Second Times A Charm
Chapter 1
Chapter one
Chesteria Hollis
“A Professor, a Past, and a Phone Call That Shifted Everything.”
The final lecture of the semester always felt lighter than the rest; not because I loved saying goodbye to my students, but because witnessing my students gather their belongings for winter break felt akin to watching little birds take flight, filled with hope and a hint of recklessness.
Hopeful and incredibly loud.
“So please,” I called out, raising my voice over shuffle of backpacks and rustling paper, “don’t drink anything you didn’t watch being poured, don’t follow your friends into bad ideas, and for the love of your future degree, don’t do anything that’ll lead you to email me with the subject line ‘It’s a long story. ’”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room as coats zipped and notebooks snapped shut.
“All jokes aside,” I added, resting my hands on the edge of my desk, trying to center the energy in the room, “please take care of yourselves. Prioritize actual rest… none of that ‘three hours of sleep followed by a prayer’ nonsense you all seem to brag about. Eat something nourishing that doesn’t come from the cafeteria or a vending machine…
real food… the kind with genuine seasoning and sides that don’t come stuck in a plastic tray.
Seriously, spend the holiday with people who uplift you, not those who drain your energy just because you share a last name.
And when you return next semester, come back in one piece, alright? ”
A few students laughed; some nodded a little too hard.
“Even though you won’t be in my class anymore, I still expect to see your faces around campus. Smile, wave… tell people I changed your life. Make me look good,” I kidded.
They laughed again, louder that time.
Being a professor suited me. I loved students who walked in feeling lost, cocky, or utterly disengaged, and left with a blend of newfound clarity and humility.
I was the “soft, funny but serious” professor; the one who’d happily allow a student to rewrite a paper if life had thrown them a curveball, but also the one who’d send three email reminders and hold them accountable for ignoring them.
I believed in grace and accountability—a healthy mix of “I understand what you’re going through” and “Don’t take my kindness for granted.”
Other professors either tried too hard to be their students’ best friend or acted like they hated young people altogether.
Me? I stayed in the sweet spot. My students called me chill but strict, and fair but petty when necessary.
One even wrote on a review site that stated, “She gives healing energy but will deduct points with no hesitation. 10/10 would take again.”
I framed that one.
“Oh, and before you go,” I reached behind my desk and pulled up a gift bag, “tiny holiday gifts, because I’m secretly soft and couldn’t help myself.”
A chorus of “Aww, Professor Hollis!” filled the room.
“I know, I know,” I boasted. “I’m ruining my street cred.”
I handed each student a small, carefully wrapped box.
It was nothing extravagant; just desk-sized candles.
Each was adorned with a thoughtful affirmation, chosen to resonate on a personal level, such as: "You’re doing better than you think," a reminder to acknowledge their progress; "Pause is not the same as quit," encouraging them to take the time they need; "Your heart will bloom again," offering hope for renewal after hardship; "Confidence starts with kindness to yourself," urging them to practice self-compassion; "Being the helper doesn’t mean you don’t need help," emphasizing that even the strongest among us need support; "Your presence is a gift," a celebration of their individuality; "It’s okay to not be okay," normalizing the struggles they face; and "Rest is productive too," highlighting the importance of self-care in their busy lives.
One student let out a low, “Damn…” like the words hugged him from the inside out.
Another, who never said much, ran her fingers over the label, eyes misty.
“I didn’t know how much I needed this until now.
Thank you!” A girl next to her added, “Same. I’m lighting this tonight and blocking somebody at the same time. ”
I chuckled softly.
I swallowed around the warmth that rose in my chest.
Sometimes the smallest gifts carry the heaviest truth.
“You’re all very welcome. Be safe, enjoy your families, and have a Merry Christmas,” I concluded with a soft smile.
As the students filed out in their usual chaotic fashion—coats half-zipped, oversized bags slung haphazardly over shoulders, and shouting a mix of “Have a Merry Christmas!” and “Happy Holidays!”—I was mentally envisioning myself relaxing on the porch, savoring a warm cup of coffee in the stillness of the cabin, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the classroom.
Surprisingly, a few of the students stayed behind and lined up to say goodbye.
Deondre, the 22-year-old smooth-talker, who’d spent the entire semester turning in late assignments and compliments, stepped forward first, with his trademark grin.
“You gon’ miss me?” he playfully flirted, voice dripping with a blend of confidence and mischief as he flashed that charming-but-failed-six-quizzes smile; a look he had likely perfected on someone who wasn’t as discerning as me.
“Miss what, exactly, Deondre?” I countered, turning slowly with a brow raised.
“You showing up twenty minutes late with no pen or pencil, and wearing a hoodie that smells like weed? Or are you referring to the delightful surprise of receiving your half-hearted email at 3:47 a.m., asking for an extension on an assignment you should’ve submitted a week prior? ”
He laughed, undeterred. “Come on now, Ms. Hollywood. I always showed up, though. I might’ve been late, and had to borrow a pen or pencil here and there, but I brought good energy and good looks.” He winked.
Ms. Hollywood was his nickname for me. Deondre started calling me that after I showed up to work in a long trench coat and boots that made a statement in week two of class. He claimed I looked like a woman who had walked off a movie set and straight into his dreams.
“Boy, you brought chaos,” I shot back, smirking.
He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice like it was about to get romantic. “Let me get your number. You know… just in case I need a little life advice or a study partner?”
“Deondre, it’s hundreds of girls on this campus ready to risk it all over a nice haircut and a charming boy like you. So why are you in here shooting your shot at your professor like you ran out of options?”
Unbothered, Deondre grinned wider, platinum grill shining, confidence undeniable.
“I need me a mature lady,” he admitted, licking his lips just enough to be silly, not slick.
“Girls my age be arguing over who liked whose pic or why she ain’t get posted.
I need somebody who can cook—and not just Rotel—read books with no pictures, light candles for good mood, and know how to fold a fitted sheet without cussin’ it out. You feel me?"
I laughed.. “You do know it’s a lot of grown women who don’t do, or can’t do, none of what you just mentioned, right?”
Deondre smirked cockily. “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout any woman, though; I’m talkin’ ‘bout you. You look like the type to keep a man in check and a house in order.” His eyes dropped to my hand, then climbed back up slow.
“Yo’ man is lucky,” he added. “If you even got one. But if you do, tell ‘em don’t fumble. We up next.”
“We?” I repeated, puzzled, arching a brow.
“YNs… young niggas,” Deondre clarified proudly, treating the term as an exclusive brotherhood. “So he better make sure he tucking you in every night and running you a hot bubble bath with them lil’ flower petals y’all women like. You deserve luxury, Ms. Hollywood.”
I smiled. “Well, thank you, Deondre… even though you can’t be the one to give it to me.”
“Wishful thinking,” he shrugged. “Well, next semester, if you ever feel like grading papers with company, I got a king-size bed and no boundaries. Happy Holidays, Ms. Hollywood.” He tapped my desk twice, smooth as ever, and swaggered out the door.
I just stood there blinking, then shook my head with a low chuckle.
Lord, I pray for the woman he decides to take serious—whoever or whenever that may be. Bless her heart, she gon’ be dodging old flings, have to fight at least three jealous females, and block seven more just to secure the position. Ain’t no peace dating a handsome hoe.
Deondre was too smooth and way too friendly.
Damn near everyone on campus knew it, Instagram knew it, and probably his mama, too.
Despite how handsome he was—and he was in that charming, reckless, “every girl on campus found him attractive” kind of way, with his fresh cut, name-brand everything, cologne that lingered, flashy jewelry, and that damn platinum grill that lit up with every smirk—I would’ve never crossed that line with a student, or even former one…
no matter how grown they thought they were.
I saw most of them as my little brothers and sisters who desperately needed more structure, hydration, and a full night’s sleep.
Most importantly, I loved my job too much to fumble the bag over temporary temptation and end up on a viral thread titled: “She gave me an A, her number, then some fye ass pussy”.
So, when Deondre flirted, I kept it professional, classy, and moving.
Next in line was Tynesha, a petite firecracker with a head full of colorful braids, dramatic lashes that fluttered with every blink, and lip gloss permanently set on ten. She bounced up to my desk with urgent energy and her backpack still zipped shut with the tags from August.
“So, Ms. Hollis,” she paused, popping her gum with purpose, “Be honest with me. Did I pass or nah?”
Before I could answer.