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

Part 8

I felt better, more at peace with my decision to withdraw as days turned into weeks. Admittedly, I missed listening to the debates during class as well engaging in discussions with my classmates outside of class, because I'd enjoyed the subject matter so much. I also missed Luca. I missed his brilliance. I missed listening to his lectures. I missed being challenged on a visceral level.

But gone were the emotional highs and lows associated with seeing him and being ignored by him. Gone were the weekly disappointments as well as the thrill of being inspired.

Ah well.

Such was the life of an unrepentant tranquility-monger

Therefore, peace reigned and all was as it should be . . . until I received a call from my advisor.

"There's no easy way to say this, Anna, so I'm just going to give it to you straight. Professor Kroft is challenging your late-withdraw."

I frowned at the half-solved ten-thousand-piece puzzle littering my kitchen table, the one I'd purchased to congratulate myself on my quick and pragmatic thinking.

"What does that mean?"

"It means he says you didn't discuss the withdrawal with him ahead of time and he isn't allowing it."

"Isn't allowing it? Why does he have a say?"

"Late-withdraws are meant to be for-cause withdraws, used for emergencies—a death in the family, a change of circumstance. Technically, it requires documentation and agreement from the professor."

I chewed on my bottom lip, my stomach and heart bouncing around my torso as though my hips had provided a trampoline.

"But I've done a late-withdraw before without this kind of requirement."

"I know most professors in the engineering department don't impose the rule, but it's meant to provide a mechanism for students to withdraw from a class free of penalty when there is a significant event interfering with the student's ability to complete the course. Whether to enforce the policy or not is left to the discretion of the professor."

I sighed, dread rising up to meet me as I sunk into a chair. "So, what do I do? What are my options?"

Professor Cartwright also sighed and I could almost picture her expression of frustration. "These arts and humanities types . . . I've never had one of my engineering students go through this before. But, from what I understand, you have three options: you can take an F in the course, or you can rejoin the class and try to catch up, or you can speak to Professor Kroft and get him to sign off on the late-withdraw."

The sensation of dread spread, cold despair and wretchedness winding its way around my lungs and squeezing.

"Ugh," I said before I could catch myself, because none of those options sounded appealing.

Professor Cartwright waited a beat longer, then asked, "So, what do you want to do?"

I quickly debated my options, immediately dismissing her proposal to speak with him and obtain his signoff for the late-withdraw. I didn't want to do that. I didn't want to be alone with him or ask him for anything. Plus, clearly, for some bizarre reason only he and his bowties understood, he didn't want me to drop the course.

Because he is a passionless and heartless sadist who lives to make me, and probably countless others, wretched.

The image and associated sensations of him pressing me against the door to his office, touching, and kissing me flashed into memory.