Chapter 2
SUMMONED BY THE PROFESSOR
SIMONE
I’m sitting cross-legged on my unmade bed, picking at the frayed seam of my comforter, and watching the city’s midnight haze bleed through the plastic blinds.
There are three empty coffee cups on the windowsill, and my laptop’s screen is a pale blue rectangle in the gloom, illuminating a battleground of crumpled notes, dead highlighters, and the leftover orange dust of a Cheez-It binge.
The room is a crime scene for academic failure, but my roomie Andie doesn’t care.
She never judges. She’s sprawled across her own bed, backlit by a single desk lamp that throws barbed-wire shadows along the cinderblock wall.
Andrea Crenshaw is the only girl on campus who can look like a debutante in pajama shorts and a “World’s Okayest Roommate” tee.
She’s got that ‘Texas pageant queen does hot yoga’ glow—honey-blonde hair, ocean eyes, the kind of dimples that make you forgive her for stealing your last Red Bull and not even noticing.
Most girls like Andie would run this place like a sorority mafia, but Andie has zero self-awareness about her effect on humanity.
She thinks people are good, boys are just confused, and that if she keeps smiling, the universe will eventually smile back.
I should hate her, but I can’t. Not when she’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
My friend sits up, wriggling her toes under a heap of thrift-store quilts. “You look like you found out your puppy has cancer,” she says, voice half sugar, half sleep. “Wanna talk about it, or just want me to eat snacks and pretend I don’t see the stress rash on your neck?”
I snort and reach for my phone, only to realize it’s somewhere under the pile of unfinished essays at my feet. “I’m failing everything,” I say, too honest, too fast. “If I don’t get my shit together, I’m gonna lose the scholarship. And then I’m gone. Like, instantly.”
Andie makes a sad face and flops back dramatically. “God, that sucks so hard. Why does college cost an arm and a leg anyway? My brother’s friend went to prison for less than four semesters at this place.”
“That’s because prison is technically free for inmates. It’s a different kind of bar tab,” I reply in a droll tone.
She giggles and it’s like someone shaking a snow globe full of sunbeams. “Simone, you’re not gonna fail. You just, like, haven’t found your rhythm yet. Once you do, you’ll own this place. What class are you even failing?”
I hesitate. “To be honest, I’m not doing great in any of my classes this semester, which is the problem. But my worst is American Lit with Professor Thomas. You know. The tall one with the jawline. The Melville obsession.”
Andie’s eyes go wide, even in the half-light. “Wait. Wait. You mean Liam Thomas?” She lowers her voice, as if the name itself is a spell. “Simone. Simone. There’s, like, a whole TikTok dedicated to his arms.”
“He’s got arms, all right.” I can’t help it—I say it flat, like it’s a diagnosis. “He’s also got a resting murder face and an allergy to mercy. My GPA’s in the ICU.”
Andie sits up, crossing her legs to mirror me. “Okay, okay, but I heard a rumor about him. Like, a real rumor. Are you ready?” She leans in, and her hair falls in a curtain of gold.
I brace myself. “Tell me.”
“I heard,” she says, eyes huge, “that he got a girl pregnant. Like, a student. Last year? Or maybe it was the year before. But it was totally hush-hush and the girl transferred and the department covered it up.”
I blink. “You’re joking.”
She shakes her head, solemn as a nun. “Swear on my AirPods. He’s kind of a sex legend, isn’t he? Like, the brooding ones always have drama. Maybe that’s why he only wears button-down shirts. Camouflage for all the sperm on his conscience.”
I almost choke. “Jesus, Andie, that doesn’t even make sense. Where did you even hear that?”
She shrugs. “I have sources. You’d be amazed what people tell you in the laundry room at two a.m.”
I try to picture Professor Thomas, brooding and gorgeous, knocking up a coed in some back hallway. Sad to say, it’s equal parts impossible and inevitable. “But he seems too controlled,” I say. “Like he’d rather drown himself in the Mississippi than admit to a human need.”
Andie gives me a sly look. “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about sex with him.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “I haven’t thought about anything except not flunking out. For real.”
She grins, but it’s the nice kind, the kind that says I know you and it’s okay. “You’re allowed to want stuff, Simone. Like, maybe wanting it is the first step to actually getting what you want? Manifestation and all that.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s an effort. “Pretty sure the only thing I’ve manifested is an ulcer.”
Andie sighs and flops over, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin up with both hands. “You know that he’s already tenured? And he’s, like, thirty-five. My mom says that’s, like, unheard of. And he’s published, too. Five books. All poetry.”
I smirk. “He told us the only reason people write poetry anymore is because they want to get laid.”
She giggles again. “See? Sex legend. If you sleep with him, can I see the videos?”
I throw a wadded-up Post-It at her, but miss by a mile. “You’re deranged. I don’t even know why you think I’d sleep with him.”
She shrugs.
“Who wouldn’t? Let’s just say I have a dirty imagination.”
I shake my head because Andie has no idea how dirty I’ve been.
To be honest, I can’t even believe it, but what happened really did happen.
I flashed my steamy, glistening pink pussy at my professor during class, and then fucked myself with a pencil while he lectured, making him stutter and swallow.
Meanwhile, my roomie keeps talking because she has no idea.
“Please.” She waves her hand. “I heard even his TA has a crush on him.”
I gasp.
“Belinda? But she’s like fifty and a grandma!”
Andie shrugs.
“Every woman has a crush on this man. He’s catnip to ladies of all ages and sizes. Ask him for extra credit,” she adds with an evil smile. “See what he says.”
I want to fess up to my friend about what I did, but I can’t. Not right now. I want to say that my entire life is not a porn setup, but then I remember the way Thomas’s eyes had darkened, and my stomach does this nervous somersault.
I decide to change the subject. “I heard he’s on the short list to be the next Poet Laureate. Like, of the United States.”
Andie’s eyebrows scrunch up with confusion. “Is that a real thing?”
“Yeah. It’s a huge deal. Means you’re basically the national poet. You get to go to the White House and everything.”
She stares, mouth open. “But, like, what do you actually do? Do you have to write about wars and stuff? Or does the President call you to, like, summarize the national mood?”
I snicker. “Probably both. You have to write an inaugural poem, and then you get to spend a year just being paid to think about words and feelings.”
Andie sighs, dreamy. “God, I wish I got paid to have feelings.”
“Same.” I pause, thinking about Professor Thomas in the White House, reading something bleak and gorgeous to a room of bored dignitaries. “He’s kind of overqualified for this place. We’re just a small college in the Midwest. What’s the potential Poet Laureate doing here?”
She nods. “Maybe he’s running from something. Maybe he murdered someone in a big city somewhere, and now he has to lay low and teach us until the heat’s off.”
“That’s more plausible than him wanting to spend his life in Minnesota,” I say. “There’s nothing here but deer, bad weed, and ice hockey.”
“Hockey is a lifestyle, not a sport,” Andie says, all mock serious.
She sits up, crisscross applesauce, and grabs my arm.
“Listen. You’re gonna ace your next essay, I know it.
But you have to promise me that if you have any chance to speak with Liam Thomas, you take it.
Because you never know, it might be fate. ”
I try to match her optimism, but my insides are a slow-motion train wreck. “Sure. Fate. Or a Title IX violation waiting to happen.”
She lets go, suddenly soft. “I mean it, Simone. Don’t let them grind you down. You’re better than you think. And if you get desperate, I’ll write your paper for you. I can fake American Lit like nobody’s business.”
I smile, for real this time. “You’d do that for me?”
She flips her hair like a shampoo commercial. “I’d do anything for you, roomie. But you won’t need me. You’re a genius.”
I look at the ruins of my desk, the bloodless blue of the screen, and the shadows that stretch and shift with every flicker of the lamp. For a second, I almost believe her.
Then I remember Thomas’s voice, the dark undertone of hunger, and the way I’d wanted him to see everything.
Maybe Andie is right. Maybe the wanting is the only thing that matters.
I get up, stretching, and stare out the window. The quad is empty, slick with rain, and the lights of the science building glow like a spaceship in the dark.
“Hey, Andie,” I say, staring at the wet glass. “Do you ever wish you could just start over? Like, wake up and be someone else, somewhere else?”
She thinks about it, chewing her lower lip. “Sometimes. But then I remember I’d have to make all new friends, and that’s a lot of work.”
I laugh, because it’s so her, and turn back to the room that smells like cheap candles and flowery lotion. Andie’s already burrowed into her blankets, eyes closed, smile still on her lips.
I stay by the window a minute longer, watching the storm swirl over the campus, and let the silence fill me up.
Tomorrow will come, whether I’m ready or not.
At exactly 2:17 a.m., my laptop dings. It’s a gentle sound, but in the hush after our laughter, it might as well be a gunshot.
I freeze mid-scroll through my Instagram feed, thumb hovering over a photo of a bulldog in a tutu.
The screen pulses with a new notification—“1 Unread Message”—glowing against the battlefield of unfinished essays and existential dread.
Andie stirs, eyes slitted. “What is it?” She sounds more curious than concerned, a kitten detecting catnip.
“Email,” I say, voice gone paper-thin. I don’t want to open it. I really, really don’t.
But I do.
The sender is “Liam Thomas.” The subject line is “Office Hours / Grade Inquiry.” The body is polite, clinical, and terrifying:
Miss McCall—
Please see me during office hours tomorrow regarding your progress in my class. If you are unable to attend, let me know a time that would suit you.
Best,
Liam Thomas
I read it once, then again, searching for a threat or a lifeline or a hidden code. There’s nothing, but my skin prickles anyway, as if the words are a virus working through my bloodstream. My heart thuds so loud I’m sure Andie can hear it.
She sits up, blinking blearily. “Did you get doxxed or something? Is it the police?”
I just hand her the laptop, too numb to filter my face.
She reads, lips moving. “Oh my god, he wants to see you? Like, just you? Tomorrow?” She looks up, eyes fully alert now. “Simone, this is either really good or really, really bad.”
I flop backward on the bed, covering my face with both hands. “It’s just about my grade. He probably wants to tell me in person that I’m academically defective and I should quit while I’m ahead.”
Andie shoves my shoulder. “It could also be a sign. Like, maybe he thinks you’re worth saving? Or maybe he just wants to…you know…” She mimes a suggestive eyebrow waggle.
“Don’t,” I say, peeking at her from under my arm. “Don’t make this dirty.”
She grins, unrepentant. “Simone. Everything is dirty. It’s college.”
I try to hold onto my sarcasm, but the words of the email glow behind my eyelids, neon and inescapable.
See me. Office hours. Your progress.
Every phrase is a double entendre if you’re desperate enough.
“Are you gonna go?” Andie asks, like it’s even a question.
“Of course I’m gonna go. If I don’t, he’ll fail me for sure. And then I’ll have to find a job, which is probably either flipping burgers or pumping gas.”
“Dramatic,” she says, but she doesn’t disagree.
I stare at the laptop, at the clock ticking up and up, and imagine tomorrow in a hundred different ways.
Maybe Liam’s angry. Maybe he wants to tell me to drop the act, stop showing up late, stop flirting with disaster.
Maybe this is his way of issuing a warning, or an invitation.
Maybe he’s going to report me to the Academic Counsel, and recommend immediate expulsion.
The thought makes my stomach twist in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.
Andie pulls her knees to her chest and rocks, eyes dreamy. “You know, this could be huge. Maybe he’s gonna give you secret extra credit. Or recommend you for something. Or, like, introduce you to his publisher.”
I roll my eyes. “More like he’s going to fail me, Andie.”
She flops back, already losing interest. “You’ll be fine. You’re basically a genius compared to the rest of us.”
I almost believe her. Almost.
But when I close my laptop, the room feels warmer, like the air itself has thickened.
Outside, the storm has gone slack, the only sound the wet hiss of tires on distant pavement.
I wonder if Thomas is awake, reading my paper and plotting my execution.
Or maybe he’s lying in a king-sized bed with whiskey and a boner, already regretting the moment he hit send.
I wish I knew which version of him was real.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to Andie’s breathing slow and soften, and let the possibilities run wild and mean and raw.
I imagine his office, the way the books will smell, the way his voice will wrap around me, smoke and velvet.
I imagine his hands, the roughness of his palm as he gestures for me to sit, the certainty in his movements.
I imagine him wanting me.
And then I imagine the other thing—the moment he tells me I’m nothing, that I never belonged here, that even wanting was too much to ask. The moment he tells me that I’ve failed.
I turn over and punch the pillow flat, as if that will keep the thoughts at bay.
It doesn’t.
Tomorrow is already clawing its way into my head, bright and sharp and impossible.
When I finally fall asleep, I dream I’m sitting in the back of a lecture hall, naked except for my ruined GPA, and Professor Thomas is at the podium, reciting poetry in a language only I understand.
He never looks away.