My Professor(7)

“What class are you skipping for this?” one girl asks her friend.

“I’m supposed to be in o-chem right now, but the professor records his lectures so I’ll just watch it later.”

“Yeah, I have English comp. I think I’m missing a quiz, but who cares.”

Wait what?

I turn toward the girls and speak before I think better of it. “Are you two registered for this class?”

The girl closest to me, a sharp-featured brunette with a smattering of freckles, laughs. “No. We’re just like everyone else.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Half these people aren’t in this class.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shrugs, not the least bit bothered.

“What can I say? It’s an interesting class.”

“With a hot professor,” her friend adds under her breath.

They lose it in a fit of laughter while I grind my teeth, annoyed by my luck. It’s nearly impossible to take notes while standing, but if I sit down, I won’t be able to see the front of the lecture hall.

Professor Barclay is already up there, his presentation prepared and projected on the large screen hanging behind him. At precisely ten AM on the dot, he walks to the center of the room and begins his lecture about conservation as it concerns prehistory through the fourteenth century. I scratch down notes as quickly and legibly as I can, cradling my textbook in my arms and using it as a makeshift clipboard.

It’s hard to hear him all the way back here, and worse, everyone who’s not actually registered for this class has no reason to be following along with the lecture like I am. The girls beside me talk in hushed whispers while scrolling through their phones and then eventually start to shamelessly snap photos of Professor Barclay. I glance over and the girl catches me, angling her phone so I can see her caption.

Daddy.

I barely restrain an eye roll, and then I hear my name said from the front of the class.

“Ms. Mercier.”

Dread stops me in my tracks.

No way.

Surely, we are not here again.

Surely, I won’t look away from her phone to find Professor Barclay with his attention on me.

My stomach squeezes into a tight ball of anxiety as I lift my gaze, and sure enough, the entire classroom has shifted around to look back at me, including Professor Barclay.

“Is this going to become a habit?”

The girl beside me slinks away, leaving me entirely on my own. Not that it matters. I don’t even think Professor Barclay noticed that I wasn’t the one holding the phone, just the one looking at it.

“Let’s solve the problem, shall we?” he continues with a harsh tone.

He walks around the podium and retrieves a wooden chair that’s housing his things. Swiping his bag off of it, he carries the chair to the front of the classroom, dead center, completely on its own in front of the podium and projector.

“Come take a seat.”

“Lucky,” the girl with the phone whispers.

No. This isn’t luck. It’s the exact opposite. A curse. An omen. One bad impression could be written off, but now this? There’s no way he’ll ever believe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time twice.

I make quick work of gathering my things, but in my haste, my pen bag spills out onto the floor. No. My things scatter everywhere. Tears gather in my eyes, which only annoys me more. I will not cry about something so silly. The girls help me gather all my pens and pencils as Professor Barclay clears his throat. One hot tear slips down my cheek.

God, I wish I could disappear.

Once everything is in hand, I duck my head and walk toward the front of the classroom, down the center aisle. Like a bride walking toward her waiting groom, all eyes are on me.

Professor Barclay stands with his arms crossed, and I peer up at him from beneath my wet lashes.

When he sees me up close, I swear there’s a fleeting look of remorse that passes over his features, but then it’s gone. Maybe I only wished there was.

“You’ll sit here from now on,” he tells me, pointing to the chair. His voice is quiet now that I’m so close, but he’s still mic’d up, so the whole class hears. “Think of it as your assigned seat.”

I sit just as he asks, prop my textbook on my lap, and keep my head ducked the rest of class. I listen to his lecture, but I can’t gather the courage to look up at him for fear he’ll see my feelings plain as day on my face.

I absolutely despise him. To call me out like that, to make me sit up here like a child in time out—who does he think he is?

The moment he wraps up class, I’m up and out of my chair, moving through the crowd toward the back entrance before most people have even closed their laptops and stuffed their textbooks back into their bags.

I’m almost to the door when a hand darts out to touch my arm. It’s Sonya, and she’s grinning. In all my haste to leave the room, I completely forgot she and Annette were in the class with me.

“What a production! Dragging you to the front like that.”

I scowl and turn away, but still, she persists, scurrying after me.

“If the schoolyard bullying act wasn’t enough, he looked over at you during his lecture about a million times. Holy hell. The tension! I was sweating.”

“If he looked at me, I’m sure it was only to make sure I was in my seat, taking notes and not causing any more disruptions.”