god, I was so worried. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d make it in time for the show. I got caught up with the barista at Starbucks. He always wants to flirt with me.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there, seen it—the poor guy is just asking for your coffee order, Sonya.”

“You should hear the way he says it though…What can I get you? All husky like. Jeez, down boy.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m horny. There’s a difference.”

The students in front of us stir in their seats; a few peer back curiously. Sonya waggles her fingers at them, unbothered.

“Did you print out the lecture slides?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely not. I need a pen too.”

“Honestly, how did you get into this school?”

She mimes giving a blow job, and I laugh despite myself.

It’s a joke, of course. Sonya is one of the smartest people I know. Capricious, flighty, ill-prepared, sure, but ridiculously intelligent too. She’s here on a full ride.

She leans in close to me and tries to whisper, “So did you bring a spare pair of panties or what?”

I heave a deep sigh to indicate I’m not indulging her this morning. “No, because unlike you, I can control myself.”

“Oh, can you? Is that why last semester you set your alarm for four AM to register for this class?”

“I need it for my major,” I insist, sitting up straighter in my chair, repositioning my lecture notes neatly on my desk. I’m affecting a Perfect Student posture, but Sonya doesn’t fall for it.

She rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “You’re here for the same reason we all are.”

She sweeps her hand across the room, but I already know what she’s hinting at. The ratio of girls to guys in this auditorium is laughable. It’s 90:10, easily. It’s not that guys aren’t interested in architectural conservation; it’s that the spots for this class fill up fast.

Every student at Dartmouth knows of Professor Barclay. There’s fact: he’s a prodigy with a Pritzker Prize and multiple publications under his belt at the ripe age of 32. Then there’s fiction: he’s a descendant of Swedish nobility, he modeled for Ralph Lauren in the late 2000s, he used to date Natalie Portman.

“I’m here because this course overlaps with the topic of my junior thesis project.”

Sonya gives me a mocking nod. “Good. That almost sounded genuine. So you’re going to go through with it then? Asking him to be your adviser?”

“Absolutely. I plan on talking to him after class.”

There are only a handful of professors in the department whose focus of study overlaps with the topic of my project. Professor Barclay happens to be one of them. Sonya would say that’s no coincidence, but what does she know?