Book 1 || Finding Prince Charming || Harry Styles

Chapter 30

Her view.

He looks around the room, and I know the moment that he sees me. His eyes dilate and I see a flash of shock before it disappears and he continues surveying the class. He then looks back at me and his eyes narrow as he sees that I'm sitting next to Louis.ou
"Fuck," I mumble again as I realize that Louis' his brother.
"You okay?" Louis whispers at me, and I nod quickly and give him a quick smile, hoping that my face didn't turn red.
"Let's get started." Harry places his laptop on the table and stands in the middle of the room. "Prostitutes. Yes, let's start with prostitutes."

My face burns a deep red as his eyes meet mine and he gives me a cruel little smile. I'm not sure where he's going with his conversation, but I'm scared. "What is a prostitute?" his voice booms, and I feel like everyone is staring at me. "Anyone?"
"A girl who sleeps with men for money," a boy at the back of the class shouts out.
"But why does she sleep with a man for money?" he responds.
"Because she's a whore," the boy responds back and the class laughs.
"How do we know someone is a prostitute?"
A girl near the front speaks up timidly. "She stands on street corners."
"Yes, some stand on street corners. But what about a woman on a corner symbolizes her as a prostitute?"
"Her clothing," the guy at the back calls out. "Whores usually dress like sluts."
"Hey, that's not fair," a girl in front of me responds. "You can't call a woman a slut because of her attire."
"What do you think?" Harry looks directly at me, and I stare back at him with a blank expression, not speaking. "No opinion?" he continues while staring at me. I shake my head slowly, and he looks at me in disappointment. "Folks, you can't be shy in here if you wish to pass this class." He looks away from me, and I look down at my desk, my face burning in shame and embarrassment.
"Don't let him get to you," Louis whispers to me. "I told you he's an asshole."
"Thanks," I whisper back, starting to feel annoyed. Who does Harry think he is?

"I'm sure many of you are wondering why we are talking about prostitutes." Harry walks back to the desk at the front of the class. "And I will explain. As most of you know, we are studying Impressionism in this class. The era in art that transformed people's opinions about the woman's body as a whole. As most of you should know, Neoclassicism was popular half the nineteenth century. This art was more solemn, classical, and it referred back to the Grecian way of life. The lines were severe, noble, stark, and precise. That is what artists and purveyors were used to, and then along came some upstarts with a new way of painting and portraying the beauty they saw around them. Can anyone name any of the forefathers of Impressionism?"
I stick my hand up, not wanting him to think he can railroad me.
"Yes, you. What's your name?" he sneers at me, and I feel my blood boiling over. What's his problem? Did he want everyone to know that we had a history? "Cassidy. My name is Cassidy."
"Were your parents fans of Nabokov?" he asks lightly.
"I'm not sure who that is."
"Come now. You don't know who Vladimir Nabokov is?"
"No, professor, I do not."
"I said you can call me Harry." He bows slightly. "In this class, there's no distinction between student and teacher. We'll all learn from one another. We're all adults, yeah?"
"Can I answer the question now?" I spit out, knowing that I'm sounding bitchy.

I can see some of the other students looking at me, wondering why I'm being so rude. Especially to him. It didn't escape my notice that several of the female students have brushed their fingers through their hair and even reapplied lipstick.
Harry looks handsomer than I remember, with his dazzlingly sharp green eyes and long brown curly hair. He stands tall and confident in his manhood and sexiness. I know that several of the girls are swallowing hard and trying to ignore the buzz of lust that emanates when they stare at him. I know that because I'm one of them.
"You haven't asked me the question yet."
"What question?" I breathe, hoping he's not going to turn out to be some crazy professor and publicly shame me.
"But, Cassidy, how quickly we forget?" He stares at me and licks his lips slowly. I watch the tip of his tongue and shift in my seat uncomfortably. "Who is Vladimir Nabokov then, Harry?"
Louis' voice rang out next to me, and my heart sinks as I realize that Harry's been talking about the question he asked me and not about our night of passion.
"You don't know, Louis?" Harry tilts his head. "And before people ask questions--yes, Louis Styles is my brother."
"Unfortunately," Louis speaks up and the class laughs--me included.

Harry stares at me with narrowed eyes as I laugh, and I make sure to laugh loudly as I definitely look back at him. "Lolita, seducer, nymph, whisperer of men's fantasies, forbidden love, dark love, taboo." Harry's voice booms as he speaks, and I feel my skin going cold as I avoid his glance. "That's what Vladimir Nabokov wrote about when he wrote Lolita. But this is not a literature class." He smiles widely as he laughs gently. "I do suggest to everyone to read this book, though. It's a great piece of literature. But let us continue with the class. Cassie, you may answer the question now." He grins at me, and my face flushes.
"It's Cassidy, not Cassie."
"Ah, my dear, my apologies. I got caught up in the moment. Something I'm sure you know about?"
"Manet, Monet, Cezanne, Degas, Renoir, Pissarro. They're all Impressionist painters." I ignore his earlier comment. "I can tell you some more if you want."
"No, no." His eyes flash with something akin to respect. "I see you know your Impressionist painters. Good, good." He turns away and turns on the projector at the front of the class, and all I can think about is what a patronizing jerk he is.