Chapter 23 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
At the front of the room, Professor Thatcher rises to his feet and retrieves a stack of papers from the briefcase on his desk.
Latin words and their derivatives cover the blackboard behind him as the nuns ask questions about the Summa Theologica, written by St. Thomas Aquinas in the thirteenth century.
I'm barely paying attention to their discussion, though.
I'm preoccupied with glowering at our esteemed professor while he, predictably, ignores me.
It's become our custom, established when he locked me out of the classroom nearly two weeks ago. From my seat, I shoot glares at him and wonder why he metamorphosed into Captain Douchebag again. He pretends I don't exist. It's a whole thing, and I hate it.
Father Ezra is kind to me, at least, but he's gone missing.
I haven't seen him since that night with the strange man in the courtyard.
When the man left and Sister Cecilia awoke, I tried to find Father Ezra and then every day since, but Reverend Mother says he's on an important mission. I can't wait until he returns.
I have no other friends here.
Professor Thatcher talks to the sisters as he circles the room, his polished loafers tapping out a metronome on the floor.
His white button-down shirt is ironed crisp, as always, and his raven-colored hair is tucked ever-so-carefully behind his ears.
It's proof that God has a twisted sense of humor because Thatcher shouldn't look the way he does.
He's a prime exhibit of why people should come with an ingredient label glued to their foreheads.
Xade Thatcher—Ingredients: a disastrous amount of sex appeal, a dash of charm, one heaping scoop of know-it-all vibes, and three cups of pompous asshole. Warning: handle with care.
"Class dismissed," he announces to the room, though I don't know why he bothers.
The sisters come and go as they please, leaving to take care of their duties at the convent and then returning to read religious texts they've brought with them. While I complete actual assignments, they seem like Professor Thatcher's pet project.
As the nuns leave for the day, Thatcher arrives at my desk and drops a paper face down in front of me.
He smells like he always does, the last drops of expensive bourbon and well-loved paper.
It intoxicates and suffocates me at the same time.
Liquid heat snakes through my veins as my body remembers it from the settee in his office and then across from me when he sat at his desk and offered me coffee, sunshine feathering his hair.
At the memory, my heart pounds a little harder in my chest, drumming between my ears, though I wish it wouldn't.
Parchment rustles around me as the nuns chatter excitedly.
"Look what I got!" one of them exclaims, holding up her paper with a wide grin.
"An A! Congratulations, Sister!" another replies.
Jealousy shoots through me, hellfire-hot and scalding. I don't get it. The nuns don't have to be here, and they certainly don't have to write anything. Then, on top of that, he actually graded the papers. I feel like we veered course somewhere, and no one bothered to give me a map.
As the nuns start to leave the room, I flip my paper over, the sight of the large red "F-" hitting me like an uppercut. The bold, angry strokes of the grade scream at me, and my heart solidifies into a heavy stone, settling in my chest.
An "F" wasn't bad enough.
He just had to add a minus, too.
Fuck!
I am instantly guilty and ashamed.
Grandpapa would skin me alive if he knew I even thought the word.
Good girls don't talk like common whores, Avalynne, he would say.
I can't help it, though. I want to scream the curse at the top of my lungs and pour out the frustration welling up inside me.
I spent hours researching and writing my paper!
I meticulously crafted each sentence!
And Thatcher gave me an F-!
I glare at him, but he's back at his desk, gathering his belongings, his gaze downcast. The guy is as cold as the stone walls around us.
The sisters leave the room, still chattering excitedly, yet I remain until everyone is gone.
Unshed tears prick my eyes as I blink down at the grade, the red ink ebbing and flowing with every wet blink.
Grandpapa won't ever let me leave the convent if I fail.
His old words to Isabella and me rise from the grave to haunt me.
Good girls get good grades, my girls.
Only when I'm certain I won't cry do I gather my belongings. I don't go to the cafeteria for dinner, though. Instead, I head directly to Thatcher's office, my failed paper clenched between my fingers.
He didn't even care what I was doing weeks ago, but now he wants to fail me? I don't know what his problem is, and frankly, I don't care.
Good girls can stand up for themselves, Grandpapa.
I arrive outside the professor's office, and I knock on the door, the smooth wood cold against my knuckles. A barked "come in" sounds from inside, but I've already opened the door. I don't care if it's an inconvenient time or not.
Thatcher doesn't even look up from his laptop as I enter his office. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all as I stand at the doorjamb, glaring at him.
I bite my tongue to halt an artillery of insults. I know they won't help me now, but then again, I doubt begging will either. After one long minute, Thatcher's soulless eyes rise to me, and I feel his glare pierce straight through me.
"As entertaining as it is watching you learn English, Ms. Immorier," he says, tilting his head at me, "why are you in my office?"
Not Avalynne anymore, is it? Well, two can play that game.
"You didn't fail anyone else," I blurt, glancing down at the giant "F-" again. It's a guess, but given the cheerfulness of the nuns, I'm confident in it.
King Pompous rolls his eyes.
"I'm not failing a nun," he says, matter-of-factly.
"But you have no problem failing me?" My grip on the paper tightens, crinkling the pages beneath my fingers.
"They aren't taking my classes for college credit," he deadpans. "This is a rare opportunity for the nuns here, one most of those women would have never dreamed of. College was never in the cards for them."
What exactly is he saying?
I don't have time to dwell on it.
"I stayed up every night for a week writing this paper!" I nearly shout.
"Perhaps you should have stayed up two."
I'm going to kill …
"Do you understand what happens if I fail?
" I hiss, finally stepping farther into the room.
I feel my face flush with the heat of my anger as his dark gaze remains on me.
He regards me as I stride closer, my habit skirt tugging at my ankles.
He waits until I'm at his desk, standing across from him, to answer me.
"What you fail to understand," his tongue flicks across his teeth, "is that I don't care whether you pass or not. We both have expectations, Ms. Immorier. I wouldn't want to disappoint your dear grandfather."
"Regrade it." I toss the paper on the few feet of polished wood separating us.
His gaze drops to the crinkled pages and rises lazily back up to mine. "Absolutely not."
"I deserve better!"
"You do not."
"Your instructions were terrible."
"My instructions were to argue about the Anglo-Saxon effect on Modern English. You wrote a goddamned treatise and a shitty one at that."
"Why are you such an asshole?!"
The walls throw the words back at us, insulting him twice before he stands abruptly. The movement sends his chair knocking into the wall behind him, rattling the windowpane. His fingers press against the desk as he leans over it and into my space.
"You deserved to fail!" he snaps, baring his too-pretty teeth. "I told you to write a paper, Ms. Immorier, not cite banal idioms and bullshit. If I wanted to listen to the regurgitations of any asshole with a doctorate, I'd go to a fucking dinner party!"
"If you went to a dinner party, maybe you'd learn some manners!"
Oh my God.
I can't believe I said that.
From the looks of it, he can't believe I said it either.
He stares at me, and I stare back at him. The heat of his ragged breath fans across my face as his nostrils flare slightly. His steepled fingers punch into the desk as he leans in even closer.
Until all I can see is him and how the white collar of his dress shirt presses against his skin.
Until all I smell is him, and I'm back on his settee again, wondering if he's asleep.
All I want is … No!
"Convince me." The words slowly fall from his lips as his gaze flicks to my mouth and rises again.
The binds between us coil tighter, and I feel the tug beneath my navel.
I swallow. "Convince you of what?"
He cocks his head at me, and I hate that look. It's half ambivalence and half a challenge.
"Convince me why I should grant you a redo." He finally leans away and stands upright.
The weight on my sternum lifts as he folds his arms across his chest, his biceps pressing against his starched sleeves, and waits for me. He raises an eyebrow, and my habit itches, abruptly too heavy and too hot.
We are still too close.
I should back away.
I don't.
Instead, I draw in a deep breath and tell my heart to stop trying to pummel a hole through my ribs.
It doesn't listen.
"You said I cited banal idioms and bullshit," I say to Thatcher, my words sour.
"Fine, let me write another paper then, and if you still want to fail me, I won't say a word, but I think you want something else, something unique, Professor.
Otherwise, you'd go to those fucking dinner parties you mentioned. "
He clucks his tongue and blinks slowly, still staring at me. Is that an almost-smile I see ghosting his lips?
"Alright, Ms. Immorier," he acquiesces after a long moment. "You have until midnight. Impress me."
"Midnight?" I choke on the word.
"Midnight. Now, get the hell out of my office before I change my mind."
He gave me one evening to write a whole paper.
ASSHOLE!
Still, I don't argue further. Instead, I snatch my failing paper from his desk, anger and humiliation scalding me, and leave his office before I commit a capital offense.
I don't go to the cafeteria or my room. Instead, I walk to the convent's library.
As always, it's dimly lit, the warm glow of the lamps on the bare wooden desks casting long shadows across enormous shelves of religious texts.
This time, instead of reciting the history of the Anglo-Saxons, I write about the devolution of the English language, diving into the etymology of words.
I explain how Old English had gender-specific nouns, with male and female versions of words, but Modern English consolidated it into a more neutral language. Ultimately, I theorize that the loss has caused Modern English to become less adept at communication.
I'm not sure how long I sit in the library, but by the time I leave, the sky outside has darkened, and hunger gnaws at my middle. I don't go to the dining hall, though. Instead, I head straight to Professor Thatcher's office.
This time, I don't knock. I open his door, walk to his desk, and drop the new paper right in front of him. Slowly, he looks up from his laptop, his face painted with its soft blue light.
"I've rewritten it," I tell him.
With two stiff fingers, he slides my paper closer to himself. He scans the first few lines, and for a moment, the room is silent and still.
"Thank you." His voice is devoid of its usual sarcasm. "I'll read it. Sit."
"Sit?"
He blinks up at me. How can one look make me feel so small?
"Sit, Avalynne," the words are sharp, cutting across his teeth, "or do I need to remind you how to do that as well?"
I nearly bite my tongue in two to stifle my retort, but I figure I should avoid irritating him further, at least until he regrades my paper, so I do as he says and take a seat in a chair across from him.
Slowly, almost methodically, he reads line-by-line, raising his red pen and then placing it back down like he's taunting me with it.
I want to take that red pen and jab it into his desk.
I watch him as he licks his fingertips and flips to another page and then another.
I'm starving.
I'm thirsty.
I'm dying to ask what he thinks.
At last, he reaches the end, flips my paper back to the first page, and lifts his pen to mark something across it. He slides it over to me with two fingers again.
My eyes widen as I see the grade written in bold, red ink at the top of the page: "A-."
Relief floods me, followed quickly by a sense of triumph. I glance across his desk at Professor Thatcher, who meets my gaze but says nothing.
"Thanks," I tell him.
He nods, his expression softening slightly as I grab the paper and stand.
"You deserved it," he remarks with a wan smile. "Next time, follow the directions, Avalynne."
I turn and head to the door.
"Good night, Clarissima Stella," he calls to me as I leave.
There are those damned words again.
It's probably a Latin insult, but it feels like it's more.
"Professor?" I ask, not turning back to him.
"Yes?"
"Are you ever going to tell me what that means?"
There's a beat of silence, and I open the door to his office as he says, "One day when you're not you, and I'm not me anymore."
I walk out of the door before I can ask any more questions.
I'm not sure I'll like the answer if I find out.