by Penny Reid
Absolute power corrupts absolutely. And so does money.
Giving him nothing—no reaction, no words of explanation—I leaned my elbow on the arm of the club chair and covered my mouth with a hand. I waited.
Dr. McGovern also waited, but he’d be waiting indefinitely if his expectations included an impassioned defense, or contrition. I wasn’t the first professor to become involved with a student in our department—nor would I be the last—and therefore, his righteous speech was little more than sanctimonious blather.
Notwithstanding the bloated opinions of the sycophant across from me, I was discontented with myself. My weakness disappointed me. But I’d never confess as much to him.
“Well?” The older man leaned backward, turning his hands palm up, apparently dissatisfied with my lack of comment.
I scratched my cheek. “Would you like a resignation letter?”
He considered me, ubiquitous contempt painting the man a shade of green that would have complemented the office’s previous décor. “Of course not.”
“Then, a mediator.”
Dr. McGovern nodded once, his thin lips now a thinner line, the two bits of flesh pressed together somehow less than each separately. “Fine. If you have no respect for the tenets of this institution, a mediator will be arranged.”
My goal accomplished, I stood. “How soon?”
He threw a hand in the air. “Next week,” he blustered, exasperated, as though he’d been the one disenfranchised and preyed upon.
Next week.
I nodded, turned, and left.
One week.
I sailed down the hall, past the department secretary, not pausing to check my messages.
I wasn’t proud of my decisions where Anna was concerned. But for once in my life, pride seemed to matter not at all.
I wanted Anna.
I wanted to be with her, even if I wasn’t yet free to be with her fully.
If she is willing, this will have to be enough.
Yes, Anna was beautiful—I considered her the most beautiful woman I’d ever known—but it was her words that preoccupied me, unbearably brief glimpses into an exquisite soul. The email she’d sent in February, her responses to discussion test questions, the essay she’d written before dropping the class.
Each time we were alone, a surge of intrinsic rightness overwhelmed caution, circumspection eclipsed by an agonizing curiosity. I needed to know her. We’d barely touched, but these encounters—things left unsaid, actions untaken—haunted me.
My life split in two: before and after; the possibility of she, of hope and wonder; and then everything else.
. .
I didn’t deserve her, not yet. Not until my book was finished and published. Not until I’d secured enough in grant funding to be independent of the endowment my father had made in my name. Not until I’d succeeded in fully supporting myself, until I could offer her a life free of Sergey Kroft’s influence.
Then I’d be able to offer myself to her completely.
It might take months, or years. But it would be worth it.
For now, for this first step, I could wait one more week. Just one week. I could force circumspection.
For one week.
Part 13
** ANNA **
“The themes include infidelity, jealousy, hypocrisy, faith, family, marriage, and society. Anna Karenina is considered to be Tolstoy’s first true novel as well as one of the greatest novels of all time . . .”
I didn’t roll my eyes, but if I’d been an eye-roller I definitely would have.
Anna Karenina was my least favorite of Tolstoy’s works. Every character was a stereotype, a flat caricature lacking in depth, the only purpose, to play out scenarios in order to highlight Tolstoy’s precious themes.
The saint.
The sinner.
The ingénue.
The selfless hero.
The fallen woman.
Blarg and gag.
“What was Anna’s greatest mistake?” Luca asked the class, his eyes skimming over the lecture hall.
It was Friday. I’d returned to class on Monday, easily explaining away my absence to Taylor and other classmates as a personal emergency.
On Monday, I’d raised my hand every time he posed a question. He never called on me.
On Wednesday, I lifted my arm about half the time. Same result.
Today, I tried three times and then gave up.
Not only had Luca never called on me, he hadn’t looked at me all week. He hadn’t made any sign that I was anything other than invisible.
Just like old times.
At present, I was sketching a possible design for my cosplay costume and not really paying attention to the discussion or the lecture. I’d had just about as much as I could take of watching him interact with other students, watching how they engaged and became excited, watching how he’d hold them captive in the palm of his hand.
That would never be me, and that was okay.
Moving on.
“Anna . . .” Luca’s voice said from somewhere at the front of the lecture hall, and I completely zoned out.
I’d decided I’d be Tank Girl for Comic-Con. The outfit would be a challenge, but I’d found an online tutorial for making armor out of PVP foam and Mod Podge. Mod Podge was basically magic in a bottle for crafters.
Taylor nudged me with her elbow, yanking my attention away from the sketch. I frowned at her, and she stared back with wide eyes, indicating with her head toward the front of the lecture hall.
Confused, I glanced in the direction she indicated and found Luca leaning against the long table at the front, looking at me.
A shock of surprise and awareness slapped me across the face, and I sat straighter in my seat.
“Ms. Harris, do you need me to repeat the question?”
I nodded. “Yes, please.”
Luca’s tone was even as he asked, “What was Anna’s greatest mistake?”
Without thinking too much about it, I responded, “Allowing others to define her worth rather than having a strong sense of self.”
Luca’s stare turned fuzzy for a beat as he processed my response, and confusion knit his eyebrows. “You don’t think her greatest mistake was giving in to Vronsky? Leaving her husband, Alexej Karenin?”
“No. She didn’t belong with Karenin. She did the right thing by leaving him.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, his frown deepening, and lifted his chin toward me. “Please explain.”
I knew this tactic. I’d watched Luca employ this one hundred times during class, always when he disagreed with a student and was preparing a counterargument. He’d listen to their thoughts and ideas—which were typically ill-formed and lacking conviction—and then he’d poke holes in it until the student conceded, adding another heart-mind combo to his vast collection.
Gathering a deep breath, I shifted my eyes to the wipe board behind him; I couldn’t look at him and his distracting sexy bowtie if I was going to actually debate my point.
“Anna—who is charismatic, charming, vivacious, gorgeous, intelligent, and extremely vain—marries Karenin—a boring, rigid senior government official who she finds unattractive . . .”,” I paused for dramatic effect, then added, “Probably because he’s boring.”
A short whisper of laughter rumbled over the class, cut even shorter by Luca casting his unimpressed gaze over the students.
Not waiting for him to rebuke me, I continued, “Anna didn’t belong with Karenin. Leaving him was the right thing to do, for both of them. Falling in love with Vronsky made sense, as he was more her speed.”
“You didn’t find him shallow?”
“Of course I did,” I responded immediately. “He was shallow, and vain, and pretentious. I would never date him, but he was perfect for her. Plus, Vronsky was also passionately in love with Anna. And he was loyal to Anna throughout the entirety of the book, even when others shun her, even when she starts boiling bunnies.”
“An
d yet, Anna is shunned by society, rebuffed at the theater for her sins.”
“Yes. Exactly. She is shunned. And so what? If she’d had a stronger sense of herself, then the shunning and rebuffing would hold little concern for her. If you know who you are, rejection matters very little. It says more about the small-mindedness of the person who is doing the rejecting than it does about you.”
This last sentence rang through the air for a good twenty seconds after I said it. Though there was no echo, it echoed.
It resonated.
At least, it resonated with me. It bounced around my brain and felt so very, very, very correct.
The class remained still and quiet, apparently lost to their own thoughts. Meanwhile, Luca and I stared at each other, his frown easing as he—also still and quiet—studied me.
Eventually, he gathered a deep breath and countered thoughtfully, “But what of the parallel between Vronsky’s horse and his treatment of Anna?”
“Anna is not a horse. On behalf of women everywhere, I object to Tolstoy’s attempt to draw a parallel between a farm animal and a woman. Again, it speaks volumes about Tolstoy, but I digress. If Anna based her worth on how badass and awesome she was, rather than the opinions of those who rejected her, then she would have lived a long, happy life with her daughter and smokin’ hot lover, Vronsky. Instead, she throws herself in front of a train, just because she isn’t invited to a party.”
“People cannot dwell or thrive in isolation.”
“She wasn’t isolated. She had peasants,” I said with a grin. “She should have befriended the peasants. Peasants are awesome and throw great parties.”
Another rumble of laughter rippled through the lecture hall and, though Luca’s eyebrows told me he was still frowning, his mouth curved into a betraying smile.
“And what of pride?” he asked softly. “What of a place in society? In one’s own family?”
I flicked my wrist with a dismissive gesture. “Pride is just another word for insecurity and fear—again, having no strong sense of self or worth. If pride is the driving force behind your decisions, then your life is going to suck.” I stopped myself before saying balls, as in: your life is going to suck balls.
After a long moment, Luca nodded—very slowly at first—his eyes hazy with his own ponderings.
“But . . .” I started, feeling a small twinge of guilt since I’d ignored the point Luca was trying to make in favor of expressing my own perspective. “My answer is, of course, colored by the lens of modern individualist values. Therefore—given the fact that Anna Karenina was written prior to the perspectivism movement of the nineteenth century, and framing the story in Tolstoy’s themes on infidelity, vanity, selflessness, and family—I concede that Tolstoy wanted us to believe that Anna’s greatest mistake was succumbing to the temptation of Vronsky.”
“How magnanimous of you.” Luca’s smile spread, like he was suppressing a laugh, and I fell head first into his gaze. His eyes were twinkling at me.
I shrugged, an unbidden flush of pleasure heating my neck and cheeks, momentarily forgetting we were not alone. “Well, my middle name is benevolent.”
“No it’s not, it’s Iris,” he said, then blinked, snapping his mouth shut, visibly startled by his own words.
Clearly, he hadn’t meant to say them.
And I hadn’t expected him to say them. I stared at him blankly, opening my mouth to no purpose while a heavy silence fell over the class. I felt eyes on me from every direction, moving between my face and his.
Don’t look guilty.
Don’t. Look. Guilty.
DON’T LOOK GUILTY!
The most difficult thing to do is not look guilty when your brain is telling you to not look guilty.
Not difficult, however, making an awkward joke.
“It’s true,” I blurted. “My cousin used to call me Anna Eyeball.”
This earned me a few chuckles, enough that I was able to tear my gaze from his and glance unseeingly at the sketch I’d been drawing. I swallowed thickly, willing my thundering heart to slow.
“Yes, well . . .” Luca said, his voice tight. He cleared his throat and then continued in a steady, instructional tone. “Given that we’ve established Tolstoy wanted us to believe Anna Karenina’s greatest mistake was giving into the temptation of Vronsky, let’s take a look at Kitty’s path in comparison.”
I tucked my chin to my chest and added several pointless lines to my costume sketch, emphatically ignoring the weight of Taylor’s probing gaze from my right. It was easy to do, because I was obsessing. And try as I might, I could not stop obsessing over the truth betrayed by Luca’s thoughtlessly spoken words.
He’d looked up my middle name.
Let that sink in.
Eventually, the sounds of class dismissing paired with Taylor nudging me again forced my attention away from the sketch on my desk.
Leaning close, she spoke low, so only I could hear. “Don’t look, but Professor Kroft is staring at you.”
I choked on my immediate reaction—which was to ask, What is his expression like? Does he look angry? Sad? Plagued by infatuation? Crushed under the weight of unrequited affection?—and instead managed a weird chuckle. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“He is,” she whispered on an excited rush. “Well, he’s typing on his phone now. But he was staring at you. No, wait—now he’s looking up here again.”
I stacked and restacked my papers, reaching for my backpack. “Maybe he’s looking at you.”
“Ha! No. Professor Kroft doesn’t know my middle name.”
“Yes, he does. He knows everyone’s middle name. I’m sure it’s on the roster.”
“It’s not. Just initials are on the roster.”
I finally looked at her and asked before I could catch myself, “How would you know that?”
She shrugged, grinning. “I’m a TA for the Art History Department. I know what class rosters look like and they only have initials for middle names.”
Closing my eyes for a beat, I sighed. Really, I only sighed because I was stalling. Stalling and deflecting were essential life skills I’d learned at home when my dad would ask me, You didn’t stay up reading all night again, did you?
Most of the other students had already cleared out, leaving only a few stragglers. It might have been my imagination, but I felt the weight of stares on my face and back. Not wanting to be one of the few loitering, I pulled my backpack to my shoulder and turned for the stairs.
“I have to go.”
“Wait, want to grab something to eat?” Taylor jumped from her seat, clutching her computer and bag to her chest.
“I, uh—”
“Come on.” She rushed forward, looping her arm with mine. “Don’t you want to discuss possible theories of why Professor Kroft made it a point to know your middle name?”
“No. I don’t. I really, really don’t. I have to go.” I shook my head—with feeling—as we climbed the stairs arm in arm, trying not to think about how this would look to Luca from the lecture hall floor.
“Come on, Anna. The way he was looking at you? When he called you magnanimous? Gah!” She pushed the door open to the outside as she whispered excitedly, “I’m not the only one who noticed, it was impossible not to.”
I increased the speed of my head shake. “I have plans. I have things to do. I’m already late. I have . . .” I’d pulled out my phone, as though it would give my excuses more credibility, then frowned at the screen.
A notification had just popped up.
I had a new email.
And it was from Luca.
Part 14
** ANNA **
“You seem weird.”
“What?”
Emily poked me with a long stalk of celery. “You seem weird. You seem off.”
I sucked in a large breath, held it in my lungs, and returned my attention to the Concrete Structures textbook I’d been perusing. I couldn’t recall a single detail about its contents.
“I’m
fine,” I breathed out.
She poked me again. “No. You’ve been off for weeks, all summer in fact, but today you’re even worse than usual. Something is going on. You’re keeping secrets.”
I frowned at the textbook, staring at it without seeing the words, and shook my head.
But she was right.
I’d told her nothing of my interactions with Luca and I wondered if withholding this information somehow broke the unwritten best friend code. I didn’t think so.
This wasn’t anything as banal as me having a crush on my professor. Of course, I did have a crush on him. In an odd reversal of societal norms, Luca’s external hotness played second fiddle to the sexiness of his brain. Most of the class—both male and female—had a crush on his brain. Fact.
No. The secret I kept from my best friend wasn’t the crush.
“Tell me.” She poked me once more.
I closed my textbook with a smack. “Fine.”
“I knew it.” Emily shot up in her chair, jabbing the celery in the air. “I knew it. What happened? It’s got to be good if you’re this agitated.”
“I’m not agitated.”
“Yes, darling, you are agitated. You’ve been missing easy questions on trivia night. My guess is some boy has stolen your heart.”
“Why would you think that?” I tried to make a face of denial and failed, more curious for her answer than concerned she’d figured out the truth.
“Because that stone-cold fox hit on you last Tuesday and you were even more oblivious than usual.”
“Who?”
“The musician guy? The one who asked if you would sit on his lap?”
This time I successfully made a face. “He wasn’t hitting on me.”
“Yeah. He was. Pro tip, Anna: if any guy other than Santa Claus asks you to sit on his lap, he’s hitting on you. So spill it. Spill your guts. Spill them everywhere.”
I frowned, attempting to parse my thoughts. “Okay, first, you have to promise not to tell anyone. And I mean anyone. No one can know about this conversation. Ever.”
