by Lola Darling
I’m the one who needs the chaperone.
“You don’t even know his name?” MK exclaims as we meander toward our first class, the one I really ought to be conscious for. Twentieth-Century English Poetry, the subject I specifically came here to study, with the professor I idolize. Now, I’m going to look like a total wreck on day one. Great first impression.
The tall, crenelated medieval buildings of our campus look somewhat less inspiring at the ass-crack of dawn.
Okay, so it’s 8:00 a.m., but that feels impossibly early after I stayed up all night in the dorm room replaying the party in an endless loop of embarrassment.
Embarrassment, and some—what did he call them? Impure thoughts.
“I already regret admitting anything,” I mutter between sips of my espresso. Coffee here kind of sucks, but I’ve got to admit, their espresso is the shit. Or at least, it makes me feel marginally less like shit, which after a night like the last one, is a minor miracle.
“Oh, please. Nick already told me how he found you. Like I’d let you get away without answering at least some basic questions. How hot was he, scale of one to fuck-me-stupid?”
A group of girls crossing the green in the opposite direction, their patent leather shoes clacking on the cobblestones, glance our way. Were they at the party last night? Did someone tell them about me?
My cheeks flush.
“I told you, I didn’t see his face.”
The girls pass us without a second glance. I’m getting paranoid.
“At all?” Hearing her posh accent in such a shocked tone wins a slight grin from me. “Wow, Harper, I know you always tell me you’re trouble, but that’s a new high.”
“Oh shut up. You’d have been tempted too if you heard his voice.”
“The accent? I thought you were immune to such charms by this point. You’ve only been over here visiting me half a dozen times.”
“I’ve never heard an accent like his.” I catch myself, and clear my throat. Almost drifted into dreamy for a second there. I definitely do not have a crush on the sort of guy who would go down on me at a costume party in a closet. “It was fun, that’s all,” I say out loud.
MK points at a door that looks more like a hobbit hole than a classroom entrance. It’s so short she has to duck as she enters, though for little 5’5” me it’s nothing. We step through the arched stone entrance and into a room paneled in dark wood. A dais surrounded by chalkboards stands at the head of the room. Stadium desks rise around it, each one equipped with an uncomfortable-looking chair.
We slide into seats in the second row, high enough so that we’re looking down a few feet at the professor as he sets up.
MK elbows me and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Should I warn you to behave yourself again?” she asks with a grin in teacher’s direction.
Jack Kingston, leading expert in twentieth-century poets and a star professor of Merton College, is pretty damn hot, I must admit. Dark eyes that match his choppy, neck-length, jet black hair, and the kind of angled, severely masculine face you’d expect to see on billboards, not in front of a classroom. His nose is a little long, but it works on his face, gives him that distinguished academic air.
“I might be reckless, but I’m not that stupid,” I hiss back at MK. Dating professors is where I draw the line. Even back home with Derrick, I made sure he was only a TA before I let anything happen.
Only a TA. Are you listening to yourself? I heave a sigh and sink lower in my desk chair. It’s going to be a long day.
While the rest of the students file into their seats, I flip open my notebook and jot down the notes already scrawled across the board. Because even more than escaping from my litany of exes, even more than spending a semester with MK exploring a whole new country, this class, this professor, is the reason I’m here in Oxford.
Back home, I’ve already declared my focus on T. S. Eliot, who not so coincidentally attended this very college. Professor Kingston is a leading scholar on his work, the author of the paper that inspired me to start studying Eliot in the first place.
I need to forget the hookup, forget everything except this class.
We’re starting with Seamus Heaney. We’d been assigned ten of his poems to read before class, and an essay on those same poems due in a couple of days. I have to admit, though, I only skimmed the last one, “The Gravel Walks.” Someone insisted on dragging me out to a party instead. I cast Mary Kate a sideways glance. She’s busy batting her eyelashes at Professor Dreamboat.
Finally, the clock on the wall hits 8:30 and Dreamboat breaks the hum and chatter of the room with a clap of his hands. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
My eyes snap forward, lock onto him the moment he speaks.
No.
He claps his hands and turns that stately, chiseled profile on us. “I recognize most of you from eighteenth century—glad you all decided my class was worth a second go-round. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jack Kingston; you can call me Jack, Professor JK, Prof, I really don’t care what, as long as you do the readings and participate.”
No way. No goddamn way.
“As you know—hopefully—we are starting with Seamus Heaney, one of the great Irish poets of our time. Heaney won the Nobel Prize in 1995, and penned, in my opinion, some of the greatest literature not just of the twentieth century, but the English canon on the whole. You’ll have read ten of his best in preparation for today’s class—in fact, one of the lines from one of those poems is the epitaph on his gravestone. Can anyone guess which line that was?”
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment he frowns, faintly, as though confused. Probably because I’m gaping at him in abject horror.
“How about you, Miss … ?” He lifts an eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to tell him my name.
I can’t force any sound through my throat. It’s permanently closed. My brain has checked out. I manage to shut my mouth, open it again, then clamp my lips tight and shake my head.
Beside me, MK lifts an eyebrow, clearly wondering if I’m suffering a mental breakdown.
Professor Jack Kingston waits another moment, blinks a few times, and then calls on a boy across the room, waving his hand frantically in the air. “Yes, Henry?”
I already know what Henry’s going to say, even before he opens his mouth. I remember where I’ve heard that line of poetry now, too late to save myself. Far too late.
“ ‘Walk on air against your better judgment,’ sir,” Henry recites.
“Very good,” replies our famous professor, the man I came here hoping to study with.
The guy I hooked up with last night.
Jack
I close my eyes and I’m in the confessional booth again, my hands digging into her soft, supple skin, pulling her against me, her salty sweet taste filling my mouth. I want to keep going, flip her over and bury myself to the hilt in that tight, wet little pussy, go at her until we’re both gasping, and—
I force my eyes open and stare at my empty classroom. Focus, Jack. Jump off that train of thought before it gets me into trouble.
Besides, my mystery American is already long gone. She said she was up from London; no doubt she’s headed back there even now, miles away, completely out of my reach.
It’s better that way.
I shove myself onto my feet and pull out a piece of chalk, jotting down some preliminary thoughts on the boards. We’re starting with Heaney, because I already assigned them the readings. I would rather skip ahead to the big announcement, the sheaf of papers the Merton librarian found stuck between a pair of the dullest botany texts in the entire college, which likely explains why no one found them before now.
We’re still in the process of analyzing them, but they look like they might be early workings from T. S. Eliot himself, an alum of Merton, which he attended during the First World War.
I’ve petitioned the dean of the college to organize a graduate seminar around them, so I can recruit my lead doctoral candidates
to help analyze the texts. We’ll likely need an undergraduate aid as well, someone to play research lackey. But that will look great on a CV, if nothing else. Any number of my usual students would kill for the position.
Depending how well this class does with Heaney, I might even recruit from here, Henry or Jenny, maybe. They’re all here for twentieth-century poets, so there are doubtless a few Eliot aficionados among them. We’ll see how they tackle Heaney’s themes and go from there.
A door creaks open somewhere in the back of the room. I turn, ready to greet the first wave of new students, on our first day back to class.
The smile freezes on my lips.
Hannah stands in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame, a wide smile playing on her lips. “I hear you went to Drew and Mindy’s party last night.”
She knows, my gut screams at me. I tamp that thought down. Ridiculous. How could she possibly?
Anyway, it’s none of her bloody business. “I did,” I reply, purposefully grabbing a sheaf of papers to shuffle together so I don’t have to watch her studying me.
I can still sense her, though. Analyzing. Judging. Same Hannah as always.
“Did you dress as a vicar or a tart?” Her tone is playful, but I hear ice under it.
I heave a sigh and lift my eyes to hers. “Hannah, please. My first class starts in five minutes. Can we do this some other time?”
Her eyes flash, though whether it’s with anger or triumph, I can no longer tell. Seems like it’s always one or the other these days. Anger at me, for not being enough. Triumph every time she puts me in my place, yet again reminds me that I’m the scum of the earth, that even my own mother sides with her. “So sorry to inconvenience you. Let me know when you have time to pencil me into your little black book. Maybe you can jot me down for a slot between your next series of drunken parties.” She slams the door behind her, so hard the windowpanes, which are probably older than me, rattle in their frames.
Great. One of those third years in the living room singing karaoke must have recognized me, told Mindy, who told her. Mindy is also Team Hannah, as she reminds me every time the subject of my dating life, or lack thereof, comes up.
I fall into my chair with a groan, all excitement at the thought of the Eliot seminar and my announcement gone. When Hannah emailed me to say she’d be back from sabbatical this semester, no hard feelings, and she hoped we could get dinner and catch up as friends, I thought that this year would be different. That she would finally accept that I am not the guy to give her what she wants—the ring on her finger, the little country house with a white picket fence, babies, the whole package. That’s just not me.
Unfortunately, even after her year abroad “finding herself” in South Africa, she still seems convinced that we’re Meant To Be. Hannah, and practically everyone in my friend circle.
My thoughts on the matter don’t seem to be a concern.
The doors open again, and I jump, but it’s just students this time. I bury myself in reading for as long as I possibly can, rereading “The Gravel Walks” just to soothe my nerves. Okay, and maybe because it reminds me that, whatever the fallout, I’m glad I did take that chance last night. Walk on air against your better judgment. Take chances, live in the real world, but explore the fantasy realm as well.
I might not be the marriage and babies kind of guy, but that doesn’t mean I need to live my whole life like a saint.
Or a vicar. Ha ha.
Finally, the last of the students seems to have arrived, so I start the lecture. For the most part it goes well; Jenny and Keith and Henry have all returned for more of my banter, which makes me happy. I enjoy having engaged students, pupils who really want to participate. The ones who have as much passion for this subject as I do make all the bullshit I deal with worthwhile. If I could just teach those students, all day every day, my life would be complete.
There is one girl, though, who worries me. I recognize her friend, Mary Kate, from my eighteenth century lecture. This girl seems new, though, and from the way she spent the entire class gaping at me, practically sweating bullets in her seat, I wonder if she’s in over her head. Maybe she signed up for this class as an elective, or maybe she has it confused with the Introduction to Modern Poetry course that Drew teaches an hour earlier.
I make a mental note to ask her if she’s alright after class, but the second the end of hour bell rings, she bolts from her seat and flees the room, as if the chair she’d been sitting in was on fire. Mary Kate shoots me an apologetic smile and hurries after her.
Hopefully she’ll figure it out and change her schedule.
In the meantime, I have more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, in less than one hour, a meeting with the dean to discuss that Eliot seminar.
“The schedule is set, Kingston.” Dean Pierson peers up at me through his ridiculously tiny spectacles, perched like a teardrop on the tip of his nose. It’s a wonder he can see anything at all. He certainly can’t see the direction out of his own arsehole.
“Screw the bloody curriculum, Daniel. Can’t you understand what this means?” I gesticulate widely to make the point, and nearly knock a bust of Adonis or some similarly ridiculous Greek figure from the dean’s favorite bookshelf. His office is packed to the brim with odds and ends like that—a cheap sextant dangling from the corner of a 6x10” reproduction map of the ancient world, capped by a Yeats quote that looks like it was carved from wood at a local yard sale.
Tacky, from wall to wall. That’s all I can think every time I’m in here. Now I need to make this lover of all things cheap see the opportunity in a diamond in the rough. “Never before seen work. From Eliot himself.”
The dean mutters something that sounds suspiciously like Americans. I wish he’d spit that a little louder. Maybe the exchange students passing by outside the wide open office door would have a thing or two to say about his opinions.
But I ignore the low blow.
“Come on, Daniel. You know as well as I do what kind of merit it would bring the college. Not to mention funding.” That makes the old bastard pause for a moment. He might not like disruption, change, or American poets, but he loves his grant money. “There’s at least three founders I know just off the top of my head who would dig up their parents’ graves and sell the bones for a chance to fund a discovery like this.”
“If you’re right,” he points out. “If they’re not just some pretty scribbles by an unknown unnamed first year who happened to be in attendance here at the same time as your man. This college was chock-full to bursting with American would-be poet laureates in that era, you’ll recall. How can you be sure the papers don’t belong to one of them? And it’s awfully handy you just happened to stumble across these now, with your consideration for tenure fast approaching.”
My fists clench and unclench at my sides. That’s bloody rich. Dean Perjurer Pierson, accusing me of faking something. Granted, there were no convictions during the five forgery scandals in which our lovely dean here has been embroiled during his long and storied career, but five times, really? You do the math. One of those at least must be legit.
Maybe that’s why he’s so cautious about letting me run with the Eliot story now.
“Look,” I manage through gritted teeth. “If you won’t let me run a full seminar, at least give me a couple of research assistants. They don’t even have to be PhD candidates; I’m not picky. Undergrads if you prefer. I just want a couple more eyes on this project than my own. You know, to be sure I’m not just conveniently hallucinating similarities in tone.” I inject a certain amount of venom into that last statement.
He stares me down, and I can practically hear the tiny cogs in his brain cranking. He wants to turn me down for the hell of it now. Say no just to watch me yell and shout.
But he won’t. Pierson might be a rat, but he’s a smart rat. How else would he keep his post through all the knee-deep shit he’s waded into?
“Fine. One undergraduate. No more.”
Now I
clench my fists for a different reason—to keep from punching the air in celebration. Okay, so it’s not the full seminar I hoped for. But a dedicated research aid and I can tackle this headlong, no problem. I’ll select based on research experience and writing ability. I can use my eighteenth century class as a pool, see how they do on the Heaney assignment.
My mind is racing so fast with preparations that it takes me a moment to notice Pierson has already slammed his office door shut in my face, stranding me in the middle of the quiet, mid-morning college hallway, a few steps from the registrar’s office.
I turn on my heel, ready to storm back to my office and start putting a list of potentials together, when I nearly trip headlong over a student.
I blink a few times at the girl blocking my path down the hallway. She’s almost a head shorter than me, her huge blue eyes locked on mine beneath a cloud of runaway auburn waves. Something about the purse of her lips makes my mind immediately run to places I’m not proud of. My eyes want to drift along her curves, drink in the way her low-cut shirt exposes her collarbones and the hint of cleavage beneath, not enough to be revealing, just enough to make me know there’s a lot she could reveal to the right guy. I lock my eyes onto her face instead, but that doesn’t help quell the beast.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
She’s also staring at me, wide-eyed. “Sorry,” she gasps, her eyes somehow widening even more, and that’s when I recognize her. Mary Kate’s nervous friend from class.
Stop ogling the students, you cretin. “Not at all,” I say aloud. “My fault. I trust you’re enjoying my class, Miss … ?” I wait for her to fill in the blank, but she only gapes at me longer.
Finally, her mouth snaps shut and her shoulders square. She’s even more attractive this way than when she’s being timid. I bet she could take charge in the bedroom. Christ, Jack, what the hell. I banish that thought to the darker recesses of my clearly overworked mind.
“I’d like to talk to you,” she says, all in a rush, like this was a difficult admission.
She’s American, I notice with surprise. Something about the loose gray sweater she’s wearing, paired with jeans and high boots, had suggested local girl to me. I readjust the settings in my head, think about her as a confused exchange student instead. It certainly helps explain her bewilderment in class.
