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

Part 6

"Someone tell me about the relationship between the story and the way it's told in Pushkin's Queen of Spades."

I lifted my hand in the air.

"Anyone?" Luca's gaze swept over the class, sliding over my extended hand as though it were invisible.

Gritting my teeth, I waved my fingers. Just a tad. I even tried to lengthen my arm by sitting forward in my seat.

"Not even a guess?" He regarded the lecture hall with disappointment. When no one else moved, he pulled out the class roster. "Emma Nixon. Tell me about Queen of Spades and why Pushkin's method of telling the story is as important as the story itself."

His target sat directly in front of me. I watched as she straightened and fiddled with the pencil she held.

"Is this about his use of numbers? Because I didn't understand that." Emma was a good student, just not great with the philosophical models characteristic of Russian literature.

I let my hand fall quietly to the table top and tried to hide my frown. I didn't know why I bothered anymore. Four weeks into the semester and he hadn't called on me since that first day.

Luca tilted his head to one side, considering her. "Do you understand the concepts of fabula and siuzhet?"

Emma shook her head, now twirling the pencil between her fingers with nervous abandon. I could tell she was frustrated by her lack of ability to engage with him. But he took her nerves in stride, re-explaining the concepts in a new way and encouraged her to help him fill in blanks. He even gave her a small smile of praise when she arrived at the right answer without him having to spell it out.

Bitterness blossomed on my tongue as I watched their exchange. I glanced at the big clock over the board, five minutes left before the end of class. Five tortuous minutes.

Obviously, I hadn't dropped the class three weeks ago when I'd had the chance. If I were being honest with myself, the reason I didn't drop out was because I wanted to see him again.

Also now obvious, Professor Kroft wasn't enamored with me. His sister had been delusional, although I was still inclined to like her.

Meanwhile I'd become completely enamored with him.

I should have listened to that woman with the ring. You don't get a ring like deathbringer without knowing what's what.

Professor Kroft had both kept and broken the promise he'd made to me weeks ago. He didn't pick on me any more than the other students. The problem was, he didn't pick on me at all. He pretended I didn't exist. And this was a special kind of torture because Luca Kroft was a fantastic teacher.

Like, the best I've ever had.

He engaged his students rather than talking at them. He forced them to become a part of the narrative, grow invested in Tolstoy and Gogol. He challenged them to confront their ideas about life, nature, morality, and—yes—even the human soul.

Last week he'd made several groups of students act out a scene from The Brothers Karamazov, casting women in the roles of the men, asking them to explain their motivations as though they were the characters. I'd wanted desperately to be chosen for the role of Ivan, but I was passed over, given no role except silent spectator.

So, I guess he did pick on me by not picking on me.

Every week—his charisma, intelligence, patience with and passion for his other students—had me falling a little more head over heels. And I wasn't the only one.