Chapter 5
EMMA
Walking through the crowded hallway, I stay off to the side, careful not to bump into anyone.
So far, my college experience hasn’t been what I expected it to be.
Everything came easily to me in high school, but I’ve had to make new habits and routines in college when life dialed up the difficulty to expert level.
But this is a new year, and I have a bag full of blank notebooks, sharpened pencils, and a fully charged laptop. There is nothing this school year can throw at me that I won’t be able to handle. And now that I’m in my sophomore year, I get to start taking classes in my chosen major.
Once I locate the lecture hall, I pull open the door just as a guy pushes it open and shoulder-checks me, causing me to stumble and lose my balance. He continues walking, carrying on a conversation with another guy in a football jersey as a tall figure looms over me from behind.
“Are you okay?” a deep voice asks. As his eyes meet mine, his eyebrows raise in surprise, and I look away, overwhelmed by his attention.
“Can I help you up?” He extends a hand, waiting for me to accept, and I place mine in his as he slides his other hand under my elbow, pulling me to my feet.
A zing of something travels down my arm where he touched, but it’s gone as quickly as his hands are as he opens the door for me, ushering me inside.
He has dark brown hair and just the right amount of facial hair to look devastatingly attractive. I can’t decide if his eyes are brown or hazel. He has to be in his thirties, clearly making him the professor. His crisp suit covers his backside.
Jeeps, Emma! Do not check out your teacher’s butt.
“This is Shakespeare, right?” I ask, suddenly nervous as I follow him down the steps of the auditorium-style classroom.
“It is,” he says, refusing to look at me as he reaches the podium and begins unpacking his bag, setting up a laptop. “But it’s an upper-level class usually reserved for juniors or seniors,” he snaps. I’m confused by his abrupt change in demeanor. How does he know I’m not a junior or senior?
“My advisor recommended it, and I got approval to add it from the department chair.” I bite my lips, confused by my sudden need to give him such a retort. Not getting off to the best start, Emma.
“I’ll have to talk to them about that,” he mutters as he fiddles with some plugs on his laptop.
“I’m sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m excited to take this course. Professor Ali, right?” I swallow down the nerves bubbling to the surface and find a seat in the second row.
“As long as you know that other than helping you up just now, I’m not going to hold your hand all semester. You have to do the work,” he says, never making eye contact.
Well, what crawled up your butt?
“What was that?” He looks up from his laptop.
Oh no, did I say that out loud? His gaze is penetrating, and his presence intimidating as he removes his suit coat and rolls up the sleeves of his white Oxford.
Images of those strong hands flood my brain as I imagine him holding me down and having his way with me.
I rub my thighs together as he clears his throat, refocusing my attention.
“Umm, what?”
He smirks for a split second, the look almost playful before it vanishes, replaced by a scowl. “I believe you said something about my butt?”
“Oh, heavens no, that can’t be right. Must have bumped my head and my butt when I fell.
And now my butt is sore and this chair isn’t helping.
I don’t know why I’m talking about my butt.
You’re my teacher. I mean, you know you’re my teacher.
I’m stating the obvious. I’ll stop talking now.
” I sink into my seat. That fall definitely left a bruise, I can feel it forming, the hard chair providing little cushion.
He seems to accept my answer, and I have to bite my tongue so his stupid handsome face won’t fluster me any further.
Students filter into the lecture hall as I pull the laptop out of my bag. Syllabi are dispersed, and I look it over.
“Welcome to Shakespeare. This course will be rigorous as my expectations are high for a class at this level. I will challenge you, push you to expand your understanding, and question what you think you know. The demanding nature of this class will require you to adhere to the schedule, manage your time wisely, and follow the rules outlined in the syllabus. I expect you to familiarize yourself with it on your own time, but suffice it to say there are guidelines and rubrics for how I expect you to craft your essays, engage in classroom discussion, and turn in your assignments. I do not accept late work, no exceptions…”
Well, this is a vast departure from the kind gentlemen who just helped me up. I swallow down my nerves worried I’m in over my head as Professor No-fun drones on.
This is my year. I can do hard things. I am smart. I am more than people expect. I can handle this. I’ve got this.
I repeat the mantras in my head when a throat clearing pulls me out of my meditation. When I look up, Professor A-hole’s eyes are fixed on me, a scowl on his face. It feels like all eyes are on me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.”
“I was saying that you should be prepared to be called on at any time, and I expect you to at least attempt to answer my question or engage in a Socratic discussion with the class as that makes up a large portion of your participation grade, Miss Black.”
I stare at him confused. “How do you know my name?”
He blinks for a second like I caught him off guard before he gestures to the sticker on my laptop. “I’m guessing your name is Emma, based on that, and there’s only one Emma on my roster.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I squirm under his intense scrutiny. Maybe I should drop this class.
“I’ll repeat the question. Can you tell me how many works Shakespeare wrote in his lifetime?”
This is where I shine. I’m not dropping anything.
I’ll show him. “Shakespeare is credited with writing thirty-eight plays, one hundred and fifty-four sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other poems. Though it has been speculated that Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, or Edward de Vere may have had a hand in some of those works, it hasn’t been definitively proven.
” I straighten my spine, satisfied with my answer, but then he moves on, calling on another student.
That’s it? No acknowledgement? Was he testing me because he thinks I’m not ready for an upper-level class? I open my mouth to retort, then think better of it. Don’t pick a fight with your professor on the first day of class, Emma.
Professor Power-trip asks me three more questions, and I can tell he’s trying to test my knowledge and prove I don’t deserve to be in his class. I nail the first two, but the last one trips me up, and he makes a note before dismissing me again.
The longer the class goes on, and the more he engages with other students, the more overwhelming my need to be seen and praised becomes.
Why am I like this? I’ve always been a good student—learning came easy to me since it was something I could control when the chaos of my life and my home got too much.
I don’t have a lot of memories of my biological dad since he and my mom divorced when I was a baby.
But my stepdad came into the picture not too long after, and I gained an older brother in his son Ethan.
Then my parents had four more daughters.
I love my siblings, but I spent a lot of time in the library because it was quiet, and I could focus.
Sometimes I think I try extra hard, overextending myself in hopes that I’ll finally earn the good things in my life. Like if I don’t work hard enough, I’ll lose all the progress I’ve made. I feel broken and like my mask is slipping.
I clutch at my heart, trying to ground myself with touch, repeating what my therapist told me when these thoughts creep in. I’m not broken, my body is healing. I am worthy of love. I deserve good things.
Shoot, what is he saying? Professor A-hole is standing behind the podium again, and I tell my brain to focus as I concentrate on what he’s saying.
“This is a fast-paced course with a heavy workload. It would be in your best interest to drop this class if you don’t think you can handle it so you don’t waste your time, or mine.
” He looks right at me on that last part, and I fist my skirt in my hand.
“We will be reading a good bit of the Bard’s works, and there will be different essays assigned to each of them.
While I don’t adhere to the university’s strict attendance policies—because you’re adults who are fully capable of managing your own time—a good portion of the midterm and exam content will come from our class discussions, so it’s in your best interest to be here, or befriend someone who takes copious notes.
My email and office hours are on the syllabus. Any questions?”
My head swivels side to side, looking around the room, but no one raises a hand.
I want to ask him if he needs help removing the stick from his butt, but I refrain.
He’s probably just some boring, stuffy English professor who’s too miserable with his mediocre life so he takes it out on his students.
I bet he wouldn’t know how to let loose and have fun if it smacked him in his cute, round butt.
Seriously, Emma, stop thinking about that A-hole’s backside.
——————
Two days later, I’m in my advisor’s office, ready to explore my options. “Are you sure I can’t drop the class?”
“Well, the deadline hasn’t passed, but it is a required class for your major. It’s up to you.”
Frick.
“Can I take it with another professor?” Surely someone else teaches it.
“Professor Ali is the only one who teaches Shakespeare at Faith Union. He’s also the only one that teaches the Shakespearean Acting course that you’ve signed up for in the spring.”
“But he’s an English professor, not theatre.”