Her Possessive Professor by Gena Snow

Chapter 3

 

Jared

 

 

 

 

I can’t believe it when I recognize who she is. Someone is playing a prank on me. Hailey Carson looks very different from when I last saw her, but there’s no mistake about it. She isn’t in a killer dress, either is she wearing makeup. But the green eyes hidden behind the lenses are the same as those who haunted me in the past two nights. And the sweet rose scent. Shit. Why did it take me so long to realize it? I might’ve been less cynical if I had known sooner. Damn that tedious baseball cap that hides her beautiful blonde hair and the eyeglasses that cover half of her face. Does she disguise herself on purpose?

“I didn’t know you were a student,” I mutter like a fool.

She glances at me quickly. “And I didn’t know you were a professor.”

I chuckle dryly. “True. We don’t know each other at all.”

While she drops her gaze again, I rack my brain to think of what to say. This is utterly bizarre. I had never kissed a stranger before last Saturday, and she had to turn out to be my student.

“That’s one more reason you should find a different class,” I say.

“I told you it’s my only choice,” she insists. “Besides, it’s not like we’re dating. What happened Saturday was history.”

She’s right. I tell myself, although I don’t feel good about it.

“Please, I just want to get my degree.”

I can’t think clearly, but a gut feeling wins over, and I nod. “I’ll see what I can do to keep the class open, but don’t count on it.”

“Thank you!” she says with a smile.

God. She’s beautiful. I watch her disappear into the hallway.

 

 

I curse repeatedly on my way to my office. The woman who’s been occupying my mind for the past two days is officially off-limits, unattainable. Damn.

A wise thing to do is to let the class be canceled. That way, I’d still have a chance with her. But I’m not such a selfish, morally depraved person. Besides, I shouldn’t care for irresponsible students who show up late on the first day of class.

Hailey Carson is not the goddess I saw at Tropic of Cancer. She’s just one of the many college students I’ve known well. They expect a college degree with minimum amount of effort. College to them is no more than a place they join the sorority or fraternity and party, a site where they meet and court the opposite sex, a reason to move out of their parents’ houses, a bitter pill they must swallow in order to enjoy other aspects of life, and an obstacle on their way to getting a fulltime job. 

Her plea is familiar too. Please. It’s my last semester. I need this class to graduate. I’ve heard these before, over a million times. I already know what would happen sixteen weeks from now. She’ll fail the class. And in the meantime, I’ll have to deal with her tardiness, late assignment, and badly written or plagiarized essays.

I know I sound like a bitter old man because I am. At age thirty-five, I’ve been teaching for ten years. I started out as an enthusiastic young professor, eager to share my passion for literature and teach others to appreciate poetry. But it didn’t take me long to realize the world wasn’t as I had imagined. Nowadays, few college students major in English, even fewer do so for the love of literature. The majority of them are there for a teaching credential, and the rest simply want an “easy” major.

I bet Hailey Carson falls into one of the two categories. She’s either a future grade school teacher or someone who hasn’t figured out what she wants to do yet. It matters little to me. I can see she has close to zero interest in modern poetry, despite her very poetic presence. Yes. She reminds me of poetry—classic poetry. Those green eyes are so deep and so enigmatic.  Vulnerable and proud. Shy and rebellious. Even when hiding behind a large pair of lenses, they capture me. I want her. I want to read her and explore her. Fuck. It sounds dirty. Correction: I want to teach and guide her.

Even though I didn’t know who she was, when I saw her standing by the door like a guilty child, silently waiting for my permission to let her in, I couldn’t be angry with her. But I couldn’t allow tardiness either. I said those harsh words because it was my way of warning the class and preventing future transgressions. Deep down, I hated myself for making her uncomfortable. I saw how her face fell and how she bit her lip to keep her tears from spilling. Shit. For the first time in my life, I felt like an asshole. Why couldn’t I simply keep my mouth shut?

 

I unlock the door of my spacious office. It looks as if I’ve earned it with my years of teaching experience. Wrong. The reason I enjoy the privilege is that my family is the major sponsor of the college. It was also a reason I could afford to disregard some administrative rules, such as the minimum class size requirement. At least it was the case when the last department chair was around. The new chair, Dr. Kennedy, doesn’t know who I am, and I don’t bother to tell him. I don’t believe he’ll stick around for long.

I check my email and see a message from Dr. Kennedy informing me of the class cancelation. “Dear Colleague, I’m sorry to inform you that English 257 has been canceled because of low enrollment.”

I’m not surprised, but I am annoyed. As much as I can’t stand lazy students, I still would like my classes to open. A few of them care about poetry, and some of them, Like Hailey, need the class.

I don’t hesitate to knock on Dr. Kennedy’s office door, which is right next to mine.

He looks surprised when he sees me because I seldom socialize with him.

“Come on in, Dr. Price,” he says, gesturing me toward a chair across his desk.

I sit down and explain the purpose of my visit.

“Ah. I see. But I’m afraid I cannot make an exception for you, Dr. Price. The minimum is twelve students.”

I know he’s making it difficult for me because I’ve had classes with less students. “I’m a senior lecturer,” I remind him. “If this class gets canceled, you’ll have to take away a class from a part-time lecturer and give it to me.”

“I’m aware of that, but it’ll be a class with a lot more students.”

The “In the beginning, maybe, but I can’t guarantee more students will end up passing.”

Obviously, I’m making a point because he falls silent, his lips pressed firmly together as he glares at me.

I don’t budge. “And a poor colleague will get the punishment by losing a considerable income.”

He thinks for a moment and sighs. “Very well, Dr. Price. Since I don’t see any benefit in canceling your class, I’ll give you another chance. If the enrollment doesn’t drop further by tomorrow, you get to keep it.”

“Thank you,” I say as I stand up.

He doesn’t respond until I get to the door. “I want to inform you of a new rule, though, Dr. Price.”

“What is it?”

“Any lecturer who fails to keep an average of 70% passing rate will lose their assignment priority. This rule applies to  everyone, including senior lectures,

I clench my teeth. I have an average fifty percent passing rate in the past. “This is a ridiculous policy,” I say, unable to repress my anger. “Making teaching appointments contingent upon passing rate will only lower teaching standards and cheapening our university’s reputation, which will lead to the loss of prospective students.”

“I beg to differ,” he says. “I think it’ll encourage faculty members to try harder to help the students. And thus good for the university.”

Surely you don’t mean it. I stifle an eye roll. “Very well, I hope you are right, Dr. Kennedy.”