by Haley Pierce
Hill passes out a syllabus, then removes a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his shirt pocket and puts them on. I’d hoped they would make him geeky, but no, they only serve to make him look even more delicious. Now, he’s not just sexy, he’s sexy-smart.
“If you need to contact me, I’m available twenty-four-seven via the classroom chat module online, so please use that when it’s not office hours.” He points to the paper. “As you can see, I’ve divided this class evenly between poetry, focusing much on Shakespeare’s sonnets, and fiction, following the mythic structure.”
This is where I would raise my hand and interject a witty comment about the readings, just to show him I’ve already done them and start whittling my way into his heart. But I can’t. His deep voice has completely hypnotized me. I’m coming up blank.
“But for now, I think I want to find out a little more about you,” he says, sitting on the edge of his desk.
I swallow. This can’t be good.
He starts to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt and roll up his sleeves, baring tanned, muscular forearms studded with cinnamon hair and a heavy, expensive-looking wristwatch. “When I call your name, please stand and recite your favorite poem.”
My eyes bulge out. Suddenly the small room has become a lot smaller.
Everyone else nods as if they’ve expected this. I start to raise my hand, tentatively, wondering if it’s not too late to make a dash for the door. He looks at me, a hint of amusement peeking through his otherwise stony expression. “No, McBride, this will not be graded,” he answers in a sing-song tone, as if he’s read my mind. Oh, god, can he read my mind? “It’s only for me to see where your interests lie.”
I swallow an orange-sized lump in my throat. Somehow this doesn’t make me feel better.
I feel even worse when he calls on the first person, a frizzy-haired girl named Ackerman, and she recites some poem about paths diverging in a wood, without hesitation, as if she’d practiced it all her life.
“Very nice, Ms. Ackerman,” he says, scanning down the list.
One by one, all the students recite their poems, and meanwhile, I struggle to think of something even remotely poetic. Nothing comes. My mother called poetry garbage. She told me reading fiction for fun was a waste of time. She deliberately kept it out of the house.
A guy with a red mohawk recites something about someone named Annabelle Lee. Despite going on forever, it doesn’t give me the time I need to come up with any ideas. All I can think about are some of the mnemonic devices that we came up with for anatomy, and a few Dr. Seuss rhymes I may have been subjected to in kindergarten about cats in hats.
Then, Homer stands up next to me and eloquently recites a poem he calls Ozymandias. Hill nods appreciatively and then his eyes shift to me. “Ms. McBride?”
Mind still blank, I rise to my feet, keenly aware of the twelve sets of eyes on me.
“Well, uh . . .” I begin brilliantly.
I take a deep breath, waiting for embarrassment to fully envelop me.
Instead, I’m surprised that a very different emotion floods me. Indignation. Regardless of what he thinks, this is still Creative Writing 101. For beginners. Maybe no one else is one, but I am. And there should be no shame in my lack of knowledge, because he’s supposed to be teaching me. That’s how he’s supposed to earn his money, not by embarrassing his students. And if he wants me to a recite a poem that’ll get to know me better, he’s got it.
I tilt my chin up and recite, “Toe bone connected to the foot bone, foot bone connected to the heel bone.”
Hill’s eyes widen slightly. He leans forward, elbow on his thigh, chin propped in his hand, as if this is a new one he’s never heard before. Of course he’s never heard it in one of his classes before; it’s a song my mom used to sing to me over and over again when I was a kid and my dreams of being a doctor were just beginning.
People around me start to smile. I continue on, and as I do, the rhythm comes back to my memory, and I start to sing it. “Heel bone connected to the ankle bone. Ankle bone connected to the shin bone . . .”
Homer is nodding along beside me. Suddenly, Mohawk-guy starts to clap along, getting into the groove as I break into the chorus. “Dem bones, dem bones . . .”
Today is certainly a day of firsts. I’ve never had such an obvious reaction to a man as I did when I met Mr. . . I mean, Dr. Hill. I’ve never subjected myself to such humiliation by singing in front of one of my classes. It feels like a wild dream, so when I finish, I go for broke. I hold the last note and add in little jazz hands.
The class erupts in applause, shocking me. Mohawk-guy leans over his desk to give me a fist-bump.
As I slide back into my seat, I realize Dr. Hill wasn’t clapping along with the rest. He’s just staring at me, rubbing his unshaven jaw with his hand. Finally, he says, “Interesting choice, McBride,” and marks something down on the leather-bound booklet in front of him.
I know he wasn’t grading it, but I can still see the bright red F in my mind.
Then he moves onto the next student, who recites some other poem I’ve never heard. Ackerman rolls her eyes at me. Homer, the freshman, looks at me like I’m some mildly amusing joke that needs to go find a literary life. All of my exhilaration drains away. When it does, it’s replaced with complete humiliation. What had I just done? I’d wanted to be teacher’s pet, and now I’ve made myself the class clown. My face burns every time I think about it, so much so that I find myself counting down until the period ends.
Once it does, Dr. Hill clears his throat and holds up a finger. “Before you all go . . . I know many of you think of the first day of class as a grab-a-syllabus-and-go day, but like I said, this is not a throwaway class. Therefore, you have homework, due next Monday.”
Collective groan.
“Writing is nothing without passion. Now, passion means different things to different people, and so I want to learn what it means to you.” He smiles cryptically, tenting his fingers together in front of him. “You have to seek your passion. It will not seek you. Therefore, I’d like you to think about your passion, to seek it out, then write a poem illustrating your greatest passion.”
I wince. Poetry, on day one? I’ve never written anything like this before.
“I want you to pour every ounce of yourself into this work. Can you?”
And his eyes land directly on me.
All I can think in answer is, No, probably not.
And he knows it.
I entertain the thought of rocketing out of my seat and heading straight to the registrar to find a different class, but only for a second. There simply are no other classes that can fit my schedule and fill the English requirement.
I can do this, I tell myself. I haven’t screwed up irreparably yet.
But it sure feels like I have when Dr. Hill dismisses us but says, “Ms. McBride, please stay after.”
Cain
I’m not two hours into my first class as teacher and I’m already not taking it seriously. If I had been, I’d have let Addison go about her business. After all, it’s her first day.
Instead, I’m toying with her. I can’t resist it. I can’t resist watching her squirm in those tight jeans. I pretend to work on my laptop as I wait for her to approach my desk, but really, my focus is on her exquisite posterior. She packs up her belongings slowly, taking deep breaths. She’s nervous. And she has a perfect, heart-shaped ass.
Stop it, Cain. Control yourself.
She steps up to my desk like someone going off to battle, like she’s bracing for some sort of onslaught from me. Then, all at once, she launches into a long, breathless apology: “I’m really sorry, but I . . .”
I let her go on, because it’s turning me on. I could get used to being the authority figure, but not in any way Dean Armstrong would approve of.
She trails off after about a minute.
I give her a benevolent smile, trying my best to be the supportive teacher. “Ms. McBride, whoa there,” I say, holding both
palms out. “I asked the class to recite a poem that helps me to get to know them better, and your choice suited you perfectly. You said you’re pre-med, yes?”
She nods. “But it wasn’t a poem. I’m sorry, I don’t know very much—“
“Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I’m sor—“ She bites her tongue, and the blush on her cheeks makes highlights those big blue eyes of hers. Damn, can this girl be any more gorgeous? “Okay. I mean, thank you. Um. How did you know my name in the student center? Do you make it a point to know your students before class?”
I grin at her. “Only the ones worth knowing.”
Her eyes widen, and she lets out a nervous laugh. I have a hard time believing that no man has ever flirted with her.
Then I remember once again the thing that keeps slipping my mind. I’m her teacher. Reel it in, Hill. Don’t get carried away. No flirting.
I clear my throat. “And that was my question for you. The other students are all English majors. You’re the only one who isn’t one. So I wanted to know what you expect to achieve this semester.” I raise an eyebrow. “Not an easy A, I hope?”
“Oh, no,” she says quickly. “I plan to put in 110 percent, but I don’t know anything about poetry or writing at all, so I doubt an A will come easily to me.”
“Good.” I nod as it dawns on me. She’s all the makings of the teacher’s pet, the brown-noser, the one who would pull out all the stops to get on her teacher’s good side. “I don’t plan on giving out many—or perhaps any—of those.”
“Okay.” Her eyes turn down; I can tell I’ve worried her. I wonder if she’s ever gotten less than an A in her life. “I just want to learn. I’m willing to do anything it takes to succeed.”
I blink. “Anything?”
I can’t help it. A thousand thoughts assault my dirty mind, all the things I could have her do to get that A. My cock twitches in my pants. I shuffle in my seat.
A blush climbs over her cheeks. “Well, within reason.”
I want to ask if it would be within reason for me to run my tongue down that long, swanlike neck of hers, tasting milky skin that looks about as sweet as candy, but then I curse myself. Dammit, Hill. You’ve probably got t-shirts that are older than she is. Give it a rest before she thinks you’re some kind of dirty old man. “Have you done much creative writing for fun?”
“None, honestly,” she admits, rather weakly, but adds, “My father was a writer before he died, though.”
Her father, along with me, along with a million other pathetic souls who never amounted to anything. She’s reaching, to please me. But if she really wanted to please me, all she’d have to do is . . .
I clench my fists. Stop. “None at all?”
She shakes her head slowly. I half-expect her to apologize again.
“Well, then, I expect you to work hard for me,” I say as I lean back and yawn, giving her a self-satisfied smile, trying to suppress the thought of all the ways she could work hard on me, taking my cock into those thick, bow lips of hers. “I’m not an easy man to impress, McBride.”
“Thank you. I promise to.” She stands to leave.
I know I’ll be deflated once she does. I can’t let her go yet.
“Oh, and McBride?”
She whirls, and when she spins I catch a sweet scent, like strawberries. So perfect. So sweet, and succulent, and . . . so Addison. My cock twitches again. Down, boy. Only the ones worth knowing. Had I really said that to her? She must think I’m some kind of fucking stalker.
I reach into the pocket of my jacket and produce the small ID card. “Found this on the floor of the student center,” I say, sliding it over to her. “And your cards were all over the counter. That’s how I knew your name.”
“Oh!” She carefully plucks it up off the desk. “Thank you.”
“And no, I didn’t know you were in my class when I met you in the student center,” I continue. “But I’m glad you are. I look forward to teaching you this year.”
“Me too.” She smiles, and I can see the relief washing over her face, like she’s glad I’m not trying to get in her pants. She’s glad. I need to remember that. As much as I never wanted to teach, I need to remember that this is my career now, my last chance to make an honest living, and keep this as professional as possible.
When she leaves, I let out a sigh, rub my eyes, and let out a tortured laugh. Why me? Compared to this, writing the next fifty chapters of a blockbuster novel feels easy.
Addison
When I step outside, Hobson is waiting with the limo. As usual, everyone looks at me as he opens the door, trying to figure out if I'm someone.
Nope. Nothing to see here, folks.
Five minutes later, we pull into the U driveway and Hobson lets me out at an expansive brick staircase, framed with giant pots of colorful geraniums. I open the door and drop my backpack on a stool at the center island of the kitchen, where Carol, our cook, is going through her shopping list. "Your mother said she's at a late work meeting and to eat dinner without her. She wants you to text her right now, though, to let her know how your first day was."
That's normal with my mom. She has a GPS tracker app on my phone that tells her where I am at all times, and so even though she's always working, she knows my comings and goings better than the FBI. I grab a Snickers bar out of the pantry and rip it open with my teeth, I'm so hungry.
"You'll spoil your dinner!" Carol exclaims, swatting my backside with a dishrag. "What would you like? Ravioli, your favorite? I can make it with low-fat cheese. Your mother said you should be watching your--"
"Forget it. This can be my dinner," I say, holding up the candy.
She tsks at me like I'm a recalcitrant child and I give her a little pout. It's like I can't be expected to do anything on my own, much less feed myself a nutritious meal. Sometimes I act like one simply because that’s what they expect of me.
I pull out my phone as I rush upstairs and text my mom. Survived. Everything fine.
A second later, she comes back with: Good. How are your professors?
My fingers hovering over the keyboard, I think of Dr. Hill. Hot is the first adjective that pops into mind. But that is far from what she means. She has been known to go on the warpath if my professors aren't up to snuff. Once I mentioned my Physics professor’s heavy German accent, and she nearly had the man fired for being too difficult to understand. Great. Seems like it'll be a good semester.
A moment later: Good.
She's satisfied, I think with relief. Satisfaction is always hard-won with my mother, which is why I decide against asking her if I can drive in to class tomorrow. Better to save my breath. She’d only assault me with a zillion questions and warnings and leave me wishing I’d never asked.
I toss my phone on the bed and pile my books on my eyelet comforter, then sigh exhaustedly. The room is all white lace, sugar and spice, pink walls, paintings of rainbows. Carol and all of them treat me like a baby because that's what my mother wants me to be. Under her thumb, a child, for the rest of my life. Even when I have my MD, I bet they’ll still think of me as a little girl in pigtails.
Sighing, I reach over and pull my heavy statistics book out of my bag. The second I open it, my eyes trail to the syllabus for Creative Writing.
I think of what Hill said. You must seek your passion. It will not seek you.
I have been, I think. The first time my mother mentioned to me that I could be a doctor and make a very good living, I was interested. When I told her it sounded like something I’d like to do, she went out and bought me a slew of anatomy books. I was five. Since then, I’ve been chasing it with every breath I take. Every class, every step I’ve taken has been in the direction of my MD.
That’s my passion. My mother, as hard as she’s been on me, is just doing it for my own good. She’s keeping me on track while I chase my dream. How can I begrudge her for that?
I reach into my bag and pull out my notebook. I usually do my work on th
e laptop, but it's a satisfying feeling, the scratch of the ball point pen on the paper.
It's not easy. I write and rewrite. But I get it done. An hour later, I study the words on the paper. My first actual poem.
I smile. No, it's not anywhere as good as the works recited today in class, but it's more than I thought I could do.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m no doctorate in English. This is terrible.
Balling it up in my first, I look up and realize that I haven't even started my small mountain of Statistics homework.
But I have absolutely no motivation. I think of Hill, and a warm feeling settles low in my abdomen. God, the way he’d looked at me! And he is, undeniably, as Zoe had said, incredibly hot. Shivers travel down my spine as I think of the wolfish glint in his eyes when I’d declared I do anything to succeed.
I shiver more as a thought comes to me. For the briefest of moments, he really could’ve asked me to do anything, and I would’ve entertained it.
What is that power? Does he know he has it?
I imagine him striding to the door and locking it, giving me that same wolfish smile as he asks me to strip naked. I imagine his big, rough hands on my hips, his body between me, parting my thighs . . .
Stop it, Addison. He’s your teacher. And thinking these things when you should be concentrating on your studies will only hurt your chances of being a doctor.
Shaking the idea out of my head, I flip open my laptop and go to the school website, then navigate to the online classroom for Creative Writing 101. My name, AMcBride, is at the top, along with a green circle to indicate I’m online. I scan down the list of names from my classmates, noticing HLacara, whose avatar—the school ID photo—makes the funny freshman look younger still. To think, he’s written three books, really done something with himself. No, he’s not a doctor, but he’s still someone. There is a gray circle beside his name, offline. In fact, every student on the list is offline. Except . . .