Liar, Liar

Chapter 17 - All the Things I've done

I trek across campus, the strap of my satchel heavily settled on my shoulder. It's late in the afternoon, but nevertheless, I have a coffee in my right hand and a bagel in the other, as if I am eating breakfast. The late summer sun casts a mild glow over the buzz going on around me, the students all having places to be and visitors blindly walking around and taking pictures as if this is the Louvre.

My legs are tingling from the speed-walking across the grounds, but I come bustling into the classroom with a minute to spare and plop down in the first vacant seat I see, pretty far in the back. Everyone is unpacking their satchels and taking out their books for the class, lining their pencils perfectly on their desks like I used to do. It is when I open my satchel that I realize I never picked up my book for this class.

But before I get to ponder over my mistake, the Professor walks in the door, making everybody quiet down and pay attention. If it is because of his demanding presence or his strikingly good looks, I don't know.

Without a word, he turns to the blackboard at once and scribbles out in white chalk: Rick Emerson. I (along with the everyone else in the classroom attracted to boys) lean forward and rest my chin in my hand on the desk, looking at him with dreamy eyes. He's not thirty yet – probably in his late twenties – and he has a slim build. His hair is gelled to perfection and his shirt and pants are perfectly tailored to his body. He starts talking.

"Call me Mr. Emerson or Professor. Don't talk while I am lecturing and pay attention and we'll have a wonderful year together." He turns around and pulls down a screen projector. "And no eating in class." His eyes pointedly looks over at me wolfing down my bagel as he turns on the projector with a small remote on his desk. It seems as if everyone turns to me as I quickly stuff my late lunch into the paper bag I got it in. My cheeks flame up and I look down to avoid the embarrassment. Making a great first impression already.

After he has taken roll, Mr. Emerson shows us a video presenting the class in depth. It takes about thirty minutes and he tells the student closest to the door to turn the lights on again afterwards.

"This will probably be the only time this class ends early, so embrace it. Have a good day, everybody."

People don't hesitate to pack their stuff and exit the room. I purposefully take extra long and approach him when everyone else has filed out. I stand in front of his desk waiting for him to address me, but it never happens.

"Hi, there," I awkwardly open, waving slightly when he looks up from his bag that he is packing. "I was just wondering, uhm, how hard this class is going to be. You see, I've been a little on the edge about this course and-"

"It's not an easy class, Miss Bleu," Mr. Emerson cuts in, leaning over the desk to write on some peace of paper.

"You already know our names?" I am surprised. I barely even remember any of my other professors' names.

Mr. Emerson cocks a brow as he looks up at me. "I tend to remember those who munch bagels in my classroom."

I feel my cheeks heat. "Sorry about that."

He ignores my apology and straightens up. "The Addictive Disorders class is extensive. If you're not ready to fully commit to it and keep up, I do suggest you switch out."

"Thanks." I purse my lips and am about to exit the classroom when he calls my name. I turn around expectantly.

"You left your coffee on your desk," he mutters and skims a paper with judgmental eyes while commenting absentmindedly, "I don't appreciate littering."

**

My phone rings not long after I have left the classroom. Fern has been on my case all morning and I groan at her face lighting up the screen before I press answer.