by Linnea May
Right now, I need my calculator. At least I think I need it. Who knows what this guest lecturer has in store for us, but since he is teaching a class in economics, I should be prepared to do some on the spot math.
"Wha-is it?" I hear my sleepy roommate grumble, as she peeks out from under her covers.
"My calculator!" I repeat. "Where is it? I'm late for class!"
She squints at me with confusion. "What time is it?"
I roll my eyes and sigh audibly. "Celia, please!"
"I dunno," she mumbles, adding a hearty yawn. "Why do you need it?"
"It may have escaped your attention, but the semester has started," I explain, as I continue browsing through our small room in search of my calculator. "And I have my economics class this morning, for which I-"
"Uh!" Celia exclaims. "The one with that hot lecturer, right? Jackson something... Jackson Pollock?"
I roll my eyes at her ignorance.
"Jackson Pollock was an expressionist painter, you imbecile," I lecture her. "Jackson Portland. That's the guy's name."
Celia frowns at me and sticks out her tongue.
"Whatever," she says. "What do you need a calculator for? He’s not teaching applied economics, is he?"
"No, but-"
"If I was you, I'd rather worry about getting a seat in the front row," she interrupts. "That man is so hot! Man, I wish I was taking his class."
I raise my eyebrows at her. "His class is on a Monday morning at ten. You wouldn't even be awake yet if I hadn't yelled at you just now."
"Whatever," she repeats, turning her face away from me and curling back up under her covers.
"You really don't know where my calculator is?" I ask, one last time.
"No!" she yells back, her answer muffled by her sheets. "Go!"
I sigh and risk one last scan through our little room before I decide that there is no point in searching any longer. I have to leave now if I want to be on time for class. The economics department is on the other side of campus, a walk that will take me at least fifteen minutes, maybe twelve if I hurry.
It may be silly and childish, but I still blame Celia for the disappearance of my calculator, and my little act of revenge is the same as always: I slam the door as loudly as possible to disturb her sleep. It is my passive-aggressive way of showing her how I feel about her lazy and irresponsible way of life. How someone like her ever got accepted into a graduate program at this university is beyond me. She must be a lot smarter than it seems at first glance to make up for her unbelievable laziness. As far as I know, she has never failed a class, even though I hardly ever see her studying. I am almost jealous. Almost.
Today, the walk to the economics building takes me about thirteen minutes. Decent, but not super rushed. I am still there ahead of most of the other students because I always take my emergency ten minutes into account when planning my way to class. Nothing has ever happened that I needed those extra ten minutes, but I always prefer to be on the safe side.
Usually, I am one of the first few students to show up for class, but today the auditorium is surprisingly full, even though the class won't start for another fifteen minutes. I look around in surprise for a few moments before making my way down to the front. Middle of the third row, slightly to the right, that is where I usually sit. It is the perfect spot to see the board and the lecturer in front; very close, but not too close to be overlooked by the teacher, as students in the first two rows often are. Also, it has shown to be an area where hardly anyone wants to sit, as most students prefer to hide in the back or middle rows of the auditorium.
The very few students who like to sit here appear to share my view of education. There is no whispering, passing notes, people falling asleep, or staring at their phones during the lecture. No talking, no distractions, and no irritation by other people's lack of interest.
But today, everything is different.
The first few rows seem to be suspiciously popular, and I have to sit further out to the right than I am comfortable with. As I take my seat and get my notebook and pens out of my bag, the auditorium quickly fills up around me. I keep looking back over my shoulder to browse the hall to check whether I am misinterpreting things, but no, this class really is a lot more crowded than it’s known to be.
Did I make a mistake? Maybe I’m sitting in the wrong hall.
I turn around to my left. The seat right next to me is empty, but the one next to it is occupied by a blonde girl, who is holding a little makeup mirror up to her face while she is reapplying some deep red lipstick.
"Excuse me," I say, leaning over to her. "This is Econ 357, an Introduction to Entrepreneurship, right?"
The girl pauses for a moment before she turns to face me, casting me a look as if I was a clueless freshman.
"Uhm, yeah," she retorts, not even trying to hide her annoyance. "Jackson Portland, the hot self-made gazillionaire. Don't tell me you don't know he is teaching this class?"
"Sure, sure I do," I say. "I was just surprised. It's never been this crowded in any of my other Econ classes."
Especially on a Monday morning, I want to add, but I keep that part to myself.
The girl raises her eyebrows and scans me briefly before she asks, "Have you been living under a rock?"
I frown at her. "No. I know very well who Mr. Jackson Portland is."
"Then why are you so surprised?" she asks. "Why are you even here if it’s not because of him?"
"Because I need this class to graduate," I explain, trying to sound just as condescending as she does. "Not to drool all over this college dropout who thinks a little too highly of himself."
The girl rolls her eyes at me.
"I'd prefer it if this class was taught by a real professor," I add, raising my chin defiantly.
"Sure, whatever," the girl says, and then turns back to her mirror, making sure that she sports the perfect look for the oh-so-hot Mr. Portland.
The auditorium continues to be flooded with people, and unlike any other class I have attended before, the first rows are the ones that fill up the fastest.
It is ridiculous.
The lecture hall is packed by the time the class is supposed to start. It is louder than usual, too. People are chatting and giggling, including the girl next to me who was so keen on fixing her makeup.
Minutes go by and Mr. Portland doesn't show up. Apparently being on time does not count for someone like him. His tardiness aggravates me. It annoys me that men like him can just act however they please. He knows his place in this world. He must be aware of all the lovestruck girls in here, waiting for him, ready to make puppy-dog eyes at him, before he even shows his face.
I glance over to the blonde, who now produces something other than makeup from her bag. A book. A book about him, Jackson Portland. I'm familiar with it.
I did my research when I heard that he would be teaching this class, the only eligible Econ class that I could take this semester to complete my credits to earn my minor. His story reads like the perfect little fairytale, the one that people who fail at school can tell to convince each other that they can still amount to something.
He’s not even thirty years old, and Mr. Portland has already hired a ghostwriter to write his memoirs. The book just came out a few weeks ago and was an instant bestseller. If he hadn't already been wealthy before, I'm sure he would be by now. Everybody - including myself - has read his success story. Granted, it is an unusual story, and it’s easy to see why so many people could relate to someone like Mr. Portland.
He started out at the bottom, and up until just a few years ago, he was a nobody. Born to poor and neglectful parents, the father a drunk and the mother an unloving egomaniac who deserted her family when her son was still very young, he had anything but an easy start in life. I think that Mr. Portland is pulling at the reader's heartstrings a little too much as the book continued to delve into the hardships he endured during junior high and high school, when he claimed to have been a victim of severe bullying by his
peers. A chubby, nonathletic boy who did poorly in school. His grades were less than mediocre in all classes except for one: math. Of course, that didn't really help his popularity.
I have my doubts about the accuracy of this depiction, but it sure makes for a great story, especially considering where he finds himself now. According to his memoir, it was not until his first year of college - community college, that is - before he managed to break out of his cycle of misfortune. He met a mentor, an old professor who was about to retire and who, for some reason, saw it as his duty to help out this poor little bastard.
It bothers me that most of his written life story focuses on all the bad things and his unfortunate background, but draws very little attention to his success. A part of me suspects there is another book waiting to be published about that. In this first book, he only mentions how his mentor helped him realize that he was not a scholar, but an entrepreneur. An inventor, an adventurer - that is what he called it.
He is a big player, if not one of the biggest, in the technology sector. It all started with a smartphone app, but then it goes way beyond that. He has invested in and bought up so many smaller companies that it is hard to tell what actually belongs to his conglomerate and what doesn't.
He made his idea work. He followed through. Even I have to give him credit for that.
I brought the book with me, but am hesitant about placing it on my desk like a lot of other students did around me. I don't want to give him the impression that I am as impressed by him and his story as they all seem to be. On the contrary, I refuse to admire someone who didn't even have the ambition and perseverance to earn an undergraduate degree.
Someone who doesn't even have the courtesy to show up on time for his own class.
He is almost ten minutes late when he finally shows up. His arrival is greeted by silence at first, only to be interrupted by excited whispering and gawking as he makes his way up to the front of the class.
Mr. Portland is wearing a dark gray suit that seems to be custom-tailored to fit his broad, tall frame, and it seems to only emphasize the masculine assertiveness of his steps.
Even I have to admit it. This man is gorgeous.
CHAPTER TWO
LANA
Jackson Portland positions himself behind the lectern at the front of the lecture hall and looks over us expectantly. He is standing with his feet apart, his hands buried in his suit pant pockets, and his shoulders are pulled back. His stance only serves to emphasize how tall he is, and the strong cut to his jaw emphasizes his handsome masculinity as he confidently scans the crowd of students staring back at him. I’m struck by his facial features, which appear soft in comparison, making him look younger than his age.
His charcoal black hair is gelled to the side, partly covering his forehead on the left. I never read anything about his nationality, but his light brown skin and black hair suggests he may originate from Latin America, even though his surname doesn't suggest it. And, I think to myself, he might just frequent tanning beds, or enjoy lazy weekends sunning at the beach. It would suit a guy like him.
Handsome may be too ordinary of a word to describe him. He is gorgeous in every way. Even though his appearance screams wealth and entitlement, there is a raw ruggedness about him.
Mr. Portland didn't bring anything with him, no briefcase, no notebook or papers, not even a pen. While every other instructor seemed to bring a dizzying array of items for their opening lecture, he just stands there, empty-handed and with that unreadable and calm expression on his face.
People were whispering excitedly when he first walked in, but now as he stares at us, the voices around me steadily die down and the murmur stops, only interrupted by the occasional cough.
He is visibly enjoying all the attention he is getting. A smug smile spreads across his face just moments before he finally speaks.
"Good morning, everyone," he starts, sounding more like a host of a game show than a professor. "What a nice turnout for the first day of class. I have to admit, I didn't expect this much interest in my silly ramblings. "
A chorus of nervous giggles travels through the room, and even I manage a courtesy smile. Silly ramblings. I know it is supposed to be a joke, but he gives voice to my low expectations of him.
He lowers his eyes for a moment and lets the giggling subside before he continues.
"Let's hope I can live up to the high standards you all must be used to. Believe it or not, this is my first time on an Ivy League campus, and I am greatly humbled by this invitation and the interest I’m receiving from such already accomplished individuals such as yourselves."
Murmurs fill the hall as people process this unexpected compliment. I wonder whether this is part of his lecture: how to make people feel good about themselves. Making friends and allies must be an essential component of good business.
I wonder if I should already be taking notes. Who knows what types of things he might decide to throw on an exam.
It suddenly strikes me that I have absolutely no idea how this man will be evaluating and grading us. Will there be quizzes every week? A big exam at the end of the semester? Does he expect us to write essays? Will he teach us more about econometrics? The latter would mean that I really needed to bring my calculator...
"Even though I can see that some of you have already read my book," he adds, nodding toward one of the students who placed a copy of it on her desk. "Let me start by telling you a little bit about myself. Not the kind of things that you will find in there or in the newspaper. Something new, something you didn't know yet."
He pauses and smirks. "After all, this class is supposed to teach you something new. Why else would you be sitting here, right?"
A murmur of approval greets him.
"Okay," he continues. "This class is called Introduction to Entrepreneurship. I don't like that title, but I had to come up with something. I was asked to teach a graduate-level class full of bright and promising students, and when they asked me to do this, they probably thought I could teach you something about success. About launching your own business, about start-ups, about making it in Silicon Valley, the dreadful place where a lot of great things started - and a lot of not-so-great things failed and died."
He pauses then, scanning the rows of students with narrowed eyes and a somewhat sullen expression.
"And this is where the problem starts," he says. "Failure. No one ever likes to talk about it, and it is certainly not what they had in mind when I was asked to give this guest lecture. But you know what?"
He adds another dramatic pause, his eyes resting at a random spot somewhere towards the back of the lecture hall.
"I can teach you more about failure than I can tell you about success," he resumes. "I failed many times in my life before I managed to succeed even once. And honestly? Those hurtful, yet inevitable, failures taught me more than achieving success ever did. It was the failures that made me who I am. They made me determined, strong-willed, and persistent. I failed, but I never gave up. They taught me more than simply what not to do. They molded me, they helped me grow, and they eventually led me to forging my way to success in more ways than any school or class ever could."
The auditorium is dead silent. My fellow students are hanging on to Mr. Portland's every word, but I'm starting to seriously dislike him. This is supposed to be a graduate Econ class, not a self-help seminar, after all. Also, I don't like where he is going with this whole 'failure taught me more than school'-thing. Of course, he would have to say that, since school was among his many failures.
I raise my hand.
He doesn't see me at first, and when he does, he appears startled. I reckon he is not used to being interrupted.
His eyes meet mine with an explicable hint of humor.
"Yes?" he says, pointing in my direction. He takes a few steps toward me, his eyes never leave mine as he reduces the distance between us. A weird sizzle travels along my spine as he approaches. It unsettles me for a second, before I'm able to brush it away
.
Heads are turning toward me, some of them - I am sure - accompanied by rolling eyes. I know I'm anything but popular among some of my peers, but I couldn't care less about that.
"I'm sorry," I say, raising my voice as much as possible. "I’m a bit puzzled about what point you’re trying to make by sharing this confession. Are you saying there is no point for us to be sitting here in class, listening to lectures, earning a degree in the first place, because the only way we’ll ever succeed is to fail first?"
I know that I have a tendency to be impertinent, and this is no exception. I don't want to cause any trouble or get on his bad side, but I want him to know there is someone in this course who is not going to take everything he says at face value.
Yet I'm thankful that he doesn't seem to notice the tremble that takes hold of my entire body after I'm done speaking. I'm sure my voice would have croaked if I had said one more word.
Most of the other students don't react to my little disturbance, but some start whispering, and I notice the girl to my left is casting me an annoyed look.
But it's not their reaction that unsettles me - it's his. He looks at me, studying me intently with that observant stare, his eyes narrowing only the slightest bit without ever losing their focus on me. It feels as if he is leaching right into my bones, releasing a chill that makes its way through my insides. I'm shivering, sucking in air as if I just stepped out into the Arctic.
Why the hell is he looking at me like that? Why is he not saying anything? Is he trying to stare me down? His silence is causing a surreal tension that even the other students must have noticed.
"In a way, I am," Mr. Portland says, finally replying to my question. "Yes. I think most of you are wasting your time here. And yes, most of what you have learned in high school, during your undergraduate program, and even in the graduate classes you're taking now, has probably destroyed more than it has helped."
