Nobody Looks Good in Leather Pants (or bowties), Dear Professor Book #1

Part 4

In Ivan Turgenev's Fathers and Sons, there's a scene where Bazarov realized his strict nihilist philosophies and assumptions about the values of provincial life might be erroneous. His entire worldview was challenged, and he was forced to accept that his radical ideas and how he had wielded the sword of his charisma may have irrevocably hurt those who trusted him.

And then—spoiler alert—he contracts blood poisoning and dies.

It's a terrible moment.

However, I was sure that this moment, right now in my life, rivaled his moment. At least to me it did.

As my fellow classmates departed, I felt my will to live go with them.

Sorry. That was melodramatic. Let me clarify: I didn't want to die, I wanted to be unconscious. I wished for a blood illness, albeit a temporary one. I'd even settle for a good old-fashioned fainting spell.

If only I had an autopsy to perform—like Bazarov, in Fathers and Sons—it certainly would have been an excellent excuse to flee.

Sorry. Can't stay. I have a cadaver in my car.

Instead, after I finished packing my bag, I sat still as a statue. I folded my hands on my lap and waited, staring at the top of my desk. My mortification plus the anticipation of what was to come fashioned a figurative blood illness within me, overheating my skin and making me shiver.

Professor Kroft was motionless as well, except he wasn't sitting. He was leaning against the long table at the front of the room, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He'd removed his jacket during the two-hour lecture, which left him in a charcoal-gray vest, white dress shirt, and gray bowtie. He'd rolled up his shirtsleeves during the lecture, presumably so he could write on the dry-erase board with ease.

The last of my classmates' footsteps echoed through the nearly empty lecture hall, trailing away until the door closed with a resounding click. My brain reminded me that the doors were locked.

No one could get in.

We were utterly alone and wouldn't be interrupted.

Neither of us made a sound, not at first, although I'm sure my bracing facial expression and averted gaze spoke volumes.

I wanted to leave. The urge to flee was strong. Like the dark side of the force, it called to me. The only thing keeping me in my seat was the fact that he was a professor. A tenured professor. My instincts and upbringing demanded I stay and accept the reprimand.

"Come here." His voice echoed in the hall and I started at the command, my eyes lifting from the top of my desk to clash with his.

His gaze was . . . I don't even know how to describe it. Not exactly probing, but not precisely attentive either. He scrutinized me and yet looked bored.

God, let this be over quickly. You cancelled both Firefly and Arrested Development. Haven't I suffered enough?

Recognizing that the time was now, I stood and slung my backpack over my shoulder. I then traversed the stairs leading to the front of the hall, where Professor Leatherpants waited, halting just after the bottom step. With the weight of his gaze following each of my movements, I'm shocked I didn't tumble down the steps, ass over ankles.

My heart thrummed between my ears and in my throat. One thing was for certain: I would not be the first to speak. Mostly because I didn't know what to say. Therefore, rather than exacerbate the situation with inarticulate apologies, I decided silence was the best course of action.