Iwasweird, but not because of him. Not really.
The rest of the lecture, I had no idea what Leitch said. The only good thing was that he ignored me, and I think I had Ash to thank for that. The professor had only looked at me once when I had rustled in my bag for a substitute pen. With an apologetic look, I pretended I dropped it, and with a resigned, long-suffering sigh, the professor resumed his lesson.
As I hurriedly packed my bag, Ash held my pen out to me, inviting me to take it back, but all I could focus on was the chewed pen lid. I shook my head in refusal. He could keep his saliva, thank you very much.
“You look familiar.”
My stomach dropped like a stone. “You can keep the pen.”
“Have we met?” he asked me as he unfolded from the chair. It was a sight to see, and I wasn’t a hypocrite — it was enjoyable seeing those muscles flex up close.
“Hmm, no?” Scooping up my bag, I smiled briefly and then hastened across the lecture room floor.
“Ms. Bryant, a word.”
No!Turning slowly, I trudged back to Leitch’s desk. “Sir?”
He made me stand there until every student was out of the class, and considering I had been almost sprinting across the floor to avoid Ash, I waited a while. The Saints tight end grinned at me as he passed, casually strolling out the door as casually as he had strolled in. I envied him so much right now.
“Ms. Bryant,” Leitch began.
“Do you know it’s Ms. because, in the 1950s, if you were unsure of a woman’s marital status and age, you called them Ms. becauseMisswas deemed to be for a girl or young woman? It was almost the equivalent of mister.”
The professor raised his eyebrows at me as I snapped my mouth shut. Me and my useless knowledge.
“Fascinating,” he said drolly. “You will not be surprised to know that I have never once considered your marital status.”
“No,” I mumbled as I looked at my feet in embarrassment. “Sorry.”
“I want to talk to you about that paper you submitted. The assignment deadline is not for another week, yet you submitted early. Did you think it wise?”
“Well, I did at the time,” I said weakly as I looked over his shoulder at the whiteboard, trying to avoid his heavy scrutiny.
“Hmm.”
“You want it rewritten?” I guessed. I had tried to get ahead on assignments so I could spend some free time designing posters and flyers for my friend Wade’s band.
“I want it burned and forgotten.”
Feeling my eyes widen, I stared at him in astonishment. “You didn’t even read it,” I protested.
“I don’t need to read it to know it’s fanciful garbage.”
“This class iscreative writing,” I said to him as I tried to keep my temper. “Your job is to teach fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. Igaveyou fiction.”
“You gave me washed-up, run-of-the-mill dross,” Leitch said as he crossed his arms, resting his back against his desk as he considered me. “Do the work in the time assigned, do not rush it, and actually try to keep to the assignment, and next time? Well . . . youmaybe better. You will thank me for this once you realize that I am doing you a favor.” His hand made a shooing motion. “Go, you are dismissed.”
Biting my tongue, I turned and marched out of his lecture hall. It took every inch of my willpower not to slam the door shut on my way out.
Angrily, I made my way to my next class, History of Writing. In freshman year, I had found it to be stale, but the promise of dissecting Shakespeare’s plays had me eagerly enrolling in this course for this semester and next.
Because Leitch was an overbearing prick, I was now late and had most probably lost my seat in the middle row. As I slipped into the auditorium, I saw Professor Matson had already launched intoRomeo and Juliet. The lights were dimmed as she used the overhead projector, and, thankful for the cover of darkness, I quietly made my way to the back seats. Stealthily, I spotted an empty seat in the second-to-last row, and with more grace than I knew I had, I lowered myself into the chair, dropping my bag at my feet.
My cry of surprise as I sat on a person echoed off the walls, stopping Professor Matson mid-stride. A hundred pairs of eyes swiveled to look at me as the professor strode across the room and flicked on the lights.
Jett Santo grinned back at me as he straightened, fixing his jeans before he casually flung his arm against the back of my intended chair. Wordlessly, I noticed the girl, who had been half draped over the chair beside him, slipping off the seat and scuttling along the aisle, trying to keep out of sight as her friends giggled at her and covered her as she reached them.
“What is going on?” Professor Matson demanded.
