My Professor(4)

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…