Thisis where I shine. I’m not dropping anything. I’ll show him. “Shakespeare is credited with writing thirty-eight plays, one hundred and fifty-four sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other poems. Though it has been speculated that Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, or Edward de Vere may have had a hand in some of those works, it hasn’t been definitively proven.” I straighten my spine, satisfied with my answer, but then he moves on, calling on another student.
That’s it? No acknowledgement? Was he testing me because he thinks I’m not ready for an upper-level class? I open my mouth to retort, then think better of it.Don’t pick a fight with your professor on the first day of class, Emma.
Professor Power-trip asks me three more questions, and I can tell he’s trying to test my knowledge and prove I don’t deserve to be in his class. I nail the first two, but the last one trips me up, and he makes a note before dismissing me again.
The longer the class goes on, and the more he engages with other students, the more overwhelming my need to be seenand praised becomes. Why am I like this? I’ve always been a good student—learning came easy to me since it was something I could control when the chaos of my life and my home got too much. I don’t have a lot of memories of my biological dad since he and my mom divorced when I was a baby. But my stepdad came into the picture not too long after, and I gained an older brother in his son Ethan. Then my parents had four more daughters. I love my siblings, but I spent a lot of time in the library because it was quiet, and I could focus.
Sometimes I think I try extra hard, overextending myself in hopes that I’ll finally earn the good things in my life. Like if I don’t work hard enough, I’ll lose all the progress I’ve made. I feel broken and like my mask is slipping.
I clutch at my heart, trying to ground myself with touch, repeating what my therapist told me when these thoughts creep in.I’m not broken,my body is healing. I am worthy of love. I deserve good things.
Shoot, what is he saying? Professor A-hole is standing behind the podium again, and I tell my brain to focus as I concentrate on what he’s saying.
“This is a fast-paced course with a heavy workload. It would be in your best interest to drop this class if you don’t think you can handle it so you don’t waste your time, or mine.” He looks right at me on that last part, and I fist my skirt in my hand. “We will be reading a good bit of the Bard’s works, and there will be different essays assigned to each of them. While I don’t adhere to the university’s strict attendance policies—because you’re adults who are fully capable of managing your own time—a good portion of the midterm and exam content will come from our class discussions, so it’s in your best interest to be here, or befriend someone who takes copious notes. My email and office hours are on the syllabus. Any questions?”
My head swivels side to side, looking around the room, but no one raises a hand. I want to ask him if he needs helpremoving the stick from his butt, but I refrain. He’s probably just some boring, stuffy English professor who’s too miserable with his mediocre life so he takes it out on his students. I bet he wouldn’t know how to let loose and have fun if it smacked him in his cute, round butt.
Seriously, Emma, stop thinking about that A-hole’s backside.
——————
Two days later, I’m in my advisor’s office, ready to explore my options. “Are you sure I can’t drop the class?”
“Well, the deadline hasn’t passed, but itisa required class for your major. It’s up to you.”
Frick.
“Can I take it with another professor?” Surely someone else teaches it.
“Professor Ali is the only one who teaches Shakespeare at Faith Union. He’s also the only one that teaches the Shakespearean Acting course that you’ve signed up for in the spring.”
“But he’s an English professor, not theatre.”
“This isn’t a big state school, Ms. Black. We’re lucky to offer these classes at all. He has office hours and is known to offer private tutoring. I’m sure he’d be willing to help if you needed it.”
I slump into the chair, frustrated at my lack of options. He gave me a freaking C on my first paper. Who assigns an essay on the first day of class? It was a throwaway assignment, just an introductory essay that was only a couple of pages. I thought he just wanted a writing sample, not a dissertation. Heck, we’ve only had two classes. I know this is a mother-flippin’ upper-level writing class, and it’s probably normal to have papers due this early into the school year, but still! I’ve never gotten a C on my writing, and I’m convinced he did it to teach me a lesson. Or to get me to drop his class.
Since I have to take both of these classes for my major, I can either do them now, or put it off until they’re offered again. I’ll still have to deal with him at one point or another, and I’d rather stick it out now, so I don’t have to see his smug, handsome face again.
Once I get back to my dorm, I drop my backpack and flop onto my bed, lying on my stomach as I hit Facetime for Ella.
“El!” I cry once her face fills the screen.
“Em!” she screeches.
“N-O-P!” we say in unison as we recite our usual alphabetic greeting.
“I still think it’s dumb that our parents named us all E names,” she grumbles.
“You’re extra surly today. What’s up?”
“Nothing, Dad’s just on my case to start looking at colleges. You know, the same old shit. How’d your first week of classes go?”
“Ugh.” I look away from the camera as I gather my thoughts.
Her face moves closer to the screen. “Wait, I was just making small talk because school is so easy for you. Is it not easy? What’s happening? See, this is why I don’t want to go to college. If you’re having a hard time, it’ll be impossible for me. My grades suck.”
“This is the first class in my major, and I was really excited about it, but the professor is kind of an A-hole.”
