Wrong pronunciation

BLAIR’S POV

On Monday morning, I woke up feeling anxious. New school, new friends, new teachers, new everything. It was all super overwhelming.

Just two nights ago, I had moved into my apartment near Durham University. The flight to get here had been long and tiring, but the excitement of starting this new chapter kept me awake.

This early morning, I managed to eat a slice of toast and drink some chamomile tea before walking out the door, my laptop inside my tote bag. The weather was decent except for the wind, which made my spiky hair look a mess. It was only a 20‑minute walk to Durham University, though, so I hurried my pace.

Durham University of Fine Arts came into view when I turned a corner. It was stunning. The old yellowing stone, the tall buildings, the cobbled sidewalk, the big trees lining the pathway to the entrance. It really did look like a convent from the outside, but the many students walking towards the gate at 8:30 in the morning made it quite clear this was no convent anymore. I tugged at my tote, holding the straps close to me. I just had to find my classroom and pray I didn't get lost.

The building was intimidating. As soon as I stepped inside, I knew I'd have trouble finding my way to class.

"Excuse me, good morning, could you help me find classroom… AB205?" I asked a random guy who was standing in the entrance hall. He had a small cup of coffee in his hand, one of those you get from a crappy machine.

"Oh, no way! I'm going to that class too. Master student in Fine Arts?" the guy asked, his eyes bright.

"Wow, how lucky was I to find you? Yeah, I'm studying Painting. You?"

"Sculpture," he replied, taking a sip of his coffee. "I'm Maddox. Pleasure to meet you."

"Blair, likewise."

Maddox was a tall young man, about my age from the looks of it. He was wearing a baggy knit sweater and some jeans—nothing too striking for an art student. Truth be told, compared to our surroundings, every student looked a bit underdressed.

"Okay, so, the Arts building—AB—is just this way. They tucked us art students at the back of the University campus, go figure. They obviously had to put the Law and Economics students just down the corridor. I feel immediately disrespected," Maddox commented, and I couldn't help but laugh at his remark.

"Imagine some fancy people walking in the main building and seeing undergrad art projects hanging from the walls. That would be pretty embarrassing," I said, walking beside him.

"I guess you're right. But not just undergrads—we have some pretty eccentric classmates, especially from your branch. The painters are always so... different. You look pretty normal to me."

I had to agree with him. For an artist, I wasn't that creative in the way that I looked or dressed. I kept my spiky hair short, and I always styled it the same way. My clothes were basic as well, nothing too colorful or with flashy patterns. I did, however, like to keep my face clean‑shaven and neat, and I cared about grooming, but nothing too heavy—just simple moisturizer. I liked blending in. Besides, I didn't have to be loud and flamboyant for my art to be good.

When we arrived at the Arts Building, we walked towards our classroom. It was an amphitheater, with rows of built‑in semi‑circle tables going all the way around. The room had the capacity for about 30 students, but there were about half when we walked in. Maddox and I sat in the middle row, taking out our laptops and turning them on. The lecturer hadn't arrived yet, so we continued chatting away.

"Did you read Dr. Reynolds' email?" I asked Maddox. He rolled his eyes.

"Unfortunately, I did. What a way to set the tone for the rest of the semester. But I did read the whole thing and took some notes. God, I hope he doesn't pick me."

Suddenly, a flock of students came inside, filling the rest of the seats. Behind them walked in a tall man, probably in his early thirties, dressed in a suit. The clunk of his shoes dulled the whispering voices of the students as they settled down. The man carried with him his laptop and a file, which he laid open on top of the speaker's podium at the front of the class.

"Holy hell, is that our professor?" asked Maddox, his eyes widening. I was just as surprised as he was.

He was drop‑dead gorgeous.

"Alright class, settle down. First of all, good morning everyone, welcome to Art History. I'll be your professor for this course. You can address me by Professor, Sir, or Dr. Reynolds—anything else is unacceptable," he said, his deep, commanding voice reaching every corner of the room. "I hope you have all received the email I sent you a week ago and have prepared for this class accordingly. I did receive a few replies asking why I chose to conduct my evaluation this way. News flash: you're all adults, you're now Master students, and you shall be treated as such. For that reason, I expect nothing from you except hard work and dedication. You might not see it now, but this course is fundamental for your development as the artists you want to become. Like an old professor of mine used to say, we must understand the past to understand the present and create the future."

His strong words lingered in the air, the room dead silent. If my anxiety had been high this morning, it had only increased by a thousand percent.

"I'll begin by taking attendance, and then we'll look at the content for this course in more detail." He looked at his papers and read aloud. "Adam Mitchel."

"Present."

"Adrian Pratt."

"Present."

"Blair…" He paused, squinting at the paper. “…De Mon‑tor‑men‑see?”

A few heads turned. I knew exactly what was coming.

I was afraid to correct him, but I had to do it, or else he'd pronounce my name wrongly for the rest of the semester. I raised my hand shyly and cleared my throat. “It’s pronounced ‘De Mon‑mor‑ahn‑see,’ Professor.”

He snickered, amused by my correction. "Alright, Blair De Mon‑tor‑men‑see… like De Mon‑mor‑ahn‑see," he said, marking me present on his sheet. "Is it French?"

I clenched my jaw in anger. Why was he making fun of me on my first day, in front of everyone?

"I'd assume you'd know since you're teaching a course where half the terms are in French."

Maddox kicked me under the desk, trying to hold in his laughter. I could hear some students holding in theirs as well, whispers coming down the levels of the amphitheater like a wave. Maybe my comment was a little too much. Yeah, most definitely. I regretted it as soon as it came out of my mouth.

"Looks like I'm not teaching adults after all. We'll talk at the end of the class, Mr. De Montmorency."

He continued to take attendance, my nervousness skyrocketing. I looked at Maddox, the guy I had met just 20 minutes ago, searching for comfort and words of encouragement. He had a devilish smile on his face.

"Look, it isn't that bad. You're gonna be up close and personal with him."

Needless to say, his words had the opposite outcome of what I wished.

The class continued smoothly. After taking attendance and not making jokes anymore about anybody's names, Dr. Reynolds dissected the syllabus and explained how the grading was going to work. As expected, individual participation was graded as well, and that included the oh‑so‑dreadful surprise questions about the papers.

The professor changed the PowerPoint slides until he reached one with the cover of the paper we had to read. Everyone immediately tensed up.

Dr. Reynolds took a step down from the podium, coming closer to the front row. He looked serious and unfriendly. Was he happy to be teaching this course, or was he just doing it because the faculty was forcing him?

"At the beginning of the fifteenth century, painters and sculptors were seldom regarded as more than artisans and craftsmen, but within little more than a hundred years they had risen to the status of 'artists,'" he began, pacing back and forth, his voice strong and confident. "This paper explores how early Renaissance artists gained recognition for the intellectual foundations of their activities and achieved artistic autonomy from enlightened patrons. Now, since this is the first lecture, I'll be going easy on you. For today, I just want you to give me your opinions on the text, highlight the most important parts, and share your own conclusions about it. Is there anyone who would want to take the lead?"

As predicted, everyone went silent. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on me.

Oh no.

"Mr. De Montmorency, since you have already given us a piece of your mind, why won't you go first?"