The thought of giving preference treatment based on who they are or where they come from is repugnant. My nose wrinkles in disgust.
“Good.”
He reaches across the table to pat my arm with a thoughtful look.
“Of course, he could be testing you as a woman in science and a young one at that. I’ve seen it many times in my career. If he’s brilliant, he could see if you’ll rise to the challenge. Sometimes students, especially the bright ones, need someone who sees past their arrogance to determine the pecking order. To flush out who’s the brighter of the two of you. If you prevail, they typically settle down and accept they are here to learn, not teach.”
I glance at him, his wise words washing over me and doing little to douse my underlying frustration.
“So, you’re saying go easy on him?”
“No.”
He smiles, retracting his hand to scratch the skin under his shirt cuff.
“Challenge him, Isabella. Push him to be better. But be curious. Treat him like an experiment. Test his limits and observe his reactions. You might be surprised at what you discover. In the end, he could also make you a better professor.”
I chew on his words, the sharp scent of the chemicals grounding me. Papà has always had a way of reframing problems, making them seem less insurmountable.
“I don’t know.”
I exhale slowly.
Friday and today went smoothly in class with him, yet here I am, thinking and talking about him.
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Not initially. I did what you did. Until a student I had requested a transfer out of my class booked an appointment to discuss the expulsion. After hearing his side of things, I changed my decision not only for him but for all the rest that came after him. There’s always one or two per semester, but they’re not bad apples. Just a bit bruised, shall we say.”
“Maybe. But only one more chance. If he screws up, that’s it. There’s no turning back.”
He laughs, his shoulders shaking.
“Ah, you are your mother’s daughter when it comes to stubbornness. But remember, Isabella, even the most difficult compounds can yield remarkable results under the right conditions.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips as the crystals solidify, their geometric patterns catching the light. With my father here, everything feels easier, less daunting, and not as serious.
His movements are slowed by age, but he still understands everything. He reaches for a pair of safety glasses and gloves before standing. I’m about to do the same when there’s a soft knock on the classroom door. Papà continues as if he didn’t hear it, while I turn to address whomever it is.
Speak of the devil, and he shall arrive.
I tuck my annoyance aside and move away from the table to handle him privately.
“Mr. Kahale. I’m not in office hours.”
Despite Papà’s gentle advice just moments earlier, my tone stays clipped and authoritative. My arms cross instinctively, a shield against whatever brought him back to my door.
He steps inside with that same casual confidence, a sort of magnetic ease that doesn’t belong to someone who should be at the mercy of my syllabus. His dark eyes sweep the room, pausing briefly on me before drifting to my father.
My student’s gaze lingers on his back for a moment, curiosity sparking in the slight tilt of his head. When his attention shifts back to me, there’s something different in his expression. The usual smirk is absent, replaced by what I might almost mistake for respect or at least, an attempt at it.
“Professor Rossi?” His voice is surprisingly soft, even tentative.
I don’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch long enough to remind him whose space he’s in.
“Mr. Kahale, you’re here after hours. This is not the time for students to?—”
“I know,” he interrupts, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”
