by Noir, Roxie
But there she was, standing in the stall, all bright red lips and winged eyeliner, wearing high heels and a short skirt, black hair tumbling around her shoulders, and I’ve been laser-focused ever since.
Thalia’s not my type. My type tends to wear a lot of flannel and torn jeans, not neat skirts and heeled boots. My type doesn’t wear red lipstick or winged eyeliner. They usually come with a nose ring, at least one tattoo, and tend to look like they could participate in a drum circle at any moment.
Thalia doesn’t look like she attends many drum circles. Instead, she looks like she has a favorite pen and strong opinions about day planners, and somehow, I find that irresistible.
The door to the stairs at the end of the hall opens, and a middle-aged Asian man in jeans and a cowboy shirt steps through.
“Good thing they finally finished the new building,” Oliver calls to me, down the tiled hallway. “You were all set to get the haunted office in the old department.”
“You say that like only one of those offices was haunted,” I call back.
The closer he gets, the more interesting Oliver’s fashion choices become. I don’t have my contacts in or my glasses on right now, so what looked like a gray shirt with embellishments from far away is actually a paisley pattern in various shades of pink, embroidered swirls and stars over the pockets.
“Well, I’m sure that entire building was haunted by the forgotten souls and crushed dreams of those who walked its halls and yet were denied tenure,” he says dryly, coming up and standing next to me. “But we were going to put you in the office where a visiting professor swore up and down that a ghostly little girl used to show up and ask if she could help her find her dolly.”
“Did she help?” I ask, the only logical question.
“I believe instead she called Gerald at three a.m. in hysterics,” he says.
“I’m sure he took that well,” I say, keeping my voice low, and Oliver just sighs.
“We didn’t have another female visiting professor for quite a while after that,” he admits. “No matter how many the rest of us recommended.”
“Gerald nursed a grudge against an entire class of people for the actions of one? Doesn’t sound anything like him,” I mutter, glancing over at Oliver.
My advisor — no, my former advisor, we’re now colleagues — gives me a conspiratorial look.
“Even in a brand new building, the walls here have ears,” he says, one eyebrow raised. “And you don’t want your soul to join the ghosts of the un-tenured, do you?”
I just shudder.
“Perish the thought,” I say, and I’m not being sarcastic.
Being denied tenure is the worst thing that can happen to a professor, barring death of disfigurement, though frankly I might opt to lose a finger, given the choice.
It’s not like getting fired. If you get fired, you can still get a job in your field — get denied tenure and not only do you lose your current job, you stand a zero percent chance of getting hired anywhere else, either.
In other words, if you get denied tenure, you’d better have a backup career in mind. It’s hell.
“Thought not,” Oliver says, lightheartedly. “I, on the other hand, have had tenure for a number of years, so I’m free to call Gerald a total dinosaur who wouldn’t know what to do with a new idea if it bit him on the ass, and who hasn’t had a single original thought go through his head since the first Bush administration.”
I just laugh, and Oliver raises one eyebrow.
“His dinner parties are incredibly dull,” he declares. “The drinks are weak, the food is bad, and he only invites other ancient white men. And me, to prove that he’s open-minded and knows someone who isn’t an old white man.”
“Well, I find Dr. Comstock to be a lovely, wise, generous, dignified, and…”
I trail off, thinking.
“…informative individual,” I say, just a little too loudly, glancing down the hall toward the rest of the offices.
Oliver grins.
“You’ll be a full professor in no time,” he says. “I’ve got a class at two, are you heading to campus?”
“Honors Calc in Keyes,” I say, and we walk down the hall toward a set of glass double doors.
I’m pretty sure I owe my job to Oliver Nguyen. He was my advisor while I was getting my doctorate here, and when this position suddenly opened up last year, he’s the one who practically forced me to apply.
I later found out that there were nearly a thousand applicants, many of whom were probably more qualified than me. It’s a miracle that I got it.
“I hope they’ve fixed the AC,” he says. “No one can learn in a sauna. Last semester it got so out of control —”
“Professor Loveless?” a voice asks, right as we pass the main Mathematics office.
It takes me half a second to remember that that’s me.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Comstock has asked to see you,” says Karen, his Executive Assistant — not secretary, never secretary — calls through an open doorway, framed by heavy wooden doors.
She’s looking at me expectantly from behind a massive wooden desk, her dyed-blond hair practically a helmet.
“Of course,” I tell her, and nod at Oliver.
“Good luck. We’ll talk later,” he says, clapping me quickly on the shoulder, then walking away. Karen gives a single nod, then points to an office door.
“You can go ahead in, Dr. Comstock is expecting you,” Karen says, already looking back at her computer through reading glasses.
“Thanks,” I say, and push open the door.
Behind a huge wooden desk, surrounded by bookshelves, is Dr. Comstock, as he prefers to be called. I’ve never called him Gerald to his face and never will. The only person I’ve heard get away with it was Ezekiel Thurston, an emeritus professor who just turned ninety-three and who’s been around for so long that he could probably get away with burning the place down.
“Professor Loveless,” he says, waving a hand at me while still looking through his glasses at his computer monitor. “Have a seat.”
I sit, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, and wait. In academia, almost everything is some kind of psychological power play — all about who can make someone else wait the longest, who can inconvenience someone else the most, who has to call who professor and who can get away with first names.
It’s my Achilles heel. I’m straightforward to a fault and have never been able to shake the notion that everyone else is, as well. I’m an awful liar. I hate saying what I don’t mean, even when I know it’s good for my career.
So I wait for Dr. Comstock to acknowledge me. I’ve still got plenty of time to get to campus, so I don’t mind watching the sun stream in through the big windows at the front of the office, scanning the titles of the books on the bookshelves.
“All right, sorry about that,” Dr. Comstock finally says, even though I’m at least savvy enough to know he’s not sorry. “Had to respond quickly to the Vice Provost, you know how she is.”
“Of course,” I say, even though I don’t know.
“Well,” he says, bringing his hands together over the desk. “Normally this is where I like to give new hires a quick welcome, introduce myself properly, let them know that my door is always open, that sort of thing, but naturally you know all that already.”
“Yes,” I agree.
His door is not always open, but we can both pretend.
“Therefore, let me just say that the whole department is extremely pleased to witness your transition from doctoral student to assistant professor,” he says. “On behalf of the Virginia State University, welcome to the faculty.”
He stands, holding out one hand. The whole thing has an air of showmanship about it, but that’s part of the job. I stand, shake his hand, thank him for the formal welcome. We exchange a few more pleasantries, and then I turn to leave.
“By the way, Caleb,” he says, just as I reach the door. “I need you to attend the Madison Scholar
s welcome reception next Friday night. I’m supposed to go, but I’m afraid something’s come up. Could you?”
It’s not really a question. It’s more of a test to see how much I want this, because we both know full well that what’s come up is that he doesn’t want to go to a banquet populated by undergraduates.
“Of course,” I say with a smile. “I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you,” he says, and I leave his office, nod to Karen, and finally make my way to campus to teach my first class as a real professor.
* * *
Truth be told, it’s a little anticlimactic. Even though this time I get to write Professor Caleb Loveless on the whiteboard, this is now my seventh year teaching Calculus I. Even though it’s Honors Calculus, all that really means is that we cover more material and the final is a little harder.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve taught in this exact room before. The view from the narrow, vertical window looks familiar, and I think I remember the strange orange spot on the tile floor in the corner behind the computer.
The first student arrives a full seven minutes before class, puts her things down at a desk in the front row, and walks up to me. Before she opens her mouth, I know exactly how this is going to go.
“Hi, Professor Loveless, I’m Angela Gillard,” she says, holding out a manicured hand. “I just had a few questions before class starts.”
There’s always one. VSU is one of the top-ranked public universities in the U.S., so there’s no shortage of intensely motivated, high-achieving students. Angela’s blond, not a hair out of place, wearing slacks and a button-down shirt despite the heat.
She’ll probably be Secretary of State in twenty years.
“Welcome to Calculus,” I answer her, and she nods, then pulls my syllabus from a neatly-labeled folder. I notice that it’s already highlighted in several colors.
“I wanted to talk to you about the class schedule,” she says, and flips pages until she lands on November. “I have some travel planned that I can’t miss…”
Behind her, the other students start filtering in, one by one. Most of them are dressed like regular college students on a hot late-August day — shorts, t-shirts, flip-flops. It’s close to ninety degrees out. I’d be wearing shorts if I weren’t teaching the class.
“…so I’d like to schedule some one-on-one time to discuss what I’ve missed before Thanksgiving,” Angela is saying.
“My office hours are on the first page,” I say.
She gives me a smile like I didn’t understand her. I did.
“I’d really prefer to schedule a time,” she says.
“If my office hours aren’t enough, we can certainly discuss that come November,” I offer. “Did you have any other concerns?”
Her lips flatten into a line, and she gives me an irritated look, but accepts my answer.
“Yes, about the final,” she says. “Can you tell me…”
I check the clock while she grills me about the timing of the final. Three more minutes until my first class starts, and the room is nearly full.
Despite myself, despite the fact that I’ve done this again and again, I get a little bit nervous. I always do. I’m sure it’s only natural.
“I’m afraid the rooms aren’t assigned until later in the semester,” I tell Angela. She’s not pleased.
“I ask because my finals schedule is going to be very complex, and I’d like to know as soon as possible whether I need to request an alternate exam period,” she says, not backing down an inch.
“Rooms are determined by lottery in mid-November,” I say.
“Surely, some can be arranged earlier?” she says. “It doesn’t seem like it’s so much to ask —”
I hold up one hand, stopping her.
“I have nothing to do with the process,” I say. “When I find out when and where your exam will be, I’ll tell you. Now, I need to start class.”
“Who do I talk to about this?” she asks, not moving.
“That sounds like an excellent question for your advisor,” I tell her. “Please take your seat.”
Angela’s not happy with that answer either, but she sits, neatly arranging a pen and four highlighters next to the syllabus she’s already pulled out.
I straighten the stack of syllabi on the table up front, take one, walk to the lectern, center it, adjust the glasses I usually wear for the first few weeks of class, since they make me feel more professorial.
“Welcome to Honors Calculus 102,” I begin. “I’m Professor Loveless. If you’re supposed to be in Modern Dance, you’ve got the wrong classroom.”
It gets a ripple of polite laughter, as usual.
“Today will be a fairly short class,” I say, launching into my usual spiel. “I’ll just be going over the syllabus, policies, and expectations, and we’ll begin instruction on Wednesday. If you’ve got any questions…”
As I talk, I look over the students, who I swear get younger every year. They’re sitting in neat rows, some watching me, some reading along in the syllabus. It’s the first day, so no one is looking at their phone during class yet.
At this point in the semester, they’re still bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, optimistic, even the ones who are required to take this class for their major. That’ll probably change in a few weeks, as things get increasingly complex.
“…will count for forty percent of your grade,” I’m saying, the same thing I say every semester. “Your midterm will count for thirty percent, and the final for —"
I stop short, frozen. My voice sticks in my throat. I can’t even draw a breath.
For a long, long moment, silence reigns in the classroom. Papers shuffle. Pens click.
I stare, disbelieving.
From the back row, spine ramrod straight, eyes wide as saucers, Thalia’s staring right back at me.
Chapter Eight
Thalia
I want to melt into the floor and disappear into the cracks between the ugly tiles.
I should have left the second I saw him at the front of the classroom. Yes, I need this class to graduate, and yes, this is the only section that works with the rest of my schedule, but taking five years to graduate suddenly doesn’t sound so bad.
Not when my math professor is the same man who pushed me against a wall last night, kissed me like our lives depended on it, and told me he wanted to make me orgasm.
Just the memory of it makes the heat rush to my face again, my hand squeezing my pen so hard it’s a miracle that it hasn’t —
Crack.
— And there my pen goes. I drop it quickly and it lands on my Honors Calculus syllabus, deep blue ink oozing out thickly.
I just stare at it. Caleb — no, Professor Loveless, oh God — is talking again, and now he’s moved on to his absence policy. At least I didn’t get too much ink on my hand, though now I can’t follow along on the syllabus, as if I was doing that in the first place.
He’s my professor.
Last night, I felt my professor’s dick. When it was hard. While his tongue was in my mouth.
And it got me very, very turned on.
I want to disappear.
I glance at the doorway, and contemplate making a run for it. It’s not far. I took a seat in the back row on purpose, for no other reason than I simply could not stand the thought of my peers looking at me in my current state of agony.
But I don’t. I stay put, because making some sort of ruckus would be worse than staying quiet, right? Maybe if I stare at my ink-stained syllabus for long enough, when I look back up that won’t be Caleb any more, it’ll be some other hot professor with glasses —
Nope. Nope, it’s still him.
I don’t look up for the rest of the class period, not until everyone else is shoving papers into their bags and standing.
That’s when I hear, loud and clear: “Thalia Lopez, could I see you for a moment? Everyone else, I’ll see you Wednesday.”
I wait for everyone else to leave before I make my way to the fron
t, tossing my ruined syllabus into the trash, along with my busted pen, rubbing the ink on my palm into a big smear. Two other students are asking him about something — grading policy, it sounds like — so I stand back and try to think about literally anything but last night.
Finally, the last one leaves. Caleb — nope, Professor Loveless, God in heaven I can’t believe this is happening — and I both watch him go.
Then we look at each other. He takes off his glasses, puts them on the lectern, stares at them for a moment.
Then he walks around the table at the front of the room and leans against it, facing me, arms folded over his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbow.
There’s the tattoo. The sextant. His forearms are even nicer in the daylight, thick and muscled —
“I didn’t realize you were a student,” he says.
I swallow, my mouth dry as the desert, and shift the messenger bag I’ve got slung over one shoulder.
“I didn’t realize you were a professor,” I say.
“That makes what happened last night wildly inappropriate,” he goes on, voice low.
We lock eyes.
“Not if we didn’t know,” I murmur, quietly, so anyone in the hall outside can’t possibly hear.
“Even so,” he says, his voice matching mine. “Ethically, last night is murky at best. And going forward —”
“Is black and white?” I ask, before he can say it, tumbling over the words in my need to get them out first.
I don’t want to hear him say it. It feels easier if it’s me.
“Yes,” he agrees, then pauses. Looks at me, and for one single millisecond I think of holding hands in the botanical garden, following Vivian down the lit path.
“I unequivocally cannot date a student,” he says, his voice low, soft, gentle. Secret. “University policy is crystal clear on that point.”
It hurts.
I knew it was coming from the first second I stepped into this classroom and saw him, but it still hurts.
“Of course,” I agree, holding my body upright, rigid. “It would be wildly inappropriate.”
“It would,” he says.