SIXTEEN: Ms. Shaw, I'd Like To Speak With You, Please

He walks in not three minutes late. I can't keep my head from jerking up and towards the door each time I hear someone arrive, and when he walks through the door, I make eye contact immediately.

For a half-second, it looks like he stalls in the doorway, taking me in, as if he’s surprised to see that I'm there at all.

My breath catches in my throat and for a moment, I think the wind has been knocked out of me. But the moment he drops his gaze and walks over to his desk to throw down his bag, I exhale, looking down at the table top underneath me and wringing my hands in my lap.

The lecture drones on.

I don't have any interest in listening to Harlan, and to be honest, am only there for my attendance grade and to spite him. I spend the classroom gazing out the window, my head in my hand, propped up by my elbow on my desk. And for once, Harlan doesn't give me trouble. He picks on kids all the time for not paying attention, but I'm the only one he ever singles out for virtually not doing anything wrong in the first place. He'd call me out in front of everyone when I take too long to think about the answer to a question and say that I'm underprepared. He'd call me out for not paying attention just because I hadn't raised my hand in a while. I'm not sure if it is because he’s trying to push me to be better, or because he gets off on singling me out.

But I'm starting to figure out that it is probably both.

Today, though, for the first time, I'm not hiding my lack of interest. And for once, Harlan doesn't call me out. I guess he'd gotten the picture that I wouldn't be in the fucking mood.

Halfway through the lecture, I make eye contact with him, and it knocks the breath out of my lungs and causes my stomach to flip over in my belly. I try not to let on, and I hold his gaze until I look away from him, back out the window.

At the end of the period, I'm ready to slip out the door. I gather my things and head for the door, ending up at the back of the crowd. For the first time, I'm eager to disappear into the throng of the rest of his students. For once, I don't want to stand out.

And of course, that is the time he holds me back.

"Ms. Shaw, I'd like to speak with you, please," he says flatly.

I stop in my tracks. I close my eyes.

I could just leave. It's not like this would have anything to do with class. He has no right to keep me here. No right to use his standing as a professor to ask me to "stay and talk after class."

But I know I won't leave. I know within an instant that I'll stay. Turn around. Look at him. And listen.

And that's exactly what I do.

But I'm not – and don't look – fucking happy about it.

I scowl at him, clutching my textbook to my chest, which I'd elected to not pack away into my bag to save time and get out of the classroom quicker. A futile attempt at getting out as quickly as possible.

There is a long silence between us. I stare at him, grimace plain on my face, chin tilted upward in defiance, but the corners of my lips twitch downwards in sadness. I can already feel the tears threatening to spill over and contort my whole expression into my ugly-cry face. I want to stay strong. I have to.

"What do you want?" I ask after a long pause.