by Linnea May
The auditorium is dead silent, and even I am left speechless at his words. This I did not expect. He has got to be joking.
"Don't get me wrong," he says, raising his hands in defense – and then finally withdrawing his eyes from mine. "I still think you're doing something right by sitting here and earning a degree from one of the best colleges in this country. But this is not about learning valuable things, about learning who you are or what you are capable of, about receiving what they call 'the best education'. No, it's not. Do you know what it is about?"
He starts scanning the auditorium again.
"This is a question," he clarifies. "What is school about? What is your degree about?"
For a few moments, there is nothing but silence. People are exchanging looks of confusion, shrugging, whispering, shaking their heads. Until one student dares to raise her hand.
"Yes," he says, pointing at the brave girl in the far back.
"Growing?" she suggests.
"Growing?"
"Yes," the girl adds, clearing her throat. "About... you know, growing to reach your full potential."
Mr. Portland hesitates for a moment, all eyes resting on him, eagerly awaiting his response.
"That sounds lovely," he says eventually. "And it may be true. But it's not the answer I am looking for. Any other suggestions?"
His direct way of countering the student doesn't really encourage others to try. No one else raises their hands. Mr. Portland spends what seems like a painfully long time waiting for a response that doesn't come.
Even I feel too intimidated to say anything. Plus, I'm angry at him. He enjoys this confusion and attention-whoring a little too much.
Why doesn't he just tell us?
As if he heard my thoughts, he turns his head back toward me. Our eyes meet again, but before I can look away, he directs his voice at me.
"You asked me whether there is any point in sitting in this class," he says. "So clearly, you must have an idea about why you're doing this?"
My heart almost stops beating. The entire auditorium's attention is now focused on me. I'm sure some of them feel that I am getting exactly what I deserve, as I am clearly not capable of giving him a response and struggling with this unwanted attention.
"Why don't you just tell us, Mr. Portland?" I snap at him. My cheeks glow with a seething combination of anger and embarrassment, while a buzz of shock fills the room as the other students inhale audibly to my comment.
He looks at me, his eyes piercing through me with that same intensity as before. I try to withstand his gaze without showing how much I regret saying what I did. So much for not getting on his bad side.
"You're right," he says, his eyes still locked with mine. "That would probably save us all a lot of time."
I gulp. Damn.
"I'll tell you what school is about," he says, turning back to the rest of the students in the auditorium.
I sigh with relief.
"It's about signaling," he concludes. "Signaling that you know the rules of the game. Signaling that you are willing to work hard, listen to boring stuff, complete useless and boring assignments, and follow orders."
He pauses for a moment to let us process his words of wisdom, and then he continues.
"You are signaling that you will be good employees, good workers, and compliant subordinates," he says. "And again: there is nothing wrong with that. After all, it is what will help you obtain a good, safe and well-paying job. If this is what you are after, you might be doing the right thing. Just don't think you're anything special."
Frowns and confused whispers start making the rounds again.
"But, as you all know, this class is called Introduction to Entrepreneurship," Mr. Portland proceeds, completely ignoring the students' reactions.
"I was asked to come here to teach you what it takes to be successful by doing your own thing - at least that's how I understand my job. And I can tell you one thing right away: you don’t get where I am by following the rules, by doing what everyone else is doing, or by following in someone else's footsteps. Success comes with creativity, bravery, and a pinch of ignorance. Ignorance of what can go wrong. You will fail, and there are a lot of things that you will fail at, but you should not be focusing on failure before you even start."
He adds another pause for emphasis and turns around, grabbing a markers to write something on the spic and span whiteboard behind him.
"And as I said before," he adds as he continues writing. "That is what we will be talking about for now. Failure."
I look around and reluctantly pick up my pen to start taking notes, as most other students are doing, but my hands are still shaking.
CHAPTER THREE
JACKSON
That look. I have seen it before.
It makes my insides burn.
Every campus has at least one student like her. Diligent, strict, obedient - and with a strong desire to please.
Ready to be broken.
When I was asked to give this guest lecture, I told myself that I would have to be prepared. I knew there would be opposition. Unpleasant encounters, disgusting conversations, and condescending looks.
I told Professor Clark that I wouldn't spend a lot of time on campus and that I had no interest in interacting with the faculty more than I had to. This is not my environment, not where I belong.
I also told him that I would need my lecture to be free from standardization and that I would not be willing to grade students, as I don't consider myself qualified to do so. Of course, that was a lie. I am more than qualified to evaluate a student's work, but I know my grading system would not be compliant with the school's regulations. If they need to receive a grade in order to get credit for my class, they would have to write a paper and the school-supplied teaching assistant would be assigned to do it.
I never thought they would agree to this, but they did. Apparently, my name was big enough for them to go out of their way just to have me talk to their students as an honorary guest lecturer of some sort. Me. It's so ridiculous.
Still, I was prepared for a lot of frustration that would make me question my decision to take over this class.
However, I was not prepared for her. Those dark blue eyes, her slim shoulders, tense posture, even when sitting.
I know her kind.
She is not the kind of girl who draws eyes, the kind who makes men turn their heads, evoking indecent comments and lewd behavior. The sexy broad who owns the attention of everyone around her just by showing up, flaunting her assets in revealing clothes and a coy attitude.
No, that's not her.
However, she is exactly the kind of woman I'm drawn to.
She is a good girl, unassuming and demure. Dressed in dark colors, she lets her brown hair fall down over her slim shoulders, framing a delicate-featured, porcelain-complexioned face. It is the end of the summer, but she is one of the very few students in here without the slightest hint of a tan. It makes her look younger than she probably is, and it makes her unusually dark eyes pop even more. They are too dark for her complexion, and it takes a second look to realize that they are not black or brown, but blue.
I don’t notice her until she raises her hand, drawing my attention to her like a bolt of lightning. I know what to expect even before she speaks. She wants to prove a point, and she wants me to know that she is neither intimidated nor enchanted by me, like most of her peers are.
The look on her face says it all. It's different from most other girls in this class. Her face is stern and focused. This is what makes her stand out from the crowd.
The female crowd around her displays the same infatuation that I have become all too used to. I can see them left and right, their empty eyes hanging on to my every word. How boring. Infantile admiration is written all over their faces.
But it’s not on hers.
She is pressing her small lips together as she waits for me to call on her. I didn't expect to be interrupted this early in the lecture, so she has the el
ement of surprise going for her. That surprise soon fades when she starts speaking and proves my suspicions right.
I thrive on seeing her eyebrows furl when I pick up her arrogant interjection and continue saying things she will hate. Calling on her again a few minutes later is just the icing on the cake.
"Why don't you just tell us, Mr. Portland?" she says with that snarky tone in her voice.
I will remember this, and I won't forget to punish her one way or another.
She refrains from any further interruptions during the lecture, but after I dismiss the class, I notice she is packing up her things rather slowly. She lingers while most of the other students rush out of the auditorium on their way to another class, and continues hanging back even longer while a handful of other students come down to the front to speak to me.
This group of students is made up mostly of girls who are thanking me for the "enlightening" first lecture and one guy who asks whether there will be material to download as the semester progresses. I answer their questions and thank them for their remarks, but try to dismiss them as quickly as possible. It's not just that I don’t have the time or desire to hang out with these entitled kids, but because I’m curious why she’s hanging back now that the lecture is over.
She’s standing off by herself, keeping her distance while there are still other students around. Only when the last one finally leaves does she approach me.
"Yes?" I ask before she can open her mouth. "Was there something you needed?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," she says. She’s now standing right next to me. I notice her give a little shiver when I lay my eyes on her, even though she’s trying her best to appear confident and calm.
She’s not succeeding. Her nervousness is obvious.
Good. Very good.
I sigh. "How can I help you?"
"I need to receive credit for this class in order to graduate," she says, crossing her arms in front of her small chest. "And I was wondering how you would be grading us? Will there be an exam? A paper? You never mentioned anything and didn’t post a syllabus, like our professors would."
I notice the special emphasis she puts on her last few words. Like our professors would. She is trying to put me in my place, to remind me that I don’t belong here. I wouldn't be surprised if she finds it demeaning to be taking a class taught by me at all.
However, her question is legitimate and deserves an answer, and I’m actually surprised that she is the first person to ask about it.
"There won't be any exams or papers, and I won’t be assigning grades," I say. "You'll pass this class through standard attendance-"
"That's unusual," she interrupts. "Normally, graduate students are not required to attend classes, and we're evaluated by-"
"I know that," I say, this time interrupting her. "But you may have noticed that I like to do things a little differently.”
"Did the dean agree to this?"
Now she is starting to agitate me. I take an abrupt step closer to her, so close that I can breathe in her scent. It's uniquely her, I can tell, no heavy perfume covering her clean and innocent fragrance.
She flinches, but doesn't step away from me. Her breathing accelerates, though. I love the effect I have on her, and her arrogance only adds to my excitement.
This girl is going to be in a lot more trouble than she could ever imagine.
"Of course, the dean agrees with me on this," I hiss. We are standing so close that she must feel my warm breath on her face as I speak.
She looks up at me, waiting, her eyes focused.
"If you want a grade for this class - even though it is not required - you can arrange something with my teaching assistant. Write a silly essay or something. I really don't care."
She nods. "All right. I will."
"Fine."
"I'm curious, though," she says, taking in a deep breath. "You said students will receive credit for attending class.”
She pauses, looking at me as if she is making sure I am listening to her. I raise one of my eyebrows impatiently, beckoning her to continue.
"Are you going to take attendance? I don't think you did today..."
This girl. It's almost as if she is asking for punishment.
"Why don't you let that be my concern," I tell her, and her eyes flicker in response. She is not very tall, barely reaching up to my chin as she stands before me in her ballerina flats. I can't help but wonder what she would look like in heels. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has never worn them before and wouldn't be able to walk in them. It would be fun to see her try.
"You just worry about your own work, and let me do my job."
"Like writing a silly essay paper, you mean?"
I nod. "Yes, exactly."
"You don't seem to take this class very seriously," she states.
I don't understand why she is still here. Is she seriously trying to lecture me? Does she want me to bend her over my desk right here and now?
"And you take it a bit too seriously, young lady," I retort. "Your ambition may be admirable, but a more pleasant attitude wouldn't hurt."
Her eyes widen with indignation and she inhales sharply. Oh, I have upset the little lady.
She takes a step back then, and as she does, I see her shoulders instantly relax a little. My proximity caused her to tense up more than she would ever be willing to admit.
How sweet. How delicious.
"I'll talk to your assistant about the paper," she says, acting as if the last few words of our exchange never happened. "Thank you."
With that, she abruptly turns to leave.
"What's your name?" I ask.
She stops and turns toward me, her eyebrows raised with worry. "Why?"
"I am your teacher, you are in my class, and I feel like you might be one of the few who will actually ask questions,” I say. "Wouldn't it be nice if I could address you by your name every time I call on you?”
She hesitates.
"Besides," I add. "It's polite to answer someone when you’ve been asked a question."
"Is it? It could also be a way for a teacher to take revenge on a student by grading unfairly when they can put a name to a face they don't like."
"I told you, I'm not grading you," I say, chuckling and shaking my head. "Besides, what makes you think that I don't like you?"
There it is. She blushes. This uptight, confused little creature blushes while she’s standing right there in front of me.
"I like you," I say to worsen her embarrassment. "Students like you are far more fun to deal with than a doe-eyed admirer who won't talk back. There’s no challenge. Kind of boring, don't you think?"
Her cheeks and ears are burning a crimson shade of red, and her lips part in an attempt to speak. She has never been seen as a rebel, as someone who talks back, someone who challenges her teachers. That is not who she is.
This is all new to her.
"Harlington," she says eventually, her voice thin and shaky, very unlike how it sounded before. "Lana Harlington."
"Thank you, Miss Harlington," I say, nodding toward her. "I am looking forward to teaching you this semester."
She nods in acknowledgement, but doesn't say anything. Instead of her mouth, it's her eyes that move. They flutter like the wings of a butterfly. She stares at me with those flickering lashes for a few moments before she decides to turn around.
My eyes are glued to her back as she walks out of the auditorium, swaying her slim hips, the lines of her dark gray skirt fit perfectly to the curves of her perky ass.
I am going to wrap my hands around those hips.
And I am going to spank the hell out of that tight, little ass.
Just you wait, Miss Harlington.
CHAPTER FOUR
LANA
For as long as Celia and I have shared a room, I cannot remember the last time she asked me how my day was. The way we pursue college life is so different from one another that there are times when we hardly see each other, let alone speak to one a
nother.
When I come home after a long day of classes and from my part-time job at the library, Celia is usually about to get ready to go out or has already left, and when I get up in the morning, she is still fast asleep. She is smart enough to never pick a class that starts earlier than ten in the morning, and even getting up at that time is a struggle for her.
This evening, she is sitting at her desk, in the middle of fixing her makeup, when I walk in. Normally, I wouldn't get more than a simple 'Hi' from her, without even turning her head to look at me. Tonight, though, she stops what she's doing as soon as I open the door and looks at me with expectant eyes. "So, how was it?"
"How was what?" I ask, confused. "My day?"
She sighs and rolls her eyes. "No, silly. Your lecture with Mr. Awesome!"
I head over to my side of the room, tossing my bag onto my bed and letting out an angry snort.
"Mr. Full-of-himself is more like it," I unload. "He's such a douche-bag! I cannot believe the university lets him teach!”
I sink down on the bed next to my bag and look over to Celia. She is eyeing me with an amused smile.
"He's not qualified at all," I continue. "No syllabus, no grades, no exam, no papers. I feel like he's going to spend the entire semester telling us about how great he is, and that's it."
Celia grins. "Oh, that's gonna make him even more popular, I bet!"
"Not with me.”
Celia rolls her eyes at me again.
"And the way he exposed me...," I add, regretting it just a moment later as Celia's eyes light up with excitement.
"Exposed you?"
She leans over the backrest of her chair, looking at me with a coy smile. "What is that all about? Spill!"
"Don't you have to be somewhere?" I ask, nodding toward the makeup brush in her hand.
She waves me off. "Oh, don't try to change the subject! Tell me!"
I sigh. Why did I even start this conversation? I could have just given her what she wants: tell her that Mr. Portland is as handsome as they say and it's nice to have some eye-candy in class - or something along those lines. Telling her the truth will only end up making me the bad guy of the story.
