Professor Trouble

by May, Soraya

  Gosh, that was better than I'd expected for the first class. "That's excellent, Ms. Masterson. Thank you very much."

  She looks down at her hand and notices the shoe for the first time. Her head jerks up, and she looks at me, evidently worried that I think she's a lunatic.

  I can't keep the smile off my face. There's a moment's pause, and she smiles back. Wow. Her smile makes the Cupid's bow of her lips curve up, and her eyes crease. It's the prettiest thing I've seen in this whole damn country.

  Shit, Will, get a grip. Stop staring at the students and get on with the class.

  I’m gradually becoming aware that nobody has said anything for about ten seconds. Worse, that I'm the teacher. "Right. Let's move on. As well as Juvenal, we're going to be covering some Virgil. Virgil's language in the Aeneid is some of the most beautiful ever written in Latin, and I think you'll get to like it."

  The class continues, and I get through it without anyone obviously falling asleep. As we're wrapping up and the class is filing out, I watch Shoe Girl surreptitiously. She's wearing a black skirt with tiny little pink polka-dots on it, cut off just above the knee.

  Not knowing I'm watching her, she bends down and slips her shoe back onto her foot. It's unconsciously sexy, and I wonder, unbidden, if she's wearing stockings or hose underneath that skirt. She stands up and files out, and I watch her cute little rear all the way out the door until she's hidden by the crush of students.

  Soon, I'm alone in the lecture theater—they say ‘lecture hall’ in this country, I think—drumming my fingers and looking at the ceiling.

  Do not look at her that way again. You're keeping your bloody head down, remember?

  3

  Walking out of the class, I keep my head down so he doesn't see me blushing.

  I can't believe I just did that. I can't believe I nearly fell on my butt, and had to get rescued by the professor. The extremely hot professor. I sure as hell didn't expect him to look like that.

  Professor Spencer's eyes flashed when he was bending over me, and he looked genuinely concerned. For a minute I was worried that he'd think this was some kind of performance to get out of being in trouble for coming in late, but that would be insane even by my standards.

  "Hey, Em!" Three of the other girls in class are walking beside me as the crush of students flows down the hall, and out into the morning sunlight. "That was quite something, huh?"

  I redden, and try to brush it off. "Yeah, I guess it was a bit sill—" I'm interrupted by another girl—Sonia, I think?—talking over me.

  "Man, he's pretty yummy. For an older guy, that is. Don't you think, Em? I'm kinda jealous you got to fall into his arms like that."

  "Yeah, Em, Sonia's right. He's hot, even though he must be nearly my Dad's age. And that accent, woahhh...all tea and crumpets, and James Bond. I looove it. This is going to be a good semester if we get to listen to that twice a week."

  I roll my eyes. He's here to teach us, not get ogled. Although they're right—he definitely isn't what I expected. Their conversation washes over me as we walk down the hall, and I manage to participate by hand-gestures and nodding without actually having to say anything.

  The sun is piercingly bright, and I split off from the other girls, heading back to my room via the South Lawn. I need to sort out my desk, fold the rest of my clothes, figure out meal vouchers...gaaaah, college life.

  Part of me really can't wait to leave this place after the semester is done, and most days I think about what it'll be like to catch the train back to Boston, find an apartment and start work. Mom and Dad have some friends who own a financial software firm, and there’s an entry-level job in communications waiting for me already. I must be about the luckiest English major in the world, to actually have a good job waiting for me before I graduate. I'll be in the city, going to work every day, like an adult. I won't be a big kid any more.

  Sometimes I think about grad school, but not now, and definitely not here at Lowell. I know the place so well, and I'm comfortable here, but sometimes you get tired of 'comfortable'.

  The grass on the South Lawn is damp after last night's storm, and the moisture starts to seep up into my crappy shoes. I'd prefer to walk on the lawn, but if it means another twenty bucks down the drain for more lousy shoes, I'll forgo the pleasure.

  I will miss it here at Lowell when I leave, though. Morning sun on the lawns, and the colonnades along the walks, and the little art museum no-one really ever visits, where I can sneak in and write to get away from the heat. Lousy bars two blocks from campus where they sell cheap cocktails.

  Mmm, Maybe I won't miss those. Maybe they're better as distant memories than last night's ones.

  Leaving college has always seemed so far-off, as if it were years away, always years away. I went to classes, and wrote my papers, and hung out with my classmates, and went dancing, and it stayed years away. Then, one day, I looked up and it was my last semester. I guess this is what happens to every student, but I guess it feels new for every single one of us. Well done, Em, you've discovered a blindingly obvious truth about growing up. Time to write a self-help book.

  Mom thought I'd be settled by now, but I could never understand why. The last phone-call we had was heavy with the what-about-boys question; she hasn't been open about it like that for quite a while.

  "I guess you'll be sad to be leaving someone, honey?" Her tone always has a touch of hurt, like I wasn't telling her things, somehow, because how could there not be a guy I was seeing and getting ready to move in with?

  "No, Mom, I'm not leaving anyone. I've told you that already."

  "But haven't you been lonely?"

  "No, Mom, I haven't been lonely. I've been out on a couple of dates, but...it didn't work out. That's all, Mom. It's not a big deal."

  And, for once, I'm being completely truthful about it to myself. It actually isn't a big deal. The two guys I dated were fine—attractive, polite, everything in its place. The kind of guys you’re supposed to date. But none of it ever felt real, it felt like it was just something you do when you're at college, because that's what you do. When the last guy, Pete, moved away for a new job, I went with him to the train station. We hugged, said we'd Facebook, and I turned and walked away. I was sad that it was over, but it never felt like a tragedy.

  That isn't how it should be. Being with someone should be a thrill every time you see them. It should be something you can't get around, and can't give away. Otherwise, what's the point?

  There's going to be plenty of time to meet someone when I'm back in Boston. Not just someone to date for the sake of it, but someone special. Someone who looks at me like I'm the most important thing in the world, someone who makes me feel like we're going to go everywhere and do everything, together.

  Skirting the edge of the South Lawn, I get to the corner with the benches. Professor Spencer is there, leaning back on one of the benches, long legs crossed in front of him, arms behind his head like he's got nothing to do at all.

  I should go and apologize, or at least introduce myself properly. It's embarrassing, but it's what adults do. Right?

  Right. Be an adult.

  He hasn't seen me yet, and I pause for a second. Damn, Sonia was right. He does look pretty good. Tall, dark hair slightly graying at the temples, but not enough to make him look old. Like a former fashion model, or an athlete who retired early to do something else.

  Standing here ogling him isn't going to help matters, though, and if he spots me, this is going to get kinda awkward.

  4

  Leaving the theater after the students have dispersed, I cross the main courtyard, and pause for a minute. I've been here a whole week and I've never actually looked around the college. If I'm going to be here for a whole semester, I'd better get to know the place. According to the map on my phone, the grounds of Lowell College are in a rough pentagon-shape, and I'm at the top.

  Right, then.

  Setting off, I work my way down the east side of the grounds, walking slowly. I
have no more classes today, so short of unpacking my office, I don't have a lot to do. Teaching morning classes is always a pain in the posterior—the students struggle with paying attention, and I'm not great in the mornings myself—but it does get the class out of the way early.

  I'm still pissed off about being here, but the mid-morning sun is improving my mood, and the warm sandstone used to build the place is really quite pretty. Colleges and college buildings are either beautiful or hideous—there's no middle ground, and Lowell is in the former category.

  “Will Spencer! Will Spencer, is that you?”

  I look around, and see the head of the Ancient History department, walking quickly to catch up to me, a broad smile creasing his features. I grin and put my hand out.

  “Tom. Good to see you again.” Tom Ericsson is a good guy; genial and open, he’s the very picture of a classical scholar, shiny bald head, little bow-tie, jacket with patches on the elbows. We’ve only met once before, over Skype while I was in the UK, but even from that distance his smile was infectious.

  He pumps my arm enthusiastically. “It’s good to have you here and settled, Will. I hope the furnished apartment is okay?”

  “Tom, I’m just happy to have somewhere to stay. Look, thanks for being so welcoming; this would have been a hell of a lot harder without your support.”

  He shakes his head. “Honest, Will, I’m delighted you’re on board. Sarah Kensington says you’re one of the best teachers she’s ever seen, and if you’re good enough to impress the Chapel Dean of Bailey College, you’re good enough for my little band. My only regret is we can’t convince you to stay for longer than a semester. You sure you wouldn’t like to stay here? Write a book, perhaps?”

  I smile, ruefully. “It’s a nice place, and a lovely campus. But you know what Oxford and Cambridge are like; if you’re not there, you’re nowhere. You were there a while ago, weren’t you?”

  “Ha! Ten years at St. Hilda’s, working on my Sophocles. But I got sick of it, sick of the politics and infighting, and climbing the ladder. So I gave it up and came here. I’ve got a family now, and I get to go home to them every night. It’s a good trade.”

  “I see what you mean, mate, I honestly do. I’d do the same if I had a family.”

  Tom’s eyebrows lift. “So there’s no Mrs. Spencer, then?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Work, and, well, the life of an academic. I’m sure you remember.”

  “I do, Will, I do.” He looks serious for a minute. “But remember: your life won’t wait for ever. When I was your age, all I cared about was my career. Now, I realize how much I missed. Anyway, look: you must come for dinner, and meet Hannah and the kids.”

  I smile again. “I’d love to, I really would. Just let me know when.”

  “Splendid!” He laughs, a booming sound that causes the nearby birds to fly up in alarm. “Now, I must go, or I’ll be late for class. Talk soon.” Tom heads off into the colonnades, and I turn and resume my progress eastward.

  * * *

  It takes me ten minutes to get down to the bottom of the pentagon, and I look around. There's a bench adjoining the wide grassy area called the South Lawn, and I sit for a little while. No reason not to. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. I'm three thousand miles away from my real job because of a moment of Goddamn stupidity, so I might as well relax and enjoy my exile.

  Stretching my legs out, I let the chatter of the passing students wash over me, and immerse myself in the demanding job of watching the trees move back and forth in the wind. Even the trees are different here, but still pretty.

  "Professor Spencer? I hope I'm not bothering you." A woman's voice.

  I look up, and it's not a woman, it's Shoe Girl. How old is she, twenty-one? She has a surprisingly deep voice for someone so young.

  "Ms., ah, Masterson. What can I do for you?" That cute little polka-dot skirt, and those legs, and those heels. Hoo-ah, as Al Pacino's character in Scent of a Woman would say.

  Nononono. None of that, lad. You’re staying out of trouble, remember?

  "I wanted to apologize for being late to class today, and to, uh, thank you for catching me. I was pushing on the door because I was in a hurry, and it gave way and—" She's tumbling over her words, trying to get them out, and I wave her into silence, trying not to look at her skirt and wonder what's she’s wearing underneath it.

  "It's quite okay, but do try and be on time next time. I'm glad I was close enough to catch you. I hope your shoe is okay."

  She looks down at her feet. "Yeah, it's what I get for buying cheap shoes. They're not great for running in, and after three months they're kind of uncomfortable to walk in."

  "Right. I can see the T-straps are cutting into your arches," I say, talking without thinking. "This is a pretty common problem for girls with high arches—you should look for shoes with leather T-straps, because they'll mold to your feet better. The cheap fabric ones won't stretch at all, and..." I am beginning to realize how weird and creepy this sounds coming from an adult male she doesn't even know, and tail off. "Well, anyway, give it some thought."

  I'm expecting a stay-the-fuck-away-from-me look at this point, but, oddly, it doesn't come. Instead, after a moment, I get the smile again. The smile isn't hoo-ah, it's just nice, sweet and pretty, and it reminds me of how young she is. I start to feel very old.

  "You're right, Professor. I should take your advice." I need to get out of here, before I say anything more I regret. I stand up, and all of a sudden I'm quite close to her, looking down at her. She tilts her head, and for a second there's a little flash of—what?—in her eyes. I can't tell, but I want to know more.

  I hold her gaze for a second longer than I should, and with a monumental effort, I force my mouth to make words, and I make them as polite and stereotypically English as I can.

  "Ms. Masterson, it's been nice talking to you, but I shouldn’t keep you. I'll see you in class on Wednesday."

  "Emily. Please, call me Emily." Lovely, but there is no way you should be calling me Will, if that's what you're hoping I'm going to say.

  "Very good, Emily. See you on Wednesday." I turn, quicker than I'd wanted to, and leave her standing there.

  5

  “So what you’re saying,” Ronnie says, as she fiddles with the plugs at the back of her tower computer, "is that you embarrassed yourself twice in one day with the same guy?"

  "Well, that's one way to look at it." My friend is on her knees facing away from me, but I can tell she's got her tongue stuck in one corner of her mouth, partly because she's concentrating, and partly because she's trying to keep from snickering.

  I sit on her bed, because there’s only one chair, and it’s currently occupied by a laser printer, several unused computer mice, and a pile of screws. Ronnie’s room is a weird mixture of half-assembled computer parts, and high fashion. A Pucci printed dress is draped over the monitor on her desk, and two pairs of stilettos teeter atop a small pile of hard drives by her bed. It’s like being stuck in a crossover episode of Project Runway with Battlestar Galactica.

  "And furthermore, Emily Masterson," pushing the computer case back under the desk and standing up, "said guy is, in fact, your Latin Lit professor. Correct?" Ronnie brushes her blond hair out of her face. "Wow, I need to sweep under there more frequently. Those aren't dust bunnies, they're dust grizzlies."

  I feel like I should put up some sort of protest here, but whatever it is, it's not coming to mind. So, I decide to change tack and do my best to distract her.

  "You also need a more practical hairdo, Veronica Haas.” She winces when I say her proper name, and I know exactly how much she hates it. "If you're going to be a software engineer, then that Farrah Fawcett thing you've got going on isn't going to cut it. You need something simple and practical."

  "Riiight. And I suppose you want me to start wearing overalls or something?" Ronnie's chief problem for her future career is that she's waaaay too tall and blond and slim and stunning to be a conventional computer nerd. As much as
everyone says that stereotype is long gone, she is going to keep getting mistaken for the secretary, or the promo girl, or someone's wife, not the top-of-the-class-tech-CEO-in-waiting she really is.

  I purse my lips and reach for the plushie Dalek on the windowsill. "Maybe. That'd be a start. It'd stop the rest of us from feeling quite so inadequate around you." She smiles and makes a mock-surprised face.

  "Honestly, honey, I don't know what you've got to feel inadequate about. I'm skinny like a rake, yeah?" A vague wave of her hand communicates lack of bounty in the fields of chest and booty. "Whereas you,"—another wave in my direction—" have got it goin' on. You've got va-va-voom".

  "Thanks, Ron. Don't think my va-va was particularly voom today." Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. It isn't like I was flirting with the guy or anything. But those eyes, and that delicious cut-glass accent, all rounded vowels and crisp consonants...when he said 'I mustn't keep you', all I could think was I'd quite like you to keep me. No, please, I insist. Keep me.

  "Well, look. It's not like you won't see him again. In fact, you're going to see him two days from now, correct?" Ronnie hits the power switch on her computer. Nothing happens, except for three short beeps. "Godverdomme!" Her Dutch heritage has given her a rich bounty of genetic gifts: height, blond hair, and a variety of creative swear-words, typically deployed when she's working on computers.

  "Well, yeah." Dr. William Spencer is going to be a regular feature in my life twice a week for the rest of the semester, and I need to figure out how to turn up on time, take notes, and not spend the whole damn lecture just staring at his chest, and his shoulder, and bathing in that lovely voice.