by Claire Adams
Chapter Two
Leo
I was bored.
And it wasn’t just a short-term, easily fixable type of boredom, something that could be remedied by scheduling some activity, planning some outing, this was chronic, bone-deep, terminal sort of boredom.
My life—which had once been rather interesting, if I do say so myself—had gotten so boring that it was almost unrecognizable to me. Here I was, a college professor, a teacher, a job that I had somehow ended up with because I’d fucked up in my other one.
I was so bored, in fact, that just the other night, I watched an entire soft-core porn on HBO GO, about a college professor who sleeps with one of his students. The plot was flimsy, the acting even flimsier, and I might have fallen asleep toward the end, but before I did, I remembered sitting there thinking that if I at least had something like that going on, then maybe I wouldn’t feel like shooting myself every morning before I had to go to work.
Today though, there was at least a little something to look forward to: I always derived some sort of perverse enjoyment when it came to returning assignments, because undoubtedly, there would always be a handful of students who assumed they had done far better than they actually did. These were usually the kids who were used to skating through life, either because they were the smartest kid in their high school (big fish, little pond) or because they’d been born with a silver spoon and had everything handed to them on a fucking platter.
The big fish, little pond students, upon arriving at a much larger pond (as Benton College was), would either take it as a challenge to do better or would take it personally and think that their whole life, up until this point, had been one big lie. The spoiled kids (of which there were many) either acted indignantly or just didn’t give a fuck.
Professor at some private college was not numero uno on my list of career possibilities when I was growing up. Seeing as I fucking hated school, I suppose you could call this turn of events ironic, but I have reached the point where I can just accept that this is the way life works out sometimes. One day, you’re working your way toward editor-in-large at a national magazine, the next, you’re out of a job and blacklisted just about everywhere else because your boss found out you had slept with his wife.
The only reason I had this gig at Benton was because a pal of mine from high school was working here, as a sociology professor. Or was it psychology? I could never remember. The difference between Jack and me, though, was that a teaching position at Benton was probably numero uno on Jack’s list, and he just as likely woke up every morning, thankful for his amazing life that was working out exactly how he hoped it would be.
Glad it was for one of us.
I’d been feeling more and more restless lately. I needed to get the fuck out of here; I needed to do something that didn’t require me to sit in a classroom for four or five hours a day, doing little more than babysitting. Don’t get me wrong—some of my students were eager little beavers, showing up each morning with bright eyes and bushy tails, hanging onto every last word I said. A few of them actually reminded me of myself when I was still young and fresh and thought that the world was ripe for my picking.
But mostly, this whole thing was just a gigantic fucking pain in my ass.
I’d handed out the graded feature articles that my dear students had written, and most of them were pleased with their grades, though there were a few that were surprised, and that surprise went in both directions. Lindsey Porter, for example, had actually written an A article, a feature piece on a medical cannabis clinic that would be going out of business since the legalization of marijuana had been voted in. The doctor she profiled had been a family physician at some hippie compound for decades, and then, only after becoming a grandmother and the medicinal use of cannabis approved by the good people of California, did she decide to reinvent herself as the pot doctor extraordinaire. The story was actually the most interesting one I read, and even my teaching assistant, Kristin, agreed.
I returned to the front of the classroom and gave the class a few moments to read over the comments that either Kristin or I had colored their papers with. Some students, such as Lindsey, weren’t even bothering with it; they were scrolling through their phones, probably checking out how many likes a recent post had gotten. Though Benton had a zero tolerance policy for personal electronic devices in the classroom, I didn’t really give a shit, so long as they weren’t using them when I was talking.
Tessa Donovan, on the other hand, looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Jesus fucking Christ. There were always a handful of those students, too; the sorts that the sun rose and set with how well their GPA was. Tessa was actually probably one of the brightest students I had, though her work in the recent past hadn’t been as good as I’d come to expect. And the moral of that story is not to have any expectations when it comes to students. Kristin had graded her paper, an article about a high-kill animal shelter in Daly City, and had given it a C+. I’d skimmed the article, and though I probably would have given her a B, I let the grade stand. I didn’t feel like getting into some sort of moral debate over it with my goddamn teaching assistant.
After they’d had the chance to take in their grades and read the comments, I opened the discussion, for all those who wanted to participate, about the feedback they’d received on their articles. I knew some teachers preferred to discuss these matters in private, if a student had a specific concern about a grade or a particular comment, but more often than not, the whole class could learn from the questions their classmates asked, even if it didn’t apply directly to the article they had written.
So we spent the majority of class going over their questions. I wanted to tell the students who looked completely crestfallen over their grades to man the fuck up—this wasn’t the end of the world. No one failed, and it’s not like this little feature article assignment was something that even mattered. It wasn’t going to be nominated for a Pulitzer; it wasn’t even going to be published anywhere. That way of thinking, though, directly contradicted the last thing Kristin decided to say to them before we dismissed the class:
“Every single thing you write matters. Dedicate yourself to your work, be willing to go over each word with a fine-tooth comb. If you’re diligent about this, and willing to put in the hard work, you will succeed.”
The students looked at her and nodded collectively, as though she were channeling wisdom from some sort of higher being. It was total bullshit, what she was saying, but I just smiled and nodded and acted like it was absolute fact.
I had a shitty little office that I retreated to in between classes, where I occasionally graded papers or met with students who were concerned about how they were doing. I was sitting in this office, inspecting the dried up ring of coffee in an old mug that I’d found buried under a stack of papers, when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I said, still holding the cup.
It was Carla Douglass, who you could technically call my colleague, as she was the other journalism professor here at Benton. She was older than I was, by at least a decade and a half, and she had worked mainly for newspapers, which was a purer form of journalism than magazines. She hadn’t come out and said that, but I knew she was thinking it.
“Leo, hi,” she said. “Shannon wanted to know if you got the memo about the faculty meeting on Friday. She said you didn’t RSVP.”
“I didn’t realize we were supposed to RSVP.”
“It said RSVP at the bottom. Bold letters. You were cc’d; I saw your name on the list.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” I said. “Looking to make sure I’d been included,” I added, when Carla gave me a blank look. “I’m not really that interested in going to a meeting, especially on a Friday night. Shouldn’t these things be scheduled during the school day?”
“We’re all busy, Leo,” Carla said. “And the meeting is at 6 o’clock. I’m sure we’ll get out in time for you to do whatever it is you have planned for Friday night.”
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What I had planned for Friday night was the big fuck all, but I wasn’t about to let Carla in on that.
“I was just about to check my email,” I said. “I’ll be sure to RSVP.”
“Please do. I promised Shannon I’d make sure that you did.”
Carla left, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. She was no fan of mine, I knew that, because my classes were more popular than hers. Even her own son, one of the star basketball players at Benton, had registered for my article-writing class as opposed to his mother’s, though I had a feeling that was more in part because the class was rumored to be easy. It wasn’t, and I’d given Seth a C, which was generous, though I knew it pissed Carla off. Benton had a strict policy that its athletes maintain a GPA of 3.0 or higher in order to play, and the school also had a reputation for not employing teachers who were willing to give a pass to a student just because he or she happened to be a star athlete.
I went back to examining that ring of dried coffee when there was another knock at the door. I sighed.
“What, Carla?” I said. “What did you forget now?”
The door opened, but it wasn’t Carla; it was Tessa Donovan, the girl from my feature writing class who had looked so positively gutted when she got her paper back. She was certainly one of the better-looking students. Part of what made her so attractive, though, was the fact that she didn’t realize she was so good-looking. Benton actually had its fair share of hot chicks, but the majority of the hot ones knew that they were hot. This one, she didn’t have a clue.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Um, hi, I’m in your feature writing class?”
She had long brown hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, and a fringe of bangs cut straight across. She had our primary textbook, The Fundamentals of Feature Writing, clasped to her chest.
“Is that a question?”
A confused look crossed her face, but then she shook her head. “No,” she said. “I . . . I’m just . . . I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”
“Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.” I gestured to the blue plastic chair that sat at the front of my desk.
She sat down, placing her backpack, purse, and textbook on the floor next to her. For not the first time, I asked myself the riddle of: why did the female student need to carry both a backpack AND a purse? And in this particular instance, why not put the textbook INTO the backpack?
I refocused my attention on Tessa’s face, as she’d started to talk and I had no idea what it was she was saying.
“ …not the grade I was expecting to get. I worked really hard on that article. I’m not trying to insult you, or anything, though, or argue with you about the grade—”
“No?” I interrupted. “Because that kind of sounds like what you’re doing.”
Her eyes widened. She was attractive, but there were hundreds of attractive girls here at Benton. So many that it almost made you think being at least an eight on the attractiveness scale was a requirement for acceptance.
“No,” she said. “If you think that this article was only a C+, then I accept that. And I plan to go through all the comments and really make sure that I do better on my next assignment. But—here’s the thing. I know the semester is already more than halfway over. And I’m afraid that with this grade I’m not going to be able to get my GPA back to where it needs to be, unless there’s something else I can do.”
I nodded slowly. “I see.”
“So do you think something would be possible?”
“We can definitely take care of that.”
A look of visible relief crossed her face. “Oh, great,” she said.
“Yeah,” I continued. “Some sort of extra credit something or other that will be able to get that GPA of yours back up.”
She nodded. “Sure. What kind of extra credit assignment were you thinking? Or do you have a couple that I can choose from? I’m fine doing whatever it is you want.”
“Great,” I said, recalling that movie I had watched the other night. Clearly, this was my chance. I had put a request out to the universe, and the universe was (for once) delivering. “Here’s what I want then: I want you to be my sex toy.”
The air hung heavy in the room, and neither of us said anything for several seconds. I watched her face morph through several variations of shock, finally settling on confusion, because surely she had just completely misheard what I’d said.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“I want you to be my sex toy.” This was the moment when I could laugh it off and say I was just kidding, making a joke in very bad taste, or I could keep a straight face and go with it. Just having this taboo interaction was making me feel more alive than I had in recent memory, injecting my mundane life with some sort of excitement. She could report me to the dean for all I cared; getting fired now would really be a mercy.
But all she said was, “Oh.” Her face turned red. It looked like maybe she was about to cry, or burst out laughing. She did neither, though. She just shook her head, gathering her things. She stood up. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do that. I mean, I know I can’t do that. I guess . . . I guess I’ll just have to take the grade I’m getting now. I’ll try and do better, but I can’t . . . I can’t do what it is that you just said, Professor Rochman.” She was rambling and backing up toward the door as she spoke.
“You can call me Leo,” I said, as she exited, and I had to laugh at how lecherous the whole thing sounded.
Chapter Three
Tessa
I hurried out of his office, ran through campus, and didn’t stop until I got to the student parking lot and got into my car. I sat in the front seat, replaying the whole conversation in my head. Had I just imagined the whole thing? Did he really just say I want you to be my sex toy?
No. No, I must have heard him wrong, he must have said . . . something else. Anything else. He was a professor. A professor wouldn’t say that sort of thing to a student.
But he did. I could hear his voice in my head, clear as day, as though he were sitting next to me in the passenger seat, whispering in my ear.
Underneath my embarrassed disbelief, I was vaguely aware of feeling aroused by the whole interaction. Things like that didn’t happen to girls like me—things like that happened in movies, or soap operas, or to girls like Lindsey, who had no qualms about letting a guy know when she was interested in him.
I dug through my purse and found my keys, started my car, and left Benton. I tried to ignore the fact that I felt aroused. I wasn’t going to get involved with a professor. Even if he was really hot. As I drove away from the school, I pushed all thoughts of Professor Rochman out of my mind. I had a bigger problem to deal with, and that was the fact that I hadn’t gotten the A I needed to get in the class. The best thing I could do right now would be to tell my parents. I’d initially thought that I could keep this a secret from them, because I’d be able to turn things around and they’d have no clue my grades had ever taken a dip in the first place. But I was beginning to realize now that might not have been the smartest move. They wouldn’t be thrilled to hear that I wasn’t doing as well as they expected, but knowing my parents, they’d be even more upset that I’d tried to keep it from them in the first place.
Not that it was going to be an easy conversation to have.
I found a parking spot right out front of my apartment, which was fortunate, since I usually had to park at least a couple blocks away. I went inside, took the elevator up to my floor, and let myself in.
My apartment wasn’t anything grand, but it was certainly a lot better than living in the dorms, and all the bills were paid for by my parents, including rent. There was no way that I would be able to continue living here if they weren’t footing the bill, at least while I was still in school. Even then, I’d heard plenty of horror stories about recent grads who had been unable to find a job, or had only been able to get work at Starbucks or somewhere like that. So they’d had to move back in with their pare
nts. The whole prospect of that was rather depressing.
I didn’t know exactly what my plan was going to be once I graduated college, but what I did know was that if I graduated with a 4.0 GPA, my parents would continue to help me out financially until I got a job and was able to take over paying for everything myself. If they cut me off now, that would completely derail everything that I planned to do.
I went into my bedroom and threw myself down on the bed. Now that I was in the safety of my own place, my mind started to wander back to what Professor Rochman had said. Sex toy. He wanted me to be his sex toy.
And even just thinking about it now, remembering how he looked, how his voice sounded, it made me feel turned on, even though I knew that hooking up with him was something I could never do. I just couldn’t. He was my teacher, after all, and even if he promised to give me an A, there was no way that I could do that—be his sex toy.
That night, I met Lindsey at Haymarket Café to study. We usually met up here a couple times a week, to do our homework, eat some food, and hang out a little, though tonight, I had no appetite whatsoever.
“Everything okay with you?” Lindsey asked, returning from the counter with her plate of food. Tonight it was an enchilada with a side of chips and guacamole, normally one of my favorites. Just seeing the food, though, made my stomach clench.
I hadn’t told her what had happened earlier. Part of me thought if I didn’t speak of it ever again, the memory would just disappear and I could pretend as if it had never happened. But as the day wore on, it seemed to be the only thing I could think about. I put my pen down and closed my laptop.
“Something did happen,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. “With Nick? Is he still being a douche? I could go kick him in the balls for you, if you want. We’ll see how well he’s slam dunking the ball after I do something like that.”
“That’s kind of you to offer, but it wasn’t Nick.”
