by Linnea May
“Why don’t you just tell us, Mr. Portland?” she says with that snarky tone in her voice.
I will remember this, and I won’t forget to punish her one way or another.
She refrains from any further interruptions during the lecture, but after I dismiss the class, I notice she is packing up her things rather slowly. She lingers while most of the other students rush out of the auditorium on their way to another class, and continues hanging back even longer while a handful of other students come down to the front to speak to me.
This group of students is made up mostly of girls who are thanking me for the “enlightening” first lecture and one guy who asks whether there will be material to download as the semester progresses. I answer their questions and thank them for their remarks, but try to dismiss them as quickly as possible. It’s not just that I don’t have the time or desire to hang out with these entitled kids, but because I’m curious why she’s hanging back now that the lecture is over.
She’s standing off by herself, keeping her distance while there are still other students around. Only when the last one finally leaves does she approach me.
“Yes?” I ask before she can open her mouth. “Was there something you needed?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” she says. She’s now standing right next to me. I notice her give a little shiver when I lay my eyes on her, even though she’s trying her best to appear confident and calm.
She’s not succeeding. Her nervousness is obvious.
Good. Very good.
I sigh. “How can I help you?”
“I need to receive credit for this class in order to graduate,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her small chest. “And I was wondering how you would be grading us? Will there be an exam? A paper? You never mentioned anything and didn’t post a syllabus, like our professors would.”
I notice the special emphasis she puts on her last few words. Like our professors would. She is trying to put me in my place, to remind me that I don’t belong here. I wouldn’t be surprised if she finds it demeaning to be taking a class taught by me at all.
However, her question is legitimate and deserves an answer, and I’m actually surprised that she is the first person to ask about it.
“There won’t be any exams or papers, and I won’t be assigning grades,” I say. “You’ll pass this class through standard attendance-”
“That’s unusual,” she interrupts. “Normally, graduate students are not required to attend classes, and we’re evaluated by-”
“I know that,” I say, this time interrupting her. “But you may have noticed that I like to do things a little differently.”
“Did the dean agree to this?”
Now she is starting to agitate me. I take an abrupt step closer to her, so close that I can breathe in her scent. It’s uniquely her, I can tell, no heavy perfume covering her clean and innocent fragrance.
She flinches, but doesn’t step away from me. Her breathing accelerates, though. I love the effect I have on her, and her arrogance only adds to my excitement.
This girl is going to be in a lot more trouble than she could ever imagine.
“Of course, the dean agrees with me on this,” I hiss. We are standing so close that she must feel my warm breath on her face as I speak.
She looks up at me, waiting, her eyes focused.
“If you want a grade for this class - even though it is not required - you can arrange something with my teaching assistant. Write a silly essay or something. I really don’t care.”
She nods. “All right. I will.”
“Fine.”
“I’m curious, though,” she says, taking in a deep breath. “You said students will receive credit for attending class.”
She pauses, looking at me as if she is making sure I am listening to her. I raise one of my eyebrows impatiently, beckoning her to continue.
“Are you going to take attendance? I don’t think you did today…”
This girl. It’s almost as if she is asking for punishment.
“Why don’t you let that be my concern,” I tell her, and her eyes flicker in response. She is not very tall, barely reaching up to my chin as she stands before me in her ballerina flats. I can’t help but wonder what she would look like in heels. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has never worn them before and wouldn’t be able to walk in them. It would be fun to see her try.
“You just worry about your own work, and let me do my job.”
“Like writing a silly essay paper, you mean?”
I nod. “Yes, exactly.”
“You don’t seem to take this class very seriously,” she states.
I don’t understand why she is still here. Is she seriously trying to lecture me? Does she want me to bend her over my desk right here and now?
“And you take it a bit too seriously, young lady,” I retort. “Your ambition may be admirable, but a more pleasant attitude wouldn’t hurt.”
Her eyes widen with indignation and she inhales sharply. Oh, I have upset the little lady.
She takes a step back then, and as she does, I see her shoulders instantly relax a little. My proximity caused her to tense up more than she would ever be willing to admit.
How sweet. How delicious.
“I’ll talk to your assistant about the paper,” she says, acting as if the last few words of our exchange never happened. “Thank you.”
With that, she abruptly turns to leave.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She stops and turns toward me, her eyebrows raised with worry. “Why?”
“I am your teacher, you are in my class, and I feel like you might be one of the few who will actually ask questions,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I could address you by your name every time I call on you?”
She hesitates.
“Besides,” I add. “It’s polite to answer someone when you’ve been asked a question.”
“Is it? It could also be a way for a teacher to take revenge on a student by grading unfairly when they can put a name to a face they don’t like.”
“I told you, I’m not grading you,” I say, chuckling and shaking my head. “Besides, what makes you think that I don’t like you?”
There it is. She blushes. This uptight, confused little creature blushes while she’s standing right there in front of me.
“I like you,” I say to worsen her embarrassment. “Students like you are far more fun to deal with than a doe-eyed admirer who won’t talk back. There’s no challenge. Kind of boring, don’t you think?”
Her cheeks and ears are burning a crimson shade of red, and her lips part in an attempt to speak. She has never been seen as a rebel, as someone who talks back, someone who challenges her teachers. That is not who she is.
This is all new to her.
“Harlington,” she says eventually, her voice thin and shaky, very unlike how it sounded before. “Lana Harlington.”
“Thank you, Miss Harlington,” I say, nodding toward her. “I am looking forward to teaching you this semester.”
She nods in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything. Instead of her mouth, it’s her eyes that move. They flutter like the wings of a butterfly. She stares at me with those flickering lashes for a few moments before she decides to turn around.
My eyes are glued to her back as she walks out of the auditorium, swaying her slim hips, the lines of her dark gray skirt fit perfectly to the curves of her perky ass.
I am going to wrap my hands around those hips.
And I am going to spank the hell out of that tight, little ass.
Just you wait, Miss Harlington.
CHAPTER FOUR
LANA
For as long as Celia and I have shared a room, I cannot remember the last time she asked me how my day was. The way we pursue college life is so different from one another that there are times when we hardly see each other, let alone speak to one another.
When I come home after a long day of classes and from my par
t-time job at the library, Celia is usually about to get ready to go out or has already left, and when I get up in the morning, she is still fast asleep. She is smart enough to never pick a class that starts earlier than ten in the morning, and even getting up at that time is a struggle for her.
This evening, she is sitting at her desk, in the middle of fixing her makeup, when I walk in. Normally, I wouldn’t get more than a simple ‘Hi’ from her, without even turning her head to look at me. Tonight, though, she stops what she’s doing as soon as I open the door and looks at me with expectant eyes. “So, how was it?”
“How was what?” I ask, confused. “My day?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “No, silly. Your lecture with Mr. Awesome!”
I head over to my side of the room, tossing my bag onto my bed and letting out an angry snort.
“Mr. Full-of-himself is more like it,” I unload. “He’s such a douche-bag! I cannot believe the university lets him teach!”
I sink down on the bed next to my bag and look over to Celia. She is eyeing me with an amused smile.
“He’s not qualified at all,” I continue. “No syllabus, no grades, no exam, no papers. I feel like he’s going to spend the entire semester telling us about how great he is, and that’s it.”
Celia grins. “Oh, that’s gonna make him even more popular, I bet!”
“Not with me.”
Celia rolls her eyes at me again.
“And the way he exposed me…,” I add, regretting it just a moment later as Celia’s eyes light up with excitement.
“Exposed you?”
She leans over the backrest of her chair, looking at me with a coy smile. “What is that all about? Spill!”
“Don’t you have to be somewhere?” I ask, nodding toward the makeup brush in her hand.
She waves me off. “Oh, don’t try to change the subject! Tell me!”
I sigh. Why did I even start this conversation? I could have just given her what she wants: tell her that Mr. Portland is as handsome as they say and it’s nice to have some eye-candy in class - or something along those lines. Telling her the truth will only end up making me the bad guy of the story.
I have dug myself in too deep, and I’m not quick-witted enough to come up with a good lie.
I give her a short version of the events that happened during Mr. Portland’s introductory lecture, hoping she’ll be satisfied and leave me alone for the night.
Of course, she doesn’t.
“Oh, Lana,” she says when I’m done. She is shaking her head and laughing at me. “You’re unbelievable!”
I draw in a stuttered gasp. “What? Why? Those were legitimate questions!”
Celia winks at me.
“Sure, they might be,” she agrees. “But that doesn’t mean you have to ask them in the way you did! And scolding him for not doing things like a real professor - really?!”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” I defend.
“But it’s what you implied!” Celia insists. “And he knows that!”
She leans in a little closer to me, narrows her eyes, and throws me a knowing glance.
“Besides,” she says in a soft voice. “I know what you’re like. You’re not exactly polite about it when you think it’s time to lecture someone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I huff.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Celia says, moving away from me then and turning around to continue painting her face.
“I bet he’s pretty mad at you now, which can’t be good for your grade.”
“Well, remember, he’s not grading us,” I remind her. “It’s probably best that he doesn’t anyway. He’s not qualified whatsoever.”
Celia snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and I’m sure you made sure he’s aware of that.”
“He doesn’t need me to tell him,” I say. “But you might be right… I should have been nicer and a bit more careful.”
Celia’s eyebrows arch up in surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“When I was about to leave, he asked my name,” I explain. “And he had this brooding look on his face. Very odd. Scary.”
“Uh oh,” she says, chuckling. “Seems like he’s taken note of you, girl. Not surprisingly.”
I don’t say anything more. My eyes fall to my lap, where I’m nervously playing with my fingers, twisting and turning the only piece of jewelry I wear on a regular basis - a black ceramic ring. My face softens every time I look at it. It was supposed to be a lucky charm for something I wanted a long time ago, and I’ve been wearing it for close to ten years. In a way, it has become a symbol of terrible neglect, but I refuse to look at it that way.
“You know that doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” Celia says, thinking that I’m worried.
I look up at her quizzically, our eyes connecting in the reflection of her makeup mirror.
“That he took note of you,” she explains. “It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe he’s impressed with your attitude or something. Who knows?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “He said he liked me.”
“What?!” Celia exclaims, abruptly turning and nearly falling out of her chair. “He said he likes you?! And you’re just telling me this now?”
I sigh. Why did I have to blurt that out? I made it sound as if he declared his love for me or something. How silly.
And where are these sharp palpitations coming from? Why does my heart do these silly jumps every time I recall that moment? “I like you.” Those words coming from his mouth had a sting-like quality, as if he was poking straight into my insides. I don’t know how to process that feeling. Did it feel good? Bad?
It certainly doesn’t feel familiar.
“He said something along those lines,” I admit, avoiding Celia’s amused smirk. “After I accused him of wanting to take revenge on me.”
Celia bursts out in laughter.
“You dirty girl!” she asserts. “Flirting with the hottest guest lecturer this school has ever seen. I knew there was a little bad girl hiding under there somewhere!”
I shake my head in defense. “I wasn’t flirting with him!”
Celia casts me a saucy smirk before she turns her back to me to finish applying her makeup for the night.
“Sure you were,” she insists. “I have a feeling you’re quite smitten with him-”
“I am not!” I object.
“I was gonna add that you wouldn’t admit it.”
She checks her reflection in the mirror one last time, grimacing and spraying a few loose strands of hair into place with hairspray before jumping up from her chair.
“I gotta go,” she announces. “Give you some time to dream about Mr. Perfect.”
“I thought he was Mr. Awesome?” I ask.
She winks at me. “Whatever you prefer.”
***
Celia is out the door before I get a chance to react to her final words. I exhale loudly and lean back against the wall, my feet dangling off the edge of the bed.
I don’t think I could ever admit it to Celia’s face, but she may be right about some things she said. Of course, I didn’t flirt with Mr. Portland. He may not be a real professor, but at least for this semester and for this class, he is a teacher. My teacher.
But there is something about him.
Obviously, he is handsome as hell. It’s that obvious kind of gorgeous that hits you right in the face. I would be an idiot not to admit it. Tall, dark and mysterious. What woman wouldn’t be attracted to that?
Yet that’s not it.
It’s the way he looked at me. That intense gaze. There was sincere interest behind his stare. His eyes found mine again and again during the lecture, even after I stopped interrupting him with my disruptive comments. At first, I thought he was just checking to see whether I’d raise my hand again. That thought made me feel powerful, almost as if he was scared of me.
But after a while, I began to realize that he kept glimpsing at me for other reasons.
> He wasn’t checking for my reaction to what he was saying. He was just looking at me. Just looking. As if it was something he enjoyed doing.
I told myself that the reason I stayed behind after class was to ask him about the syllabus, but I knew I was lying to myself.
Seeing all those other students staying behind and swarming around him discouraged me, and I was almost ready to give up and leave. But he saw me standing there, lingering, waiting. If I had run away at that point, I would have looked stupid. Like a coward.
Now I kind of wish I would have just left, because as soon as I was alone with him, I was back to being my snooty self, trying to lecture him. I couldn’t help myself. He agitates me. His entire being challenges me.
I was born into a family of scholars. Both of my parents are professors and highly regarded in their respective fields. They did everything in their power to make sure that my older sister and I were not only able to follow their example, but surpass their achievements. We were already born by the time my father finally earned tenure at a renowned university. My mother achieved hers two years later, not at the same university, but in the same city. Even as a young child, they inspired me. They loved what they did, they lived for it. Not once did I ever hear them complaining about Mondays the way other people do. Not only that, they were highly respected. I saw it in the way my teachers and friends’ parents talked to them. It’s ridiculous, really, because it’s all in the degree and the title that comes with it.
Still, throughout my entire childhood, I was certain that I wanted to follow in their footsteps and become a scholar like them.
Or so I thought. There’s one thing that I lack, and it’s something that cannot be forced: passion. I chose to pursue the same major as my mother, sociology, but the only satisfaction I get from it are good grades. Straight A’s fill me with pride, but the work I have to do to get them doesn’t make me happy. Not in the way it did for my mother.
There is something that I enjoyed doing, and it still exists in the back of my mind: coding. When I took my first computer class in junior high school, I was intrigued right from the start. While that was years ago, long before smartphones and apps became commonplace, I’m still intrigued by the technology. It fascinates me that rows of inscrutable words and lines can lead to a functioning program that can do pretty much anything. Coding languages can turn a simple idea into something real, something that helps to improve people’s lives.