Good News

SKYLAR

I can't remember what Prof McAdams has been telling the class, because the annoying Westbrook keeps distracting me. I check my phone, 1:30 p.m., twenty five more minutes. Argh, someone kill me now.

An I*******m notification pops up on my screen. My thumb hovers above it, then I click, but it takes me to Liam's I*******m page. A recent post of Liam wearing a baseball jersey and grey shorts, lying on his couch, cuddling a golden retriever, stares right back at me. This post is doing funny things to my pussy. God my kryptonite has always been men with adorable puppies.

I'm not crushing on him or anything, I'm only stating the obvious. The comment section is full of "Aww, this is so cute" with the heart eyes emoji.

"Miss Reynolds, perhaps you would like to share with the class what's so fascinating on your phone?" McAdams' voice cuts through the lecture hall.

My head snaps up. Half the class turns to stare at me as heat creeps up my neck.

"Sorry, Professor. It's a text from my mom." I lie effortlessly.

"Now, as I was saying" he continues glancing in my direction “The protections against compelled self-incrimination…”

I sink lower in my seat, shoving my phone into my bag. The guy next to me snickers, and I tune out again.

"...That will be all," McAdams announces. I quickly get on my feet, sliding my laptop into my embroidered black tote bag.

It's strange, I have sat through an entire class, of my favorite professor, and I've not learned a single thing because of the stupid pair of green eyes living rent free in my head.

To be fair, he isn't done anything to me. It's more his mindset, that he can have any pussy he bats his eyelashes at because he's filthy rich, that pisses me off.

That's why my body's sudden craving for his touch confuses the hell out of me. Jesus, I'm a mess.

"April, got a minute?" McAdams calls out, adjusting the thick rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose.

"Sure." I walk closer to the podium, where a bald, round bellied man stands holding a stack of folders in his hands.

"April, I want to discuss your law school preparations. How's it going?"

I shift my bag to my other shoulder. "It's been draining. I'm thinking of applying to Harvard Law after graduation. It's just that the rejection rate's terrifying. I freak out when I think of competing with thousands of people who've got much more impressive resumes than I do."

"You're selling yourself short," he says, flipping through his folder. "There's something that could enhance your application. A friend of mine at Walter Partners's informed me they're launching an internship program in about three days. It's on the weekends, so it won't interfere with classes."

My heart stutters, is he talking about the Walter Partners.

"They'll be reviewing applicants strictly on recommendations to avoid going through loads of letters," he adds, pushing his glasses again up the bridge of his nose.

"I know this adds pressure to your already busy schedule, however, it's a great opportunity, and I'm hoping I could help you apply."

"Professor, I'm honored you thought of me, it's just, why're you telling me this? All the other guys need this break more than I do."

"Your paper," he smiles warmly, pulling out my paper from his folder.

"Your analysis of how the US government's reluctance to reform mass incarceration across its states sustains private sector employment's the best writing I've ever graded in my academic career."

My breath catches. McAdams' praise means everything. This cold professor's not easily impressed by a student's work.

He continues, his voice taking on an animated quality I've rarely heard. "You delve into how this sector makes billions in profits off over billing incarcerated families, starting from the companies that supply food and hygiene products, making two point one billion from poor communities that have got no choice but to fund their loved ones' accounts in prison for them to purchase basic necessities.

To the healthcare companies that benefit from inmates eating heavily processed snacks instead of healthy food portions by providing these sick inmates with chronic medical conditions over the counter vitamins, which they have got to pay for, and then to the telecom companies that rake in one point two billion for inmates to make phone calls and video calls."

"This part right here," he says, turning to another page, "is what really strikes me. You humanize this circle of exploitation in the story of Fernandez, a twelve year old boy living in a low income neighborhood with a single mother working three jobs, struggling to pay off debts while trying to raise him and send money to his father in prison."

"You capture his seemingly impossible dreams of someday becoming mayor of his city and also his constant fears of ending up in prison just like his father."

"I admire how this disturbs anyone who reads it into feeling the effects of poor prison reforms, and that if the coin were tossed differently, any of us could be Fernandez, the victim of the obsession at the federal level with job creation," he says, stepping closer to me.

"April, you're passionate about this. That's why I've got a strong conviction that you're an excellent choice for this internship program. What do you say?"

"Of course." I beam, grateful for this opportunity to spice up my law school application. "Thank you, Professor. Really, this means more than you know."

"Great, I will make the call now," he says. "Have a good day, April."

"Bye, Professor McAdams," I say, walking to the exit, my feet barely touching the ground.