Teach Me (7 page)

Unless . . .

I
bite down hard on my lip, suppress a sudden smile.

Unless
he doesn’t
trust himself to pick the best essay.
Unless
he’s worried he’d
be tempted to select—or
not select—a certain
student for reasons other than her academic ability.

But
which one is it? Based on the way he ran from me just now, I’m
leaning toward the latter. He wants to not choose me, to keep me as
far away from him as possible so he can forget that last night ever
happened.

But
maybe not. There’s a
chance, however small, that he’s
tempted, too. That he remembers our lips molding together, a perfect
match, our bodies hot against one another’s,
with the same burn of lust that I do.

If
I can make him feel like that with my body, then surely I can win
over his mind, too.

Just
like that, finally, the perfect essay topic pops into my mind. I
close my inbox, open a new document, and start to write.

Monday
comes simultaneously too fast and not fast enough. I holed up for the
weekend, after my last graduate seminar ended Friday morning, and
tried my damnedest not to think about Harper Reed. Not to think about
the irresistible way her mouth forms this little moue when she’s
distressed. Not to think about how that mouth, which felt so hot
against mine in the confessional, would feel if I buried myself in
it. I try not to think about her firm arse, either, or the sweet,
sharp taste of her pussy as I tongued her senseless. She clenched so
hard when she came, I can only imagine what it would feel like to be
inside her for that moment.

Okay,
so not thinking about her doesn’t
work so well. At least in between taking more than my fair share of
showers and getting my hand exercise in, I have plenty of work to
distract me. I busy myself speed-reading the Heaney essays.

Some
of the forty-seven submissions were easy to weed out. Honestly, how
did some of these people make it to third year of uni at Oxford of
all places, most of them majoring in bloody poetry, without being
able to formulate a simple sentence?

It’s
not entirely their fault. The school system tries to trick them into
throwing in huge vocabulary words and long, rambling, purple prose,
because from primary school on, they’re
rewarded for every extraneous word with a gold star. It’s
like Pavlov’s dogs,
only it creates terrible writers instead of salivating canines.

I
narrowed it down to twelve decent essays first. Good enough that I
would grant them all top marks on a normal grading scale. But one
writer among them stood out, I decided by Sunday morning. They made a
compelling argument as to Heaney’s
authorial intentions. They showed a keen understanding of his work,
the nuances and the straightforward statements alike.

More
than that, they threw in some additional references, casually, not in
a bragging sort of way. Just enough to show that they had done their
homework, researched the hell out of Heaney above and beyond the
required reading.

That’s
the sort of assistant I need. Someone who will go above and beyond
for Eliot, someone who won’t
stop digging until they uncover all the answers.

Now,
I just have to pray that whoever the student is, they’re
as deeply interested in Eliot as they were in Heaney.

That,
and of course, I have to pray that of all the gin joints in all the
towns, she won’t
step into mine. Or, to word it less stereotypically, I have to hope I
didn’t just choose,
out of almost fifty possible candidates, the one student I ethically
should not select.

Except,
would it be ethical to
not
select her, just because I can’t
stop picturing her naked and spread-eagled in my bed?

I
wanted to do that, honestly. Just write her off. I would have,
actually, if I hadn’t
run into her semi-drunk after the dinner with Kat and blatantly
started flirting all over again, then stormed home after abandoning
her on the steps of the Bodleian to send an email out to the whole
class, asking them all to submit their essays anonymously. At least
this way I couldn’t
be tempted to do exactly what I wanted to do.

Push
this girl as far away from me as possible.

It’s
fine,
I tell myself.
There are forty-seven people here, none of whom look as terrified
about poetry as she did on day one (never mind that now, of course, I
realize exactly why she looked so terrified).
It
won’t
be her.

Still,
my stomach ties itself in knots as I watch the class file in. My eyes
keep flicking to the doors, waiting, watching, hoping. Maybe she
dropped the class after all. We can avoid disaster before it even
starts.

No
such luck.

Thirty
seconds before the bell, and a lot later than she showed up on her
first day, Harper shuffles into the back of the room. Her outfit
looks as torn as she does about being here. The tight jeans and
low-cut loose sweater reveal a lot more than her clothes at the
party, from what I remember. Not to mention, when paired with the
sleek bun she’s
pulled her auburn hair into, and the turquoise heels she’s
balancing on, sharp enough to pierce a heart, she’s
clearly dressed for the occasion.

But
the moment our eyes lock, which happens the second she enters the
room because I’ve
been staring at the doors like an idiot, waiting for her, she flees
to the farthest corner, hiding behind a particularly bulky guy I
vaguely recall from Intro to Modern Poetry.

Well,
at least if she keeps hiding for the rest of the semester, I won’t
have to face my mistakes quite so openly.

Better
for both of us this way, I tell myself. The bell rings, and I wait
another moment for the stragglers to filter in before I clear my
throat.

“You’re
probably wondering why I asked you to labor over a paper you didn’t
get to take credit for,”
I say, once we’re
all here. A few people laugh, one corner of girls in particular. I’m
used to inciting the occasional giggle from my female students—a
risk of the position—but
it frays my nerves today. Is it just the usual crush syndrome, or did
anyone see me at the party? I hid my face when I left the booth, and
the whole living room seemed distracted by watching Harper go, anyway
(not that I can blame them). But what if someone saw?

I
clear my throat. “Well,
I had a good reason, I promise. You’ll
all get full credit for your essays once we announce this.”
From there, I launch into a quick explanation of the research
seminar. I don’t
mention Eliot—not
yet. I’m not ready
to let that particular rumor run rampant.

Assuming,
of course, that Harper hasn’t
already spread the news herself. But somehow, I can’t
imagine her doing that.

You
don’t
know her at all,
I
remind myself. But I do know that she wants the position herself,
badly. Why tell the other students if it would only motivate them to
work all the harder in competition?

Suddenly,
fear grips me. The Heaney essay, the one I chose. The author went
above and beyond, totally all out. More than you’d
expect any student to do on a paper this early in the term, unless
they were a complete overachiever.

Or,
unless they already knew how much that paper would matter.

Just
like that, I’m sure.

I
finish my explanation about the extra course credits my research aid
will receive, and how great an honor it will be (not to mention that
it will be graduate level work, which any serious poetry students
will love to hear). A good couple dozen students are salivating over
the prospect by the time I finish, even without me explaining what we
think the papers we’ve
found might be.

“I
selected the aid based on the papers you all submitted anonymously.
It seemed the fairest way to me, to ensure that everyone had an equal
chance.” I force
myself to look at my usual suspects, Henry and Jenny, instead of
letting my gaze drift to the distant corner where it longs to dart.

“The
paper I chose delved into not just the surface meaning of Heaney’s
poems, but the deeper themes he wanted to illuminate. Henry, could
you please read the highlighted section?”
I tap a button to ignite the projector, and my laptop’s
home screen fills the page, a scanned PDF copy of the paper I chose
blazing across the screen. The highlighted lines represented the
final page, the thesis of the whole essay. The author would recognize
it at once, I was sure.

My
gaze drifted across the students. Lots of people slumped in their
seats, having realized they weren’t
the authors of the paragraph.

In
the back corner, bulky Modern Poetry guy leans forward to squint at
the screen, blocking my view of Harper. No one seems too excited,
though, as Henry finishes reading aloud the highlighted lines, and
silence descends over the room.

I
clear my throat into that pause. “Would
the author please stand?”
I say, finally, unable to stand the suspense.

My
gut sinks through the floor as Harper’s
now-familiar red-gold head rises above the bulky guy’s
shoulder.

Well,
shit.

“Thank
you,” I murmur.

“For
what, exactly?”

We’re
standing in the now-empty classroom. At least when I stand a few
levels of seating above him, we’re
at eye level. And too far apart for me to do something stupid like
grab his arm again, like I did outside the library.
Idiot,
I remind myself, yet
again.

Mary
Kate lingered by the door long enough to mouth,
Catch
you later
, and now
it’s just me and
him. Me, him, and the looming tension in the room, which I cannot be
imagining.

“For
not just dismissing me outright as an option.”

His
hands clench on the desktop, and his jaw works so strongly I can see
the muscles stand out in his neck, the pinch of his cheek where his
teeth grind at it. “It
wouldn’t have been
fair to disqualify you just because of . . . ”

I
swallow hard. “Well.
Thanks.”

Outside
the door, the halls bustle with life between classes. I should be on
my way to my next class, a seminar on medieval English history (I
needed an elective, so hey, when in Rome—or
Oxford, as the case may be). But he asked me to stop by his desk for
a moment to discuss the research aid position, and I sure as hell am
not missing this, elective course be damned.

“So—”
I start at the same time he says, “We’ll
have to—”

We
both pause, glance at each other. I’m
tempted to laugh, except he doesn’t
look amused. He looks downright furious.

At
me?

My
teeth edge around my lower lip, an old, bad habit that I really need
to work on breaking. His eyes follow the motion, linger on my lips
for a split second, before he stares pointedly at the door behind me.

“You
will report to my office tomorrow morning at 6:00 a.m. sharp. I
assume your schedule is free then?”
He still doesn’t
look at me, but he must be able to see me in his peripheral vision,
because when I nod, he continues. “Bring
a laptop, a notebook, and coffee.”

The
last word makes me sputter, anger sparking in my chest. “Ja—
Professor, if you just want someone to fetch you drinks—”

“The
coffee will be for you. I’m
a morning person; most of the students I’ve
worked with in the past tend to not be. And I’ll
need you sharp tomorrow, if we’re
going to do this. Be prepared.”

Presuming
he knows me. Acting like he’s
stuck with me. Maybe he won’t
have anything to worry about after all, I tell myself. This side of
Jack Kingston is not a side I enjoy. “Thanks,
but I’ll be fine. I
prefer mornings, too.”

His
eyes flicker to mine for a split second, finally meeting my gaze as
if I’m an actual
human being. There’s
something more than just anger in his voice, something almost like
regret.

I
don’t stick around
to find out. I whip around on my heel and march out of the office,
hands clenched at my sides. By the time I make it to my history
class, I’m still
fuming. To make matters worse, I’m
ten minutes late, and Professor Butler, the petite blonde woman who
runs this classroom the way some dictators run small countries,
shoots a glare so fierce in my direction that I can practically feel
the points she’s
docking from my grade spiraling down the drain.

It’s
only an elective, yes, but it can still totally crash my GPA if I’m
not careful.

I
sigh under my breath, flip open my textbook, and try to pay attention
to the intricacies of thirteenth-century British politics.

At
least she wasn’t
lying about being a morning girl. I’m
starting to wonder if I spoke too soon, bragging about how much
better I work in the a.m., when here’s
Harper, looking the very picture of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed
(complete with messy auburn ponytail that looks just the right size
to grab in my fist . . . ),
already pointing out discrepancies I missed.

She
leans closer to me—I
pulled my chair around thinking it would be less awkward for us to
work side-by-side, both of us on the same side of the desk, reading
the same copy of the poem. But the end of her ponytail brushes my
shoulder, and I can already tell this was a bad decision. I should’ve
left the desk between us, some sort of barrier.

I
don’t know if I can
trust myself to stay in control like this. She even
smells
good, for fuck’s
sake.

It
makes me want to devour her.

“This
stanza.” She taps on
it with the end of her pencil, and I’m
yanked back to attention. We’re
only a couple stanzas into the first of the sheaf of twenty poems
we’ve got to work
with. There’s no
time to space out yet. “Really
reminds me of the kind of fragmentation Eliot uses in other poems.
Only I’m not sure
what it would be referencing. It sounds like a partial, distorted
quote of something, I just can’t . . . ”