EMMA
Walking through the crowded hallway, I stay off to the side, careful not to bump into anyone. So far, my college experience hasn’t been what I expected it to be. Everything came easily to me in high school, but I’ve had to make new habits and routines in college when life dialed up the difficulty to expert level.
But this is a new year, and I have a bag full of blank notebooks, sharpened pencils, and a fully charged laptop. There is nothing this school year can throw at me that I won’t be able to handle. And now that I’m in my sophomore year, I get to start taking classes in my chosen major.
Once I locate the lecture hall, I pull open the door just as a guy pushes it open and shoulder-checks me, causing me to stumble and lose my balance. He continues walking, carrying on a conversation with another guy in a football jersey as a tall figure looms over me from behind.
“Are you okay?” a deep voice asks. As his eyes meet mine, his eyebrows raise in surprise, and I look away, overwhelmed by his attention. “Can I help you up?” He extends a hand, waiting for me to accept, and I place mine in his as he slides his other hand under my elbow, pulling me to my feet. A zingof something travels down my arm where he touched, but it’s gone as quickly as his hands are as he opens the door for me, ushering me inside.
He has dark brown hair and just the right amount of facial hair to look devastatingly attractive. I can’t decide if his eyes are brown or hazel. He has to be in his thirties, clearly making him the professor. His crisp suit covers his backside.
Jeeps, Emma! Do not check out your teacher’s butt.
“This is Shakespeare, right?” I ask, suddenly nervous as I follow him down the steps of the auditorium-style classroom.
“It is,” he says, refusing to look at me as he reaches the podium and begins unpacking his bag, setting up a laptop. “But it’s an upper-level class usually reserved for juniors or seniors,” he snaps. I’m confused by his abrupt change in demeanor. How does he know I’m not a junior or senior?
“My advisor recommended it, and I got approval to add it from the department chair.” I bite my lips, confused by my sudden need to give him such a retort.Not getting off to the best start, Emma.
“I’ll have to talk to them about that,” he mutters as he fiddles with some plugs on his laptop.
“I’m sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m excited to take this course. Professor Ali, right?” I swallow down the nerves bubbling to the surface and find a seat in the second row.
“As long as you know that other than helping you up just now, I’m not going to hold your hand all semester. You have to do the work,” he says, never making eye contact.
Well, what crawled up your butt?
“What was that?” He looks up from his laptop.
Oh no, did I say that out loud? His gaze is penetrating, and his presence intimidating as he removes his suit coat and rolls up the sleeves of his white Oxford. Images of those strong hands flood my brain as I imagine him holding me down andhaving his way with me. I rub my thighs together as he clears his throat, refocusing my attention.
“Umm, what?”
He smirks for a split second, the look almost playful before it vanishes, replaced by a scowl. “I believe you said something about my butt?”
“Oh, heavens no, that can’t be right. Must have bumped my head and my butt when I fell. And now my butt is sore and this chair isn’t helping. I don’t know why I’m talking about my butt. You’re my teacher. I mean, you know you’re my teacher. I’m stating the obvious. I’ll stop talking now.” I sink into my seat. That fall definitely left a bruise, I can feel it forming, the hard chair providing little cushion.
He seems to accept my answer, and I have to bite my tongue so his stupid handsome face won’t fluster me any further.
Students filter into the lecture hall as I pull the laptop out of my bag. Syllabi are dispersed, and I look it over.
“Welcome to Shakespeare. This course will be rigorous as my expectations are high for a class at this level. I will challenge you, push you to expand your understanding, and question what you think you know. The demanding nature of this class will require you to adhere to the schedule, manage your time wisely, and follow the rules outlined in the syllabus. I expect you to familiarize yourself with it on your own time, but suffice it to say there are guidelines and rubrics for how I expect you to craft your essays, engage in classroom discussion, and turn in your assignments. I do not accept late work, no exceptions…”
Well, this is a vast departure from the kind gentlemen who just helped me up. I swallow down my nerves worried I’m in over my head as Professor No-fun drones on.
This is my year. I can do hard things. I am smart. I am more than people expect. I can handle this. I’ve got this.
I repeat the mantras in my head when a throat clearingpulls me out of my meditation. When I look up, Professor A-hole’s eyes are fixed on me, a scowl on his face. It feels like all eyes are on me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.”
“I was saying that you should be prepared to be called on at any time, and I expect you to at least attempt to answer my question or engage in a Socratic discussion with the class as that makes up a large portion of your participation grade, Miss Black.”
I stare at him confused. “How do you know my name?”
He blinks for a second like I caught him off guard before he gestures to the sticker on my laptop. “I’m guessing your name is Emma, based on that, and there’s only one Emma on my roster.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I squirm under his intense scrutiny. Maybe Ishoulddrop this class.
“I’ll repeat the question. Can you tell me how many works Shakespeare wrote in his lifetime?”
