Chapter 11 Emma
EMMA
Aweek later, Professor A-hole’s stupid smug face is peering up at me across the lecture hall as he tries to stump me with yet another impossible question.
I swear he’s doing it on purpose, and I wonder if his distaste for me is obvious to anyone else in our class.
I can’t wait for the day that he’s no longer my teacher.
“Miss Black, do you think Hamlet’s madness was genuine or a calculated performance he put on to hide his true intentions?”
“I don’t think there is a definitive answer on the topic. There’s merit in both arguments.”
“Which camp do you find yourself in then, if you had to pick?” he asks, clearly not willing to let this go.
I grip my hands together under my desk trying to discreetly conceal my frustration at his insistence. He’s always interested in my opinion on a topic, but when I write a whole paper stating my case, with quotes citing my sources, he gives me a fricking C.
“On the one hand, he tells Horatio and Marcellus that he will pretend to be mad, and later he appears to feign madness around Claudius and Polonius, while acting rationally around Horatio. And people are suspicious of him, including Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Claudius, calling him crafty or thinking he’s acting strange, but not crazy.
Those examples argue that his madness is something in his control, that he is choosing when to appear that way depending on the person or motivation.
But it’s hard to refute the other times during the play when Hamlet is not in control, appearing genuinely mad.
He has violent outbursts and acts impulsively, killing Polonius. ”
“Spoilers!” a guy jokingly shouts in the back of the class as people break out into laughter. Professor A-hole shoots them a withering look and shifts his focus back to me, walking out from behind his podium as he crosses his arms and nods for me to proceed.
I continue, desperate to prove my point so he can call on anyone else and I can shrink from his spotlight. “He treats Ophelia horribly, and she seriously thinks he’s mad at times.”
Kind of like your constant treatment of me, Professor.
“Also, Horatio voices concerns about the fact that Hamlet is seeing his dead father’s ghost and how that could be driving him to madness.
In fact, even before he finds out about his father’s death, Hamlet is suicidal and has thoughts that hint at some mental health issues, which one could argue he isn’t faking.
So, it’s really hard to say whether his madness was real or fake when sometimes it appears he can control it and other times it appears to be controlling him. ”
There’s a smug look on his handsome face as he sits on the edge of the table in the front of the room and leans back on his arms. “But if you had to pick?”
“Then I guess I would say that he is truly emotionally unstable.” I cross my arms in satisfaction, secretly hoping that he will pick up on my subtext.
“Okay, Einstein,” a voice calls out, and a snicker breaks out around me.
“That’s enough,” Professor Ali yells loudly, his tone unforgiving, as the class falls eerily silent.
I drop my head, my chin pressing against my chest as I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment.
“Chill, bro, it was just a joke,” the guy counters.
“I’m not your bro, and I don’t tolerate bullying in my classroom. You are dismissed.”
“Whatever, I’m outta here,” he calls out.
I know people are staring and I can feel their eyes on me as the bully noisily makes his way out of the room.
Slinking down in my chair, I try to make myself as small as possible, just wanting to move on from this awkward encounter.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been called Einstein.
I’ve heard it all. Know-it-all. Suck-up.
Teacher’s pet. Miss Smarty Pants. Frankly, the insults aren’t even creative at this point.
But I get Einstein the most, and it’s my least favorite, which is why I made it my safe word at Pulse that night.
A throat clearing from someone next to me pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up to see Professor A-hole leaning over a chair in the front row directly in front of me.
“You okay?” His voice is low, and the concern etched on his face reminds me of the day we met when he helped me up in the hall.
Giving him a quick nod, I focus my attention on my computer screen, trying to end this uncomfortable disruption.
His attention is overwhelming, and I’m confused by his abrupt shift in demeanor.
This man has picked on me in every class I’ve attended so far, but someone teases me and he tosses them out of class?
I guess he’s the only one who can tease me.
That’s got to be it. The thought of him doing that for any other reason doesn’t make any sense.
This man does not like me. And I’m not a fan of his either.
——————
John
When class ends, I notice Emma packing up her bag to make a quick escape. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t seem to help myself around this girl.
“Miss Black, can you stick around for a few minutes so I can talk to you about—” I pause. What the fuck do I need to talk to her about?
She looks up at me, her big doe eyes blinking, eyelashes fluttering as she waits for me to continue. “About what, Professor?”
Think, man. I glance around quickly, noticing we are attracting the attention of several other students. “About your last paper… and what I suspect may be the assistance of AI used in writing it.”
Her nostrils flare as she stares me down. “I did not use AI to write my last paper, or any of my papers, Professor,” she spits the last word through clenched teeth.
Fuck, did I have to accuse her of cheating just to get a minute alone with her? What the fuck am I doing? “Have a seat.” I gesture to the front row of the lecture hall.
She reluctantly sinks into the chair as I wait for the rest of the students to file out of the room. Her head swivels around watching everyone leave. Once we’re alone, she turns back to me, and I can feel the ire radiating off of her.
“I have not and will never use AI to help me write. I prefer to think for myself and come to my own conclusions, not have a robot do that for me. And the fact that you would ever think that one of my essays is anything other than my own words is insulting and infuriating,” she says with a quiet intensity that has blood coursing south in my body.
“I know you didn’t, I just wanted to talk to you alone about what that asshole said in class today, and it was the first thing that came out of my mouth,” I admit.
She stares at me, mouth agape as her eyes narrow.
“Some prick calls me a name, and your first thought is to publicly accuse me of cheating so you can check on me? And how is what you just did any different than what that jerk said to me? He called me a stupid name that I’ve been labeled my whole life, and you just questioned my integrity in front of my classmates.
You’re both bullies as far as I’m concerned. And why do you even care?”
Shit. I have royally fucked this up.
“I’m sorry, I should have considered my words more carefully and not accused you of something I know you didn’t do. I just know you hate being called Einstein.”
“How would you know that?” she says suspiciously.
FUCK.
“You just said you’ve been called that your whole life.”
“Yeah, but I just told you that. You didn’t know that when you kicked him out of class.”
A bead of sweat trickles down my spine under my suit jacket as I wrack my brain for a way to get out of this.
“I could tell by the look on your face. When he said it.” I pause, unsure of how much to share.
When her doe eyes lock with mine, I continue.
“You wrinkled your nose and flinched when he said it. I could tell it bothered you,” I say, placing my arms on the desk in front of her and leaning toward her.
“Why do you care what bothers me?” Her soft floral scent fills my nostrils, making it hard to concentrate. My dick is having a Pavlovian response to the smell and decides this is the time he wants to stand at attention. Apparently, that’s how much this woman has fucked with my psyche.
I stare at her beautiful face for several moments, taking in all her delicate features, when she arches an eyebrow at me, waiting for my response. “I care about all of my students.” I admit, my words hold a deeper meaning that I pray she doesn’t read into.
“You have a weird way of showing it,” she mumbles. “Cruel to be kind.”
“Hamlet.” I fight the urge to touch her, to tilt her chin forcing her to look at me. “I think you have a lot of potential. As a student. If I’m hard on you, it’s because I see greatness in you.”
I should leave it at that, walk away.
She looks up at me, her face filled with a mix of emotions: wonder, hope, confusion.
She schools her features, settling into a look of determination.
“I am made of sterner stuff. I’ve been called worse names, endured harder trials, only to come out of the other side stronger.
I can handle myself, and I don’t need you to intercede on my behalf.
Nor do I need your false public accusations.
I have plans for my education, for my life, and I don’t need you pushing my face into the mud every time I’ve climbed my way out of the pit just because you think I could handle more. ”
Oh, but you do, pet. You just don’t realize that the devil on my shoulder pushing you is Daddy Dom.