Ms. Deloera

𝓔ssay 3

The week is nearly over, though I can hardly believe it.

Friday already. My planner tells me I've made it through nine lectures, four late nights, two small breakdowns at work, and countless orders from customers.

I can still feel the ache in my feet if I think about it too long, the way the café floor never seems quite level after hours of standing.

Yet the days blur in my mind. Each class dissolves into the next until they lose their edges.

Lit Theory. European Novels. Translation Studies.

The rhythm of it is numbing. Sitting too long in uncomfortable chairs.

Scribbling half-legible notes that already feel distant.

Staring at professors who speak as if time bends to their tempo.

Sometimes dragging. Sometimes rushing. Never aligning with mine.

And in the middle of it all, her.

Professor Deloera.

Not in the way Jade and Marcus would tease me about.

Not in the crush on your teacher way. It's more like she shifts the atmosphere when she enters a room, and I can't help bracing myself for impact.

Like waiting for a thunderstorm in heels.

You know it's coming. You know you can't stop it.

You just stand there, unsteady, pretending you're fine.

I tell myself it's harmless to think about her like this.

Just noticing. Just registering the way her presence pulls at the edges of my focus, sharpening things without asking permission.

It's not my fault that when I pass the halls of her department, I slow down slightly.

That my eyes drift toward open doors. That I peek inside as though I might catch a glimpse of her silhouette against a blackboard, sleeves rolled just enough to be distracting.

My next class with her isn't until later, the last one of the day.

Not that I've checked the schedule just because of that.

At noon, I walk into the little coffee shop tucked beside the university's brick archway.

It's cozy in a deliberate way. Warm lighting.

Slightly uneven wooden floors. The hum of conversation layered beneath the hiss of the espresso machine.

The air smells like roasted beans and toasted bread, like cinnamon and sugar.

Students sprawl across tables with laptops open and notebooks half-filled.

Cups sit forgotten beside elbows, stained with lipstick and fingerprints.

It feels like a refuge from the gray, echoing lecture halls.

Jade and Marcus are already there.

Jade is perched on a wooden chair like a restless bird, swinging her legs, phone balanced on her knee.

Her pink nails flash every time she scrolls.

Marcus has claimed the corner of the table, leaning back with exaggerated confidence, balancing a fry on his pinky and pretending it's a cigarette, exhaling slowly for effect.

I drop my bag on the bench and sink in with a tired sigh.

"I'm quitting," I announce, as if it's dramatic news.

Marcus looks up, eyebrows raised.

"The fries?"

"My job."

They blink at me.

"Waitress life isn't for you anymore?" Jade asks, stirring her iced latte. The ice clinks softly against the plastic.

"I'm tired of going home smelling like espresso and disappointment," I say. "My manager is passive-aggressive, and I can't deal with one more grown man snapping his fingers at me like I'm a dog."

Marcus claps slowly, mock-serious. "Freedom is near. What will you do instead?"

"Die poor in peace."

Jade grins, eyes glinting. "We should celebrate your upcoming poverty. Tonight. Drinks. Solara."

I hesitate, just for a second. Solara is the kind of place where you're expected to dress sharp and act like you belong. Where you're hyper-aware of how you laugh, how you hold your glass. Which, technically, I do belong. I was born into money, even if I pretend otherwise.

"You're coming," Marcus declares, like I've already agreed.

"Fine," I sigh. "But only one drink."

Jade raises a brow. "One drink, one bad decision, and maybe one decent story."

Marcus's phone pings. He looks up, a wicked smile spreading.

"Okay, but listen. Rumor has it the icy goddess, Ms. Deloera, is actually some kind of editor-in-chief. Like, of a major magazine in Mexico."

Jade gasps. "Oh my god, let's google her."

She's already scrolling, her nails flashing in the café's warm light.

"Oh my god," she breathes. "She's everywhere."

She turns the screen toward me. Pictures fill it. Celeste at panels. Celeste at galas. Celeste in sleek black suits that look like armor. Her presence translates even through pixels. Composed. Untouchable. Fully aware of herself.

Jade reads aloud. "Apparently, her mother, Sylvie Deloera, founded the business back in 1976. When Sylvie retired in 2024, Celeste took over. Then she moved it all to Seattle."

My stomach twists.

That's not just impressive.

That's legacy.

That's power dressed in silk.

And I spilled coffee on her.

I bury my face in my hands.

"Iconic," Marcus laughs. "You met a literal legend by drenching her in caffeine."

"Let's go before we're late," I mumble, standing before they can tease me further.

The lecture hall is warm, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.

Students rustle papers, tap pens, adjust backpacks.

Someone coughs. Someone laughs too loudly and then stops.

Jade sits beside me, doodling aimlessly in the margins of her notebook.

Marcus leans behind us, tapping his pen like it owes him money.

The door opens.

She walks in.

Celeste.

The room quiets without anyone consciously deciding to be quiet.

She moves like she owns every inch of it.

Heels clicking softly. Black blazer fitted perfectly to her form.

Hair pulled back so cleanly it looks almost severe, like a crown of glass.

She sets her books down, fingers brushing the top copy a moment longer than necessary, grounding herself or daring us to notice.

"Good afternoon," she says. Her voice is smooth, lispy, rich. "Let's begin."

The sound of her words commands attention without effort. She opens the novel and begins reading aloud, low and deliberate. Each syllable lands with intention, like it's carved rather than spoken. I can feel the rhythm of it in my chest. The deliberate pauses. The rise and fall of her inflection.

When she looks up, she surveys the class slowly. Noticing. Measuring. Her blue eyes scan each row. She gestures subtly as she speaks, flipping a page, adjusting her glasses, leaning lightly against the desk as if the room itself bends to her cadence.

"Pay attention to the narrator here," she says, voice carrying weight without volume. "Notice the subtle shifts in tone. The guilt is present, yes, but hidden beneath intellectualization. What is he trying to achieve by reframing his own story?"

She paces along the front of the room, unhurried. Her gaze lingers on certain students. I feel it settle on me for just a second longer than usual. My hand twitches around my pen.

"Don't just read the words," she continues. "Hear them. Feel the tension. The hesitation. The deliberate misdirection. Notice how the syntax mirrors his attempt to control the narrative. The short sentences. The abrupt clauses. It's guilt wearing a mask of logic. Anyone?"

I inhale sharply. My notebook suddenly feels inadequate. I scribble anyway.

Her gaze lands on me.

"Miss Moore?"

"Yes?" My voice comes out thinner than I want.

"What does the author imply about the narrator's guilt in this passage?"

I glance down at my notes, heart racing. "That he masks his guilt by intellectualizing it. Like he's trying to rewrite the story in real time to avoid taking responsibility."

She tilts her head slightly, considering.

"Not bad."

Her eyes flick briefly to the back of the room, then return to me as she resumes pacing.

"But don't be satisfied with surface-level answers," she says. "Think deeper. Why does he intellectualize? Fear? Pride? Avoidance?"

She turns to the board and writes carefully. Guilt. Control. Narrative. Avoidance.

"Tie your observations to the text itself," she adds. "Evidence matters. Not as a shield. As a lens. Always a lens."

Her movements are precise and deliberate. A hand lifts. A finger traces under a sentence. She leans toward a student, waiting. Silence fills the gaps between her words. Heavy. Intentional. She makes her presence felt even when she isn't speaking.

She turns toward me again.

"When you write, Miss Moore, don't write what you think I want," she says. "Don't write what's expected. Write what you feel. What literature makes you feel. Be honest. Not clever. Not performative."

I try to focus. My pulse is loud in my ears. Her gestures, the subtle curl of her lips at the end of a phrase, the slight tilt of her head, all of it pulls at my attention. She doesn't just teach. She inhabits the material and, by extension, the room itself.

Twenty minutes pass like an hour. My hand aches from scribbling. Then she closes the book with a soft thud.

"I want one to two pages," she says.

"Informal. No citations. Just your voice."

A scoff comes from the back of the room.

She doesn't acknowledge it.

"Dismissed."

And just like that, she's gone.

By the time evening falls, I'm back in my room, closet doors thrown open. A black dress hangs across the mirror. Classy. Short. Perfectly tailored. It sparkles subtly under the light. It's the kind of dress that makes you look like the best version of yourself.

I slip it on, the fabric cool against my skin.

I add a thin gold bracelet. Diamond studs.

Nothing gaudy. Just enough to catch the light.

My makeup takes longer. Concealer smoothed carefully.

Liner sharp as a blade. Lipstick pressed and blotted.

It feels ritualistic. Like I'm assembling a version of myself the world can't touch.

Finally, I grab my bag and step outside to wait for my Uber. I can't drive because Jade will definitely make me drink, so there's no point in taking my car.

The bar glows like a lantern when we arrive. Neon spills across its brick fa?ade, bleeding pink and gold into the night. The bass thrums through the sidewalk, vibrating up my legs before we even step inside.

The door swings open and warmth hits me all at once.

Heat, bodies, sound. Music pulses low and steady, the kind that settles into your chest and stays there.

The air smells like citrus, alcohol, perfume layered too heavily.

People press past us, laughing, shouting into each other's ears, alive in that careless way only Friday nights allow.

Jade grabs my wrist and pulls me toward a booth in the corner, already half laughing.

"See?" she shouts over the music. "Worth it."

Marcus is somehow already holding two drinks. He hands one to me without asking.

"What is this?" I ask, eyeing the lime wedge.

"Tequila," he says. "Trust me."

I do. The first sip burns, sharp and bright, and I laugh despite myself.

We slide into the booth. Jade kicks off her heels and tucks her legs beneath her, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering. Marcus leans back dramatically, one arm slung over the seat like he belongs here. Someone brushes past, apologizing without slowing down.

For a while, it's just noise and warmth and movement.

We talk about nothing. A professor who drones too long. Marcus's Shakespeare crush. Jade's latest dating disaster. I find myself laughing easily, loudly, the sound surprising even me. My shoulders loosen. The tight coil I've carried all week finally gives way.

"Okay, but seriously," Jade says, leaning across the table, eyes narrowed. "You quitting your job is character development."

"I know," I grin. "Next step: mysterious glow-up."

Marcus raises his glass. "To Ivy Moore. Future menace."

We clink glasses.

Another round appears. Then another. The lights blur softer at the edges. I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall. Black dress catching the light, lipstick still perfect, eyes bright. I look... good. Not careful-good. Effortless-good.

It feels dangerous, almost.

Music shifts. Louder, faster. Jade is already standing.

"Dance floor," she announces.

"I don't dance," I protest weakly.

"Yes, you do," Marcus says. "You're just lying to yourself."

The crowd swallows us whole. Bodies press in close, heat rising. The bass vibrates through my ribs. Someone bumps my shoulder, grins, disappears again. I move without thinking. Hips swaying, hands lifted, hair brushing my neck.

For once, I'm not self-conscious. I'm not thinking about lectures or papers or the way Professor Deloera's gaze pins me in place.

I'm just here.

Time becomes slippery. I lose track of Jade, then find her again, arms thrown around a stranger. Marcus vanishes entirely. I laugh at something someone shouts in my ear, though I don't catch the words.

I close my eyes for a second, letting the music carry me.

And then I collide with someone.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," I say as I stumble forward.

And then I look up.

Celeste.

Professor Deloera.

Her hand catches my waist before I fall.

She looks at me like I've broken some unspoken rule. Like I'm something unexpected. Her face is unreadable, but her eyes, dark and assessing, hold me captive.

"Miss Moore," she says, barely audible over the music.

Too formal. Too strange here.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, louder than intended. "I didn't see you."

"I can tell," she replies smoothly, mouth curving almost imperceptibly.

Her hand lingers on my waist. The music roars around us, but in this moment it feels muted. Just her. And me. And something I can't name.

"So," she says lightly, edged with amusement, "do you have a thing for bumping into me?"

Heat floods my neck.

Before I can speak, Jade whirls in, grabbing my hand and tugging me away.

I glance back. Celeste has sunk into a velvet sofa, a drink in hand. A woman with ginger hair sits beside her, leaning close.

"What the hell was that?" Jade shouts.

"I bumped into her again," I say, taking a sip of my drink to steady myself. "Like it's destiny."

Jade's eyes are wide. "Why was her hand on your waist? And why were you staring at each other like that?"

"Jade, you're drunk. Let's go."

Outside, the night air is cool against my flushed skin. Our Uber is minutes away. Marcus has stayed behind, lip-locked with some boy he swears is the love of his life. Jade leans heavily against me, humming nonsense.

Then I see her again. Not alone.

Celeste stands beneath a streetlight, smoking a cigarette. The ginger-haired woman is with her. They talk quietly. Then the woman hugs her and disappears into a car. Celeste's eyes find mine. Something shifts there. Subtle. Sharp.

She walks toward me.

"Are you okay, Ivy?" she asks softly.

She uses my name. Not Moore. Ivy.

My heart stutters. "Yes. We're fine." I tug Jade upright. "Our ride's almost here."

Her gaze flickers between us. Unreadable.

"I'm worried about how you'll get home."

"We'll be fine, Ms. Deloera," I say, swallowing.

She hesitates. Then, softer, "Can you text me when you're home? Just so I know."

My breath catches. "Will you give me your number?"

She opens her bag and takes out a pen. Her cigarette is nearly finished. She puts it out carefully and writes her number on the filter.

I swear it's the most aesthetic thing I've ever seen.

She hands it to me, her eyes innocent and dangerous all at once.

"I'll be expecting your message."

Then she turns and walks toward a black Mercedes parked at the curb. The car gleams under the streetlight. Effortless. Expensive. Like her. She disappears inside.

Our Uber pulls up. Jade won't stop talking.

"Text me when you get home? Ivy, what the hell? Something is happening."

I barely answer. My mind is still on Celeste. On the way her voice softened when she said my name. On the weight of that small, deliberate request.

By the time we stumble into my house, Jade collapses on my bed, snoring softly against my plushies. She looks peaceful. Like the night never happened. Like none of it touched her.

I envy her.

I peel off my makeup slowly, studying my reflection. My eyeliner is smudged. My lipstick faded. My hair limp from the heat of the bar. I barely recognize myself, except for my eyes. Wide. Restless. Caught somewhere between disbelief and anticipation.

I slip into silk pajamas and sink onto my bed, phone in hand. The screen lights up the room. I type the number she gave me. Celeste's name. No, her number. It sits there like an unspoken dare.

My thumb hovers.

What am I supposed to say? I'm home safe. Simple. Easy. But it doesn't feel simple. It feels intimate. Monumental. She didn't have to ask. Professors don't do that. People like her don't do that.

What if she doesn't answer?

What if she does?

I set the phone down. Pick it up again. My pulse hammers. The house is silent except for Jade's steady breathing.

I type: I'm home safe.

Then erase it.

Home now. Thank you.

Erase.

My chest tightens, like I'm standing on the edge of something I don't have the courage to name.

Finally, I choose the plainest version. No flourishes. No overthinking.

I'm home safe.

I stare at it. Then, before I can change my mind, I hit send.

The message disappears, and I'm left with the aftershock. My heart races. Heat lingers in my face.

I drop the phone beside me and bury my head in the pillow. My eyes refuse to close. All I can see is her face beneath the streetlight. Her voice saying my name. Her hand brushing mine when she took my phone.

And when I finally drift off, it isn't Jade's snores that lull me to sleep.

It's the echo of Celeste's words, circling endlessly in my mind.

I'll be expecting your message.