by Penny Reid
I would . . . I would nod, cross my arms, and shrug. I’d play it off, try not to incinerate with embarrassment, act like it was no big deal.
Maybe I’d say, “So?”
Saying “so” worked well in third grade, seventh grade, and as recently as my senior year of high school, no reason it shouldn’t work now.
“So?!” he’d ask, overcome with emotion, whipping off his glasses and reaching for me. He’d pull me to his strong chest and peer down at me, a passion-induced fever in his wickedly intelligent eyes as he confessed, “So, I can’t look at you without wanting to—”
Yikes!
I stopped the imaginary conversation here and backed up, because this make-believe scenario was quickly spinning itself into a porno. And now I’m hot again.
Inhaling through my nose and exhaling slowly, I tried again.
“So?” he’d ask, irritated. “So, I have no respect for a woman who takes her clothes off for a living and I refuse—"
Again, I put the make-believe (but now super self-righteous instead of sexy) Dr. Hanover on pause, because this response wasn’t right either. He would never say that because it was nonsensical. A professor can’t refuse to teach a student because of that student’s job. In fact, what could he do?
Nothing.
I’d been attracted to him and he’d touched me while I was at work, modeling lingerie. He’d seen me stage three naked. I was his student. What was the big deal? My job didn’t impact my ability to be a college student or his ability to be a professor. It’s not like I cared what he thought of me—as me, Emily Von, or as my pseudonym Lavender—why am I making this a big deal?
Taking another deep breath, I held it in my lungs, gathering all the tightness and exhaling my weirdo fears. My hands relaxed on my cargo pants and I flexed my fingers, residual jitters fading as I evened my breathing.
No big deal, it’s no big deal, I repeated until I believed it. Once I almost did, I turned my attention back to TA Kris, who was now sketching a table on the touchscreen computer that fed into the projector, a pro/con list for qualitative versus quantitative data.
Reading the list, I realized TA Kris was digging deeper into the subject than was covered in the textbook, which meant I should’ve been taking notes.
Determined to ignore the door where Victor had disappeared, I gave my attention to the projection board and my own laptop screen. I copied Kris’s list while batting away a subtle nagging in my brain. I made notations where subject matter overlapped with the book, and where my responses to practice questions could be improved. I found the discussion interesting.
And yet, the nagging persisted, now accompanied by a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. A shiver raced down my spine and I clenched my teeth, leaning forward to itch the offending spot between my shoulder blades.
I was being watched.
Just like I knew when and where men were looking while I modeled, I knew when I was the subject of someone’s pointed scrutiny while in public.
Narrowing my eyes, I stared determinedly at the projection board, forbidding myself from searching for the person inspecting me even as TA Kris’s voice turned into Charlie Brown-esque trombone sounds. I tried to swallow. I couldn’t. The prickling sensation persisted.
Against my will, my eyes cut to the door at the front of the room and promptly collided with those of Victor Hanover. I felt the impact to my bones, jar my teeth, send the air from my lungs as a shock of awareness sliced through me and set my heart racing. He stood inside the doorframe, leaning against it, hands in his pockets, gaze unflinching.
He’d been the one watching me.
And he knew.
He knew who I was.
Fortunately or unfortunately, Victor was too far away for me to read anything more in his expression, but maybe that was a good thing. For now.
Mind once more in chaos, I steadied myself, pulled my gaze from his, and stared forward unseeingly while unable to absorb the rest of the lecture. I heard nothing, partially because I continued to feel Victor’s gaze drill into my profile. But also because I was giving him, the entire matter between us, the full force of my pragmatism.
Pragmatism, I’d discovered, is an efficient inoculation against chaotic feelings. If one persists in asking oneself, “Why does it matter?” the answer always eventually becomes, “It doesn’t.”
Now I know what you’re thinking. Nihilism, Emily? Really?
Yes. Nihilism. Because last week your extremely intelligent professor who is not at all your type saw you nearly naked, and his touch was delicious, and he was ridiculously sexy, and he made you hot. And then about a half hour ago he flipped your lady switch again with an impassioned speech about statistics of all things! As such, the only coping strategy left to me was nihilism.
Please don’t recognize me, had become, It’s no big deal, which had morphed into, Nothing matters. I’d never traveled such a great distance in such a short time while sitting in one place. Thus is the power of mortification avoidance.
Even though I couldn’t pay attention to the lecture, I sensed my classmates’ restlessness several minutes later. Movement around me, people pulling out their phones and checking the screens, one or two old-school types glancing at the watches on their wrists was a sure sign that class was over.
TA Kris soon caught the hint and glanced at the clock on the laptop, leaning away from the screen and closing it. “That’s it for today. Wednesday’s reading assignment is in the syllabus and there will be a test next week. Don’t forget. . .”
The rest of her words were lost in the ruckus of over a hundred students packing up their belongings and gossiping about the strange events of today’s lecture. Snippets of conversation bounced off my consciousness, like rain against a waterproof jacket, or subtlety and nuance against the comprehension abilities of a toddler.
Although aware of the discussions, none of my attention could be spared. I was too busy debating my options. Stay or go? Put off the inevitable, or tear off the band-aid? Shutting down my computer, I slowly closed the laptop, unhurriedly tucked it into my bag, and picked old receipts out of the front pocket of my backpack, uncertain how to proceed.
It doesn’t matter, nihilism told me, Now, later, who cares? Nothing matters.
But it did matter, and nihilism knew it. If Victor recognized me, and I was certain that he did, discovering his real reaction, his true feelings, was infinitely better than more imaginary conversations which dissolved into either sexytimes or Scarlet-Letter level condemnation.
Although, sexytimes—
No! I should not indulge in imaginary sexytimes with my professor and—technically—my client. No. No. No.
No.
Better to save it for later.
Since I usually left along with my classmates, I was obliquely surprised by how quickly the lecture hall cleared. Coming to my feet, the door in the back closed with a slam. It reverberated through the large space, an echoey underline to the fact that Victor and I were now completely alone.
Stealing a glance at him, I saw that he was at the front of the room again, gathering the roster and several other papers from the table, no longer looking at me.
I hesitated. But I was only given a short few moments to second-guess myself before he said, “Please, if you don’t mind, come down to the front of the room.”
Nodding even though he wasn’t looking at me, I carried my backpack down the stairs, allowing myself to watch him as he collected materials. He peeked at me twice, just fleeting glances, and his movements seemed agitated.
“Ms. Von,” he said as soon as my foot touched the bottom stair. He’d also stopped moving, but I got the sense that he was forcing himself to hold still. “Your answer during class today was exactly correct. Nicely done.”
I stared at him, uncertain what to say, or how to respond. As far as I knew, this was the first time he’d ever issued a blatant compliment to a student in his class. Twisting the strap of my bag, I let it drop to my feet while I studied him and sear
ched for a painless way to begin this conversation.
I must’ve taken too long to speak, because Victor sighed, blinked, and lifted his eyes.
“Your first name is not Lavender,” he said gently, an inscrutable amalgamation of dichotomous expressions on his face. Victor’s eyes were soft and searching, while his lips and jaw were firm and unhappy.
He . . . was confusing. He was confusing me.
So I cleared my throat, breathing in for courage, and said, “You recognize me.”
“Yes. You’ve . . . been on my mind.” Victor’s gaze flickered over me in a way that felt like a compulsion, like his eyeballs were working toward their own agenda, causing his brain to lodge a formal protest. The impression was punctuated further when he tore his attention away, his jaw ticking, and covered his eyes with his hand while simultaneously rubbing his forehead.
He didn’t seem outraged or self-righteous, like my worst-case scenario version of him. He seemed frustrated, seasoned with a heavy dash of remorse and regret.
Victor’s chest expanded as he inhaled and he dropped his hand, giving me a tight smile, his gaze now markedly reserved. “Anyway. Obviously, we need to discuss how you’d like to proceed.”
“Proceed?” My lungs felt weird, tight as I watched him and his confusingness. I was also experiencing something that felt like regret.
“Yes,” he said, his tone businesslike with a touch of compassion and patience, “as your professor, it is my responsibility to provide a learning environment where you feel safe and comfortable. Given our unfortunate interaction this past weekend—”
“Unfortunate interaction?” My mouth dropped open and the question tumbled forth before I could catch it.
Unfortunate interaction? What the hell?
“—you must be consulted on next steps. I want you to know and believe that I respect you as my student, I fully comprehend the disparity in power between us, and I’m committed to—”
“Stop. Just, stop,” I cut in, stepping forward and waving my hands around. “God, just stop speaking.”
Victor’s eyebrows shot up, but his mouth snapped shut. He peered at me, wide-eyed, waiting for me to speak.
I found I needed to take several calming breaths before I could. Even so, irritation pumped through my veins such that my words were blurted thoughts instead of carefully crafted sentiments. “It’s like, you’re determined to make me a victim. I don’t feel victimized, okay?”
He blinked, straightening, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Ms. Von, I apologize. My intention was not to imply that you have been victimized. However, the facts being what they are, an inappropriate situation has occurred between a student,” he lifted his chin toward me, “and a professor,” he pulled his hand from his pocket and pressed it against his chest. “It cannot be ignored. It must be discussed with the appropriate levels of administration and a plan of action—for how to mitigate any discomfort or feelings of distress, or worry—”
“Why are you making this such a big deal?” I cut him off again.
“Because it is a big deal.” He said this like it was obvious.
“It’s not.” I shook my head, my words emphatic. “It’s not a big deal to me. It’s my job. It’s what I do for a living. I couldn’t care less that you’ve seen me stage three naked, or that you touched me. So what? Lots of men have seen me naked and touched my body. At this point, I should probably just walk around naked.” I huffed a laugh, shrugging.
But Victor flinched, looking startled by my words and maybe even a little . . . hurt? Before I could be certain, he quickly regained his composure and his face cleared.
“Be that as it may,” he began softly, then swallowed, his gaze moving to some point over my head, growing stony. “Procedures exist to protect students. I’ve already alerted my, uh, department chair. As I understand it, a liaison from administration will be in contact with you about next steps.”
“What? When?” I was trying to keep up while also attempting to make sense of his body language. Did he feel guilty? About what happened? It wasn’t his fault, he had no idea who I was. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m not upset with you, not at all. And I don’t feel uncomfortable here, in class, or think of you differently. Like I said, it was—”
“No big deal,” he ground out, his voice rough with some emotion I couldn’t place, his heated glare slicing to mine and then away as he added on a rush, “Yes. I heard you the first time, Ms. Von. Even so, you can expect their call. Good day."
“But—” I started and never finished.
Victor—Dr. Hanover—had already turned and left.
An email arrived from Dr. Hanover just after 11:00 PM Monday night after class, the subject line read: Documentation. A confused pang made my jaw tight as I opened it and read,
* * *
Dr. Ford,
Please find attached documentation regarding the issue we discussed earlier today. I’ve cc’d the student. Please don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions or concerns.
-VH
* * *
Dr. Ford was the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, and she was the only person included on the email other than me. Rubbing the spot where anxiety had settled hard and heavy in my chest, I double-clicked on the icon of the paperclip and opened the Word document Dr. Hanover had attached. And then I read. And then I laughed. Not a laugh of amusement, a laugh of mystified disbelief.
He’d “documented” all of our interactions. All of them. All. And they were all numbered. From the first day of class, to the short interlude at the Pinkery, to our brief conversation this afternoon. Where he couldn’t recall details—like, whether or not I’d been present in class, or whether or not I’d participated—he’d attached attendance sheets as appendixes.
The section on the Pinkery was the longest and read like a police report, free of feeling or bias or anything that would give me insight into what or how he’d been feeling. It was sterile in a way that left me feeling dirty.
Stupid Dr. Hanover. No one puts Lavender in a corner!
Oh jeez. Get a grip, Emily. Now I was thinking about my pseudonym in the third person and as a character from Dirty Dancing. The real questions was, did that make Dr. Hanover Patrick Swayze?
For a half second, I indulged in a flash of an imagining, Dr. Hanover taking a watermelon from my arms and then hooking my leg over his hip. Dipping me, his eyes lazily working their way over my body . . .
Yeah. That’s hot.
Crap! Focus. Focus, focus, focus!
Shaking myself from the fantasy, I forced myself to reread the last paragraph of his hackneyed “documentation.” Though the section on our discussion earlier in the day described word-for-word what was said, it was also seriously short on the details I actually wanted to know, like precisely when had Victor realized it was me, and exactly why was he pushing so hard for administration to get involved.
The lack of detail didn’t keep me from reading it over and over (of course), obsessing about word choice and searching for some inadvertent insight into this confounding puzzle of a man. But the more times I read it, the more frustrated I became. Eventually, I shut my laptop, stood, and paced the room, wishing I had someone I could discuss this clusterflock with.
But who could I call?
My mother was the only person in my life who knew where I worked, what I did to pay the bills. She didn’t care. But I already knew what she would say about the situation, I could almost hear her voice in my head, “Why are you letting this get you all worked up?”
It was a question to which I wouldn’t know how to respond, so I turned it over and over in my brain and made a list of potential answers.
Answer #1 I don’t want anyone at the university to know what I do for a living. Obviously, yes. This was true. Not even my good friend—my best friend—Anna Harris knew where I worked. I’d lied to her years ago, claiming I had a sweet job at the post office sorting mail, which was how I stayed in such good shape.
Irr
itatingly, my friend would have been the perfect person to talk to about this situation. Anna had gone through something not-quite-similar over the summer when she and her super-hot Russian literature professor had fallen for each other. Hard.
Our two situations weren’t all that comparable, except for the taciturn professor plus inconvenient one-sided attraction (which didn’t turn out to be the case in her situation, but still), plus mountains of contradictory feelings. Regardless, I couldn’t talk to her about it without admitting everything, and I wasn’t ready to do that.
So, back to answer #1 and discovering the source of my angst. As I debated with myself further, answer #1 didn’t quite fit. It felt incomplete.
Answer #2 I feel like people won’t take me seriously if they find out what I do for a living and getting internships or recommendations from staff will be impossible. Again, yes. Obviously. But answer #2 related to answer #1, and neither explained the restlessness I felt when I thought of Victor’s antiseptic retelling of events between us.
But then a little voice in my head whispered, Answer #3 Based on what you just read, you don’t believe Dr. Hanover takes you seriously anymore.
“Ugh.” I rubbed the spot in my chest again and stopped pacing, a stab of unhappiness flaring in my chest. “Crap,” I said to the empty apartment, because answer #3 was the clear winner.
Chapter 5
*Victor*
Humans are bizarre creatures. Myself included.
Frustratingly, the “how” we are each bizarre, the details of our individual peculiarities, makes coexistence for some humans incredibly difficult. Myself included.
I care about humanity—deeply, passionately—but I care about very few humans. I don’t like talking to people I don’t know (and the majority of people I do know). I avoid new environments and situations at all costs. If I cannot avoid them, I research extensively prior to the scheduled engagement so that I may appear completely at ease and familiar with my surroundings.