Southern Belle

Ch. 8 What Doesn't Make You Beautiful

My pen frantically moved on the crisp, white paper as I attempted to understand what my professor was talking about. After he clicked the PowerPoint remote one last time, the screen turned black, causing a sigh of relief to escape my mouth.

Professor Henwood was an old man, about six feet tall. His voice, borderline monotonic, could put anyone to sleep. He always wore khaki pants and a polo every single day; with his slicked-back gray hair and goatee, you would think he was an artist, not a teacher.

Don't be fooled, though. Henwood was one of the hardest teachers at Stanford. Each year, he started with about forty students in his class. At the end of the year, his class ended with twenty. From what I gathered, only the craziest and/or smartest people signed up for his class.

Or the most ignorant people, like moi. Nobody told me that his business class was extremely difficult. So, after reading the course description in a brochure, I called the Student Center, overjoyed that there were still spots open. 

Lucky me, right?

Wrong.

On the first day of class, he gave us a pop-test on the summer reading. I scored a twenty out of a hundred, which was an 'F.' That wasn't the worst part. Henwood thought it was a good idea to post the class ranking of the scores to 'promote competition.'

Guess who was at the bottom of the list?

Me.

Guess who was at the top?

Nicholas 'Douchebag' Monroe.

Okay, so maybe I didn't know what his middle name was, but it must've been 'Douchebag.'

"Well, class, what a great four weeks it's been so far! I've got a surprise for you!" His loud voice happily echoed throughout the classroom.

What could it be? No homework for a night? 

"It's project time! For the rest of the year," he continued, "you will be paired up with someone else to create your own fake business. At the end of the year, you will present to each other your findings. This project is worth half of your grade." A wicked smile crept onto his face, causing my stomach to do somersaults. "I made copies of the partner list, so pass them around." 

After about ten minutes, the Blondie in front of me handed me the sheet. I slowly read down the list until I came upon my name:

Belle Wilkes...

I took a deep breath as I looked at the name next to mine.

Nicholas Monroe

My mouth set in a firm line while I tried to suppress my screams. My hands, strongly shaking in clenched fists, were firmly holding onto the sides of my legs.

Why did God do this to me? I swore, if he just left me alone for one day, I would leave Stanford and go join covenant. 

Sister Belle Wilkes, a nun. Sounded good to me.

While I was having my inner panic attack, the rest of the class stood up and left. I remained in my seat, inhaling and exhaling slowly, until my heartbeat decreased. My erratic breathing and the nausea caused by lack of sleep nearly made me pass out.

I turned my head slightly, taking in all of my surroundings. A few feet in front of me, Henwood was mumbling to himself as he graded papers with a crimson red felt pen.

After a few minutes of inner turmoil, I decided that I needed a new partner desperately. There was no way that I could deal with Nick's sarcastic and offensive remarks for a whole year. It was bad enough that I had to live with his cousin; this would put me over the edge.