She’s almost inhuman in that way, in her absence of doubt.
I’m nineteen and nervous, watching as she writes notes on the board for her next class. In her first memoir, she mentioned how she rarely prepares for her classes. That she lets her students lead the way, goes where they need to go, teaches what they need to learn.
She’s brilliant.
I, however, am clutching a spiral notebook that has nothing profound in it. Most days, I’m certain I have nothing profound in me.
Maybe, if I’m inconceivably lucky, a trace of Professor Ralston’s brilliance will rub off on me through the course of this semester. How could it not?
I scoot my chair back, and it squeals on the wooden floor.
Professor Ralston doesn’t even look over her shoulder, doesn’t flinch.
Just before I leave my aisle, I hear her voice.
“Lila.”
I turn my head, looking over my shoulder, surprised she knows my name. “Yes, Professor Ralston?” My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. It’s shaky. Nervous.
I hate it.
I want to sound confident the way she does.
She’s still not looking at me, eyes on the whiteboard as she finishes her thought there. I’m still not sure how she knew it was me.
I take a few steps her way, wondering briefly if maybe I misheard her. Dreamed it. Imagined my name on her lips.
I glance down, tucking my hair behind my ear. I wish I was wearing something else. The sweater I bought at Goodwill is plain, boring. Simple. Professor Ralston would never wear anything so dull. Even now, in class on a random Wednesday, she’s impressive. Wearing a paisley dress with matching shoesand earrings, she looks as if a stylist dresses her. For all I know, one might.
Finally, she turns, and there’s a warm smile on her face. The features I’ve practically had memorized for most of my life. Impossibly, she’s even more beautiful in real life, up close. She assesses me, her eyes taking me in slowly. Then she meets my gaze again. “You should speak up more.”
I swallow. “I-I should?” It’s all I can bring myself to say. Her words are so direct. So much like I imagined her. Straight to the point. Honest.
Her smile is smaller then, unreadable. “I see something in you. Potential, perhaps. But only if you’re willing to use it.”
My throat goes tight. It’s the kind of thing you want someone like her to say to you. The kind of thing that could change your life. That you remember forever, hold onto forever.
“That’s…wow. Thank you, Professor Ralston. It means a lot, coming from someone like you.”
“Someone like me.” She mulls over the words, appearing pleased.
“I’m a huge fan,” I admit, regretting the words too late to stop them from spilling. “I’ve read all your books. My mom took me to one of your public speeches at Yale when I was thirteen. Your work means so much to me.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I worry I’ve said too much. She probably gets this a lot. Fans annoying her. Perhaps she’s questioning whether or not I should be here. Maybe she’ll ask the dean to place me in another program.
Finally, she gestures toward my notebook. “Do you write?”
“Fiction, mostly.” My face burns. “It’s… I mean, I’m not very good.”
Her eyes narrow at me, chastising me without saying a word. She holds out her hand, waving her fingers to tell me to hand over the notebook.
I consider bolting, but don’t. Instead, I unfurl my hands from the sides of the notebook, releasing it from my chest and placing it into her waiting hands.
She gives me one more look before opening the notebook. Silently, she reads. My body tingles, burning like I’m under a microscope and bright lights, like she’s slowly setting me on fire.
I wait.
For her to say something. For her to say nothing.
