Chapter 7 Avalynne #2
I knew Reverend Mother was serious, but surely, Grandpapa has calmed down by now and forgiven me. I'm his good girl. Good girls are supposed to be forgiven.
Professor Thatcher regards me with perfect boredom.
"Your grandfather made it quite clear to me last night that he expects you to stay at Saint Margaret's for the duration of freshman year. Or until you tell the truth, whatever that means."
His words land like yet another brick to the chest.
"A year?" The word is strangled and slow to escape my mouth.
"Are you having some sort of medical event?" he asks, cocking his head. "Do I need to go get Reverend Mother?"
"No, no, no," I say quickly, forcing out the words as the welts of her cat-o'-nine-tails throb beneath my habit.
"Then why do you look like someone smacked you over the head with a baseball bat?" He scans his desk and shrugs. "I don't recall bringing one of those with me this morning."
I blink at him.
"Well, get on with it then," he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head.
I swallow a deep breath. Then another and another until my heart resumes a somewhat normal rhythm.
Do not panic, I tell myself. This is something. This is progress. I'll be out of here soon.
I just have to hold on a little longer.
I glance down at the forms.
"It wants me to write down the name of a college," I say, and Professor Thatcher shakes his head.
"Don't worry about that part. I'll fill it out. Just read the requirements and familiarize yourself with them."
The words swim on the page. It takes me four tries before I finally manage to read the first paragraph.
"It says to list a general education credit as well as a natural sciences, social sciences, humanities, English, and math credit," I tell him a few minutes later.
From the front of the room, the professor rolls his eyes.
"Go ahead and write them down then. Name the courses whatever you'd like."
"What?" I ask. For what little I understand of his words, he might as well be speaking a dead language.
"I am not wasting my time teaching you ‘introduction to being a functioning adult,'" he tells me.
"I am tenured at one of the most rigorous universities in the world, Ms. Immorier.
There's a waitlist to join my courses. So write whatever you like on the forms, check the boxes, and I will sign them as long as you conduct yourself in a satisfactory manner. "
"You're … you're … not going to actually teach me?"
"Of course, I will." His glacial glare rises from the phone he's pulled out of his pocket and latches on to me.
The fabric of my habit itches my ankles as his glare broils the air between us.
"Think of this as an opportunity for independent learning.
I have chosen textbooks and resources for you, and I will observe and be available should you have questions.
Until then, we will sit in silence, Ms. Immorier, which is my preferred method of communication. "
I shouldn't argue with him. This should be an easy A and an escape from the boredom of my room, but I can't help but feel shortchanged.
"You want me to sit in front of you and read every day?" I ask stupidly.
"Did I stutter?" He's not even looking at me anymore, having returned to whatever he's doing on his phone. "Most students would kill for this opportunity, but not you. Do you think you're above it? Too smart, perhaps?"
He sounds unimpressed.
"I don't make assumptions about my intelligence," I say, "but I deserve the same education as everyone else, not some opportunity for independent learning, as you put it."
He sighs, lowering his phone again, and levels a cold stare in my direction. I feel the impact of his icicle gaze down to my bones as he regards me.
"And what is it that you think everyone else receives from me, Ms. Immorier?"
His words are a challenge, and the flush already bridging my cheeks flares even brighter.
"I wouldn't venture a guess," I answer, "except that you certainly wouldn't have a tenured position if you simply dropped books in front of students and told them to teach themselves. I am just asking for the same education you give everyone else."
He blinks at me with indiscernible brown-almost-black eyes.
"Very well," he says after a long moment, "I'll even teach you how to be a functioning adult. Happy?" He looks positively miserable. That makes both of us.
"Yes."
"Good," he says, rising again and walking over to carry another tower of books from his desk to mine. "After you complete the forms, you can read The Aeneid in its original Latin form. Then read Beowulf and tell me how we butchered the English language, so we can have a meaningful discussion."
The books hit the desk with a thud in front of me, and I scoff as he moves to leave.
Abruptly, he stops walking, his gaze narrowed as he turns to me.
Uh oh.
"What is it, Ms. Immorier?" he drawls.
I don't know why I'm pushing him, except that things can't get much worse. I should be asking him for help, but since when did that work out for me, anyway?
"Spit it out." Each word is its own separate demand.
I cross my arms over my chest and shrug. "It's just that for a man who holds himself in such high regard, you really don't seem to know much at all."
His dark eyes widen, and his jawline juts out as he clenches his teeth. I feel naked in front of him, even beneath the thick fabric of the white apostate's uniform. I refuse to cower, though.
"Enlighten me then," he snaps. "With all the astute wisdom of an eighteen-year-old."
"I'm nineteen."
"What?"
"I'm nineteen years old. I was held back after my parents' death, not that it's any of your business.
But all I am saying is that for someone so smart, you see very little of true nature, Professor.
You assume I am undeserving of your instruction.
You even assume I don't want to be taught at all.
Why else would you give me a stack of books and tell me to figure it out myself?
Yet because of your assumptions, you fail to see what's right in front of you.
You don't give me or, I'm guessing, anyone else a chance. Your own assumptions limit you."
He steps closer, and the smell of honeyed bourbon and coffee carries with him and tickles my nose. His hands steeple the front of my desk as he eats away at the space between us. His words hit me with his hot breath.
"Let me be clear, Ms. Immorier. Your presence here is a waste of my time. You want my respect? Earn it. Fill out the fucking forms."
I don't move.
"What are you waiting for?" he demands.
"I don't have anything to write with," I lie, hiding the pencil beneath the white sleeve of my shirt.
"There were no pencils on your desk?" He narrows his eyes at me.
"No." I lie again.
He exhales through his nose and tips back on his heels, frowning down at me. I finally feel like I can breathe again.
"I'll get you something to write with," he tells me before he turns, checks his briefcase quickly, walks to the door, and leaves the room. I immediately look at his desk and thank my lucky stars that he left his phone, the screen lit and unlocked.
I bolt down the steps, snatch the phone from his desk, and type in Grandpapa's number from memory.
I hold my breath while it rings through the speaker.
"Hello," the other end of the line answers, annoyed.
"Grandpapa," I blurt.
There's a pause, and for a moment, I think the line has disconnected.
"Avalynne," Grandpapa says, my name hard.
"Yes, Grandpapa," I nearly sob with relief. "I'm so sorry. I just wanted …"
"Why are you calling me from this number?"
"My phone died and …"
"Why are you calling me at all, Avalynne?"
It feels like I've collided with a freight train. All my hopes die at once.
"What is it?" he demands. "I left very clear instructions …"
"I … I … I want to come home. I'm so sorry. Please. I want to come home."
"Good girls don't lie, Avalynne. Tell me the truth, and then you can come back to me."
I can't tell him the truth. He knows that.
I deflect. "Please, Grandpapa. What about Isabella?"
"That's none of your concern! You're still stubbornly refusing to admit your lie, I see."
"Please." A sob chokes the word.
The line goes silent before he exhales an annoyed sigh.
"Tell the dumbass professor to keep his phone to himself. And don't contact me again until you wish to repent, Avalynne."
"Grandpapa," I whimper, but he's already ended the call.
I blink down at the blank screen of the phone.
"Making yourself comfortable?" a voice taunts from behind me.
I yelp and startle, spinning around to find myself inches away from Professor Thatcher's chest. He looks down the straight edge of his nose at me. The crown of my head nearly tucks beneath his chin as he glares. Time seems to pause, and the welts from Reverend Mother pulse beneath my sleeves.
God, he's even more beautiful and scary up close.
He roughly snatches his phone from my hand, his touch scalding. Then he leans in even closer and shoves a pencil between my parted lips, leaving it there like he's giving a dog a bone.
"Here's your pencil, little troublemaker. Now, sit down and get to work."
My cheeks ignite with shame as I spit the pencil into my hand and head back to my seat, resigned.