But the degrees that sit on his shelf say otherwise. He still doesn’t look in her direction, and she feels her skin flush. Licking her lips, she leans her weight on the opposite leg.
“I’m Jahlani Jones. I’ll be your graduate teaching assist?—”
“No.”
Her mouth snaps shut as the timbre of his voice transmits throughout the office. He still isn’t looking at her. She blinks three times before finding her voice again.
“I’m sorry. I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m completing my internship hours with you this semester?” She hates that it sounds like a question.
This time, he does glance her way. Dark, beady eyes drill into hers as they roam over her. The skin on his forehead is creased permanently, and several moles run down the side of his neck. Jahlani sees that his body is lean as he stands to his full height, removing his glasses to rub circles into his eyes. Clearing histhroat, he places his glasses back onto his face before crossing his arms over his chest.
“You have the wrong professor. I don’t require a GTA.”
“Yes, but?—”
His gaze slides back down to his desk, and he carries on moving around the room as if she’s not there. Jahlani turns, leaving the room, heat creeping up her cheeks. She idles in the hallway, thinking back to her conversation with Dr. Hunt. She chews her bottom lip, thinking about how she needs this internship to complete her program. Without it, she’s extending her stay, she’s without any kind of income.
She’s shit out of luck.
And she can’t have that.
Exhaling a sharp, short breath, Jahlani rolls her shoulders before striding back in.
She walks until she’s in front of his desk and this time he does stop. He stands tall again, his eyebrows pinching. She starts before he can, raising her chin up.
“I assure you that I’ve been assigned to you, there should be an email from Dr. Hunt.”
At the mention of Dr. Hunt’s name, his entire body stiffens. He shifts to his monitor, clicking and typing and reading as Jahlani just stands there. Unease and irritation prick her skin becauseof course the professor would give her a hard time.
Just when she thought things were looking up.
“Take a seat,” he says under his breath.
Jahlani’s shoulders slump, and she folds her body into one of the chairs opposite his desk. His office looks lived in. Shelves of books tower across both walls, and a brown coat rack stands in the corner where one single corduroy blazer hangs along with a leather messenger bag. She scans the rest of the room, landing on a painting featuring a Black man in a white long-sleeve shirt and dark wash jeans in front of a chalkboard. Four students,painted with elongated limbs and fluid motions, are raising their hands.
She sits up, watching him type on his computer, waiting. His focus never leaves the screen, and when he finds what he’s looking for, his gaze flicks to hers and studies her for several seconds before opening his mouth.
“Your academic record is impressive,” he says, not sounding impressed at all.
“Thank you?” she replies, but it sounds more like a question, so she clears her throat in an attempt to sound more confident. “Thank you.”
He blinks, standing from his chair, and starts pacing back and forth behind the desk.
“In the Monty Hall problem, should you switch doors or keep yours?” He poses the question fast.
But of course, a test. Because her transcript somehow isn’t enough.
Jahlani inhales deeply, not wanting to grant him the satisfaction of thinking that her transcripts and her ability don’t correlate.
“You always switch. Two-thirds is better than one-third.”
He runs a hand over his beard, moving from behind the desk to the other corner of the room.
“Are you more likely to roll one six from six dice, two sixes from twelve dice, or three sixes from eighteen dice?”
Her response is instant. “One six from six dice.”
He mutters, and Jahlani takes this as a good sign. He moves swiftly back to his desk before lowering into the chair.
