This was fine, I encouraged myself.
I was a grown woman.
I could handle sitting next to someone for an hour without combusting.
The walk to her row felt absurdly long, every step echoing in my ears like I was walking through an empty cathedral.
I could feel other students watching.
…They probably weren’t.
When I finally reached her row, she didn’t move.
She just watched me hover there awkwardly; my hands clutched to the straps of my bag.
If I were light-skinned, I was pretty sure my knuckles would have blanched by now.
“You can sit,” she said, gesturing to the empty seat beside her with mock generosity. “I won’t bite.”
I slid into the chair, trying to put as much space between us as the narrow lecture seats would allow.
Which was basically none.
“So,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “Kelechi.”
The way she said my first name did something complicated to my stomach. Again
“That’s me.”
“I checked out your name on Google, even though I wasn’t sure if I spelled it correctly. You’re Nigerian, right?”
She googled my name.
Okay.
Why did that make me want to blush?
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“I see.” She tapped her pen against her notebook. “What’s your research focus?”
“Cultural adaptation and identity formation in immigrant communities,” I managed to say without stumbling over the words.
One eyebrow went up.
“Fancy. And personal, I’m guessing.”
Heat crept up my neck.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad, princess. Just that people usually research what they know.” She shrugged. “Mine’s gender expression and social perception. Also personal, before you ask.”
There was a challenge in her tone.
Maybe she expected commentary.
I didn’t give her any.
