Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
ANNIE
“Come in,” Professor Parks calls from behind his closed office door.
There’s something particularly nerve-wracking about showing up and having to knock instead of informally walking in. I don’t like it, and I can’t seem to figure out what to do with my hands. My arms seem so robotic as I turn the knob and push the door open just enough to slip into the office.
Professor Parks is sitting at a small, round conference table to one side of his office. He gestures to the seat next to him. On the table, my assignment is displayed in a neat stack. I can already make out copious amounts of red ink from here and my stomach sinks.
“You can close that behind you,” the professor tells me when I start towards him leaving the door cracked behind me.
I stiffly turn around and push the door closed with a hard thunking sound that makes me wince.
“You can relax, Annie. I’m not planning to walk you to the gallows just because your assignments aren’t up to par.” He chuckles at his own joke. That makes one of us considering I’m not in the mood to share a laugh under these circumstances. “Come on over and have a seat.”
As I take the indicated seat beside him, I search the first page of my essay desperately for any sign of a letter grade. Considering how many corrections he’s marked in the margins, I’m terrified of finding an F on my paper.
There’s no grade. Only the notations.
That might actually be worse than facing a failure outright. Surely Professor Parks can’t be so much of a sadist that he would wait for the chance to tell me I failed out loud rather than to write my grade on my paper.
“So let’s chat.” Professor Parks flashes a toothy smile. “The class you signed up for with me is Literature & Mythology. Most students who take my class as an English credit do so because they intend to study English or Writing as their major.”
“Yes, sir. That’s why I chose your class.” Every alumni I spoke with before attending this college encouraged me to sign up for the class. Professor Parks comes very highly recommended.
“Hmm.” He picks up a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and puts them on before tapping the first page of my last essay. “I’m surprised you’re considering a degree in English considering how weak your critical analysis essays have been thus far.”
I want to die of mortification. My shoulders hunch as I slide down in my seat wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole to save me from having to bear any more of this conversation.
“I want to be a writer,” I admit in a weak voice. The admission is painful following the professor’s criticism, but I’m desperate for him to know I care about his class and the program.
I’m prepared to work as hard as I have to in order to do better in this class. If I have to pull all-nighters revising my next paper then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll work harder than I already am if only I can prove that I deserve to be here. That I chose this class for a reason.
“Well, the world always needs more young adult romance writers. Those dystopian vampire novels don’t write themselves.” Professor Parks’ smile turns patronizing as he winks like we’re in on the joke together.
I fight the urge to correct him that dystopian and vampire aren’t typically sub-genres that cross often. I tend to be a bit of a book snob myself at times, but even I know better than to mock the power of popular YA series when it comes to building new generations of readers.
I want to write literary fiction. I almost say the words aloud but ultimately hold them in.
I already have a big enough target on my back without encouraging Professor Parks to think of my career aspirations as laughable.
“Next week is the deadline to withdraw from courses. Have you considered dropping my class and taking something more suitable for your skill level next semester?”
Desperation is an ugly thing that tries to claw its way up my throat and choke me with emotion.
I’ve been taking a full load of college courses while also picking up as many hours as possible at Drizzle since the semester started last month. I know I’ve struggled to keep up with everything, but I didn’t think things were this bad.
I graduated as the valedictorian of my high school. I took dual-credit English courses that gave me college credit. I racked up awards in the writing competitions my English teacher entered me in.
To be failing an essay assignment… I don’t understand how I got here.
Time to focus on solutions. “I’ll make sure to go over your notes extra carefully this time to make improvements on the corrections you’d like to see.” I just need to figure out what exactly he’s looking for that I’m not already doing. Maybe I can try to link up with some classmates who are scoring better and ask to compare papers… Though the idea of doing so makes me feel sick to my stomach.
“I’m not sure you’ll be able to make the necessary corrections without outside help.” Professor Parks shakes his head.
This keeps getting worse by the minute. The tutoring center is notoriously understaffed and under-qualified. Not to mention I’m already woefully short on free time in my schedule.
“Look at how extensively I’m having to mark up your papers.” He picks up the five-page essay and thumbs the pages quickly enough to prove that there’s an avalanche of red on every page. I’m buried in the disappointment.
I’m about to prove it’s possible to die from embarrassment.
“As soon as I leave here, I’ll go straight to the tutoring center. I’ll make sure I meet with someone and go over my next essay with enough time to do a thorough rewrite,” I vow.
Now that Mom got the executive assistant job with Lainey’s uncle, surely we won’t be as desperate for my Drizzle paychecks. I’m going to have to take the leap of faith in trusting my mom to hold down this job so that I can cut my hours and get help with my next assignment. Otherwise, I’m going to be in serious danger of failing Parks’ class and winding up on academic probation for next semester.
“The tutoring center here isn’t exactly renowned for its talent pool,” Professor Parks mocks. “You’d be better off strengthening your assignments with someone who knows how to meet the expectations. You need tutoring from a professor—like me.”
“Is that an option?” I haven’t heard anything about any of the English department professors doing personal tutoring.
With pursed lips, Professor Parks gives me a slow once-over that makes my heart rate pick up uncomfortably. “There are options when a student looks like you .”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I don’t like the way his words border on flirting. Multiple people know I’m here meeting with Professor Parks and yet I suddenly feel incredibly vulnerable being alone in his office.
“Critical analysis isn’t your strong suit and dating isn’t mine. I’m willing to help you with your weaknesses if you’ll help me in return.” Professor Parks leans back in his chair and gestures to his lap. “You’re a beautiful young woman, Annie. Just being this close to you has made me hard.”
I nearly choke as he goes straight from vague compliment to blatant proposition. I’m very careful not to let my gaze move anywhere but his eyes as my face flushes hot. I don’t even know how to respond. I don’t want to have to respond at all.
Did Professor Parks always have such dark, devious-looking eyes? He must be exceptionally good at hiding that predatory expression in the classroom because I’ve never noticed that look before.
“Private tutoring would be much better for you than trying to find an acceptable tutor in the tutoring center. I think this would be quite the advantageous arrangement for a smart girl like you.”
He’s moved quickly from referring to me as a young woman to referring to me as a girl. His references to my youth make me want to gag.
“I’m not interested,” I whisper. I tear my gaze away and stare at the wall but that quickly proves to be a mistake.
Professor Parks places his hand on my leg and squeezes just above my knee. When I don’t react after a moment, he slides his hand further up my leg to my thigh and lingers there. I wince and recoil from his touch.
“You should consider getting interested if you want to reach your potential in my class,” Professor Parks drawls. Plenty of my classmates would think his self-assured tone is sexy. In this scenario, I’m terrified of how boldly he approaches me like this. As if this isn’t the first time he’s proposed an arrangement like this. He’s carrying all the confidence of someone who I think has gotten away with this before.
I want to do well in this class. Passing this literature course is a requirement of the English department if I want to major in Literature and Writing.
“This is inappropriate.” There’s no way to pretend his attention is harmless now that he’s escalated to touching me. My skin feels ice cold where his hand lingers over my jean-clad thigh.
I glance down at my paper because that’s easier than continuing to make eye contact. “I’m not comfortable with this. I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to touch me or say things like that.”
“You’re overreacting.” Professor Parks’ voice is so calm that I could almost be convinced that I misread something… if his hand wasn’t still lingering near my upper thigh.
“I would prefer you not touch me, Professor.” I make sure my voice is firm this time and just loud enough to carry the threat of someone hearing from the hallway.
He finally moves his hand and idly grabs the red pen from the table. He twirls the pen around between his fingers, still acting like this is the most casual interaction in the world and not an attempt at backing me into a corner to intimidate me into being receptive to his proposition.
“College students are so oversensitive these days. No one can take a compliment anymore.” The professor’s forehead wrinkles as if he’s truly perplexed that I’m not leaping at the chance to be sexually harassed by him.
His words only add to the disdain I feel for him. There’s nothing about what he’s proposing to me that feels at all like a compliment.
Professor Parks could teach a masterclass on manipulation.
“I’ll schedule something with the tutoring center,” I reiterate firmly. I’m desperate to bring this meeting to an end. “I’m sorry that my previous assignments weren’t up to your standards but I’m confident that I’ll be able to strengthen my work moving forward without any sort of special arrangement.”
I force myself to meet his gaze in the hopes that I’ll come off confident and not like the easy target he assumed I would be.
I’m not sure how convincing the effect is considering I’m breathing heavily like the teen girl in a horror movie who’s hiding in a closet as the serial killer thoroughly searches the bedroom only a few feet away.
“My mistake,” Professor Parks says with a wry grin. “I was under the impression you were a smart girl despite your substandard efforts in my class. I’m happy to save my personal tutoring efforts for students who are more dedicated to their performance. Enjoy the tutoring center, Miss Kirkpatrick. Good luck.”
At this point, I’m not surprised by the professor’s dry dismissal. I take my ungraded assignment from the table and clutch the papers to my chest. I don’t bother asking for clarification on my grade since I’m certain I failed. No need to ask him to write that with his red pen.
As I exit the office in frosty silence, I’m left to face an uncomfortable decision.
Do I attempt to report Professor Parks knowing there’s no evidence that he was inappropriate in our meeting? I imagine he could very easily argue that I’m a disgruntled student wanting to make things hard for him after receiving a bad grade. Still, the urge to do the right thing regardless of the consequences is potent.
I turn right in the hall, towards the direction of the dean’s office. There, I stop dead in my tracks without taking another step.
On the wall a few feet from Professor Parks’ office is a giant advertisement for the Arts & Sciences program featuring none other than Professor Parks with his arm thrown around the dean’s shoulder in comfortable comradery.
I think I’m going to need a better plan before I consider going after the beloved professor. The first step? Figuring out how to ace my next writing assignment.