Stepping into the theater, I see Justin sitting with a blonde girl who I recognize as Zander’s ex-girlfriend. She’s not in this class, so I stare her down until she squeaks and races out without saying goodbye to her boyfriend.
“Babe!” he shouts at her back, throwing his hands up. Then he turns around to me, hands on his hips. “What gives, Prof? You didn’t mind her being in here before.”
“What gives?” I ask in a quiet, steady voice, throwing the question back at him. “What gives is a student of mine using the class I love as an easy credit.” Justin’s eyes widen and he swallows thickly, but puffs up his chest as if trying to impress his little friends who are watching on. “What gives is that a second-string kicker, who needs help both on the field and in this class to be a better person, is talking down about my program.”
“You can’t?—”
“I can,” I say, stepping into his space. “The next time you want to talk shit aboutmyclass, make sure no one is around to hear you. Since you think this is an easy class, you don’t need to take it. I’m dropping you. Find something else to fulfill your elective requirement.”
“You can’t fucking do that,” he shouts at my back.
Turning around, I walk back over to him, letting our chests touch. “I can do whatever I want, Mr. Echer. And what I’m doing now is kicking you out of my class.” I point to the back of the room. “There’s the door.”
He glares at me for a few moments, anger flashing. Licking his lips, he looks at his friends, who are pretending as if they didn’t just watch the entire back and forth between us and realize that Justin’s bullshit wrote him a check he can’t cash.
When he looks back at me, the anger is gone as if it had never been there. Dropping his voice, he says, “Please, Professor. I need this class.”
“No, you need to find something that will challenge your mind.” I look him up and down. “What little mind you have. Now, leave my class. I need to teach those who want to be here.” Over my shoulder, I say, “Mr. Archer?”
Luca stares open-mouthed for a moment before answering, “Yes, Professor?”
“Make a note reminding me to drop Mr. Echer from my rolls. He won’t be attending another class.” I glare down at Justin, who is still begging with his eyes for me to change my mind.
“Yes, Professor,” Luca says.
I continue to stare at Justin, not moved by his silent pleas.
Realizing I’m not backing down, Justin mutters, “This is bullshit,” under his breath as he packs up his things and storms out.
I watch him leave, my arms crossed over my chest. Then I walk over to the stage and prop my hip against it. “If anyone else thinks my class is an easy credit, leave now. I take my work very seriously and refuse to teach anyone who is just here to lounge around.”
I meet the eyes of Echer’s friends, who drop their gazes, fiddling with their phones or pencils or whatever the fuck. No one says anything or even breathes.
It’s very rare that I dress a student down in front of others. My philosophy is praise in public and punish in private, but I get my hackles up when someone shits on theater.
When I was in college, I got shit for doing theater, for not focusing on football when all I wanted to do was act.
I was at home on stage. Every play, every lead was fucking mine. I was better with lines than I was on the field. I could have gone pro if I’d entered the draft, but I liked my brains and didn’t want my head scrambled after years of playing. A future of concussions wasn’t in the cards for me.
So for anyone to disrespect my craft, to chalk this class up as an easy credit… not on my fucking watch.
When no one makes a move to leave, I glance over at Luca.
I wish I hadn’t.
The look he’s giving me heats me from the inside out and it’s not even anything overtly sexual. He’s looking at me as if he’s in awe. Like defending my class did something to him and he can’t keep the expression from bleeding into his gaze.
Tamping down my attraction to him, I beckon him over. He trips over his feet, his cheeks heating when he rights himself and hurries over. “Yes, sir?”
I fight to keep the hum to myself.
“Did you hand out all the play scripts?”
“Umm… yes… yes, sir. For Hamlet?”
“Yes, for Hamlet.” Facing the class, I say, “We’ll start with Shakespeare, but only because that’s a great introduction to theater. You’ll learn vocal control, as some of these roles need voice projection without yelling. This class is highly collaborative; there will be a group project starting in three weeks.”
Students groan, but I give them a hard look and they practically snap their mouths shut.
