Page 24 of Office Hours
I drift off, hand between my thighs, dreaming of the next time he calls me to his office, the next time he lets me kneel for him.
I sleep, finally, and the moon keeps watch.
7
QUICK, LOCK THE CLASSROOM DOOR!
SIMONE
It’s American Lit, again. I’m watching the second hand on the clock, willing it to crack the glass and cut a hole in time. The lecture hall hums with quiet energy and someone’s unzipped backpack is leaking Skittles onto the floor, each one hitting tile like a gunshot in the silence. I’m wearing my lucky white tee—it’s flattering and hugs my tits, makes them look like the kind of problem that should come with a trigger warning—and a navy skirt that barely covers the topography of my thighs. The sneakers are canvas and baby pink, like something a preteen would wear to cheerleading camp, but that’s the joke. I’m very aware of what I look like, but if Professor Thomas is, he’s doing a better job hiding it than I am.
It’s been too long since my “study session.” Five days, seventeen hours, and enough minutes for me to invent a conspiracy where he’s ghosting me on purpose, like the whole thing was an elaborate test and I already failed. No text, no DM, not even a glancing, “stay after class” in that voice that made my spine go jelly. I have refreshed my email exactly 73 times since last weekend. Nothing.
If he thinks I’m going to come crawling, he’s right, but I’m going to make it look like a victory lap.
He’s up at the podium, talking about Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown,” which I already skimmed twice. I can recite the plot backwards: small town, fucked up woods, evil everywhere, and nothing is what it seems. Subtle, professor. Real subtle.
I prop my chin on my palm and stare at him. His hair looks longer today, a little mussed, the kind of look that costs a hundred bucks at the right barber. He wears these blue dress shirts that look like they should be illegal in Minnesota, sleeves rolled to the elbow, heavy forearms on display. When he gestures at the board, his veins twitch and everyone in the front row sighs in unison, like they just witnessed the birth of Venus.
He’s ignoring me. Not even a sideways glance. But I know he feels me. The whole room is arranged around this charged, pulsing awareness—me, in the back, and him, pretending not to notice.
I tap my fingers on the desk, feeling the edge of every nail. One of the meathead hockey guys is two rows up, whispering to his buddy about the professor’s “hot daughter.” Joke’s on him: the only girl Thomas is fucking is right here.
Finally, the clock hits 2:45, and Thomas flips the book shut with a snap.
“Read up to page 278 for Monday,” he says, not looking in my direction. “We’ll have a pop quiz at some point.”
There’s a groan, then the soft stampede of students fleeing. Backpacks snap shut, chairs scrape, and a thin cloud of chalk dust catches the sun, making everything look filtered and unreal.The hockey guy lingers just long enough to turn and give me a wink, then even he’s out the door. Good. Now it’s just me, the professor, and the echo of a world that’s still spinning outside these four concrete walls.
I stay put, counting off thirty, then forty seconds, waiting for Liam to acknowledge me. He doesn’t. I have to make the first move.
I stand and stroll down the aisle, not hurrying, letting the slap of my sneakers echo like a countdown. He’s tidying his papers, stacking them in this OCD way that’s almost touching, except I want him to stop being a grown-up and just ruin me again.
“Professor Thomas?” I ask, voice sweet as a doe in a Disney movie.
He doesn’t look up. “Yes, Simone?”
“I had a question about the assignment,” I say, and I’m right up at his desk now, the buffer zone gone. The room is quieter than any library.
He finally meets my eyes. I can see the storm brewing there: the hunger, the anger, and something else, something softer. He swallows it fast.
“What’s your question?” he says. His tone is all business, but the hand on his stack of papers trembles.
I lean over, elbows on the desk, letting my big bust do the talking. “Is it okay if I turn in the response late? I had a family thing.” It’s a lie, but I say it in the same voice I used to talk my way out of speeding tickets in high school.
He blinks once, then again, the calculation in his face brutal. “You’ve already missed two,” he says, but softer. “That’s not good, Simone.”
I shrug, shifting my hips so the skirt hikes up another inch. “I’m just trying to do my best.”
He’s losing this game and he knows it, but he’s not going to fold yet.
“Simone, you are dangerously close to failing.” He says it low, just for me, like it’s our own secret language. “I could lose my job for helping you the way I have.”
“That’s not what you said last week,” I breathe. It hangs there, needling him.
He looks away, jaw tensing. He gathers his books and starts to walk past me, but I step in front, blocking his exit.
“I just want to know what I did wrong,” I say, voice small, with a bit of pleading in the tone. Oh god, I hate myself yet I can’t help it. “One minute, you’re all about helping me, and now I’m just another name on a list?”
