Beneath the Boardwalk (Alex Turner) COMPLETE

3 {hidden slip}

Something was wrong. 

I'd heard in art that Turner had once missed a month of class without a single explanation. He had tenure, so was given reprieve. It didn't make sense. He was only twenty-eight and he wasn't fired for it.

Nobody knew when he started to work here. He just kind of... did. And everybody had been too afraid to approach him about it. Where he lived, what he did outside of class, was a complete mystery that nobody had yet to solve. He wasn't like the other professors. Other ones were friendly, responsible adults with a strict syllabus and reliable teaching. He was the opposite--he was unpredictable. Didn't fit in. 

Turner could have been close to a curse word considering everybody's aversion when I said it. He wasn't somebody anybody liked, or at least nobody was brave enough to admit. 

But that wasn't what was wrong, at least at the moment. 

When I left art class today, I was sorting through my bag in the hallways. There was a note inside. It certainly wasn't mine, and I hadn't seen anybody slip anything in my bag the whole day. It made my blood run cold. 

You're not good at hiding. -N

People passed by me in the hallways, but none paid attention to my shaking fingers. 

I'd gotten the Boardwalk passed down to me when I was young from my great aunt's will and moved pretty recently into the parlour. I came here to get away. And the handwriting was a horrid reminder of where I used to live, where houses came in falling bricks and the telephones came with wires. The small town was cursed, and here was a note from it. Written by my ex. 

I crumpled up the paper and threw it on the ground, leaving it littered in the hallway. I was being paranoid. This note couldn't have been addressed to me. There was no way my ex found me, and there was no way he'd sent me this note. He wasn't here.

Still, the handwriting stuck like a headache that wouldn't go away. 

* * *

I smugly handed in my revised essay on Turner's desk while I made my way to my seat. The auditorium was just as dead and lifeless as it seemed two days ago. I had to admit I was nervous about seeing him.

While waiting in my seat, I checked my phone and texted Matt. I bitched to him about having to redo the entire thing. He bitched to me about his classes. It was great having somebody else that shared similar dislikes. Honestly, he might have been the best thing I stumbled across since starting University. 

I got another text. Apparently Julian, one of my staff at the Boardwalk, was quitting abruptly. He gave me no reason. No two weeks notice. It tugged at my heartstrings, and he never responded back to my texts.

My head snapped up when he walked in.

Turner came in only five minutes late this time, but his hair was messy, as if he had just woke up. A couple buttons undone on his suit. Definitely not the typical professor look. "Let's get started," he said a bit out of breath, running a hand through his locks. 

He lectured a bit while the class took notes on major English literature influences. He didn't sound rushed, but stumbled a bit on his words. I watched little things he did, like scratching his chin slightly, or the raising of his eyebrows. At the last thirty minutes of the lesson he put on some edu video so that he could take the corrected sheets students handed back to re-evaluate. I was nervous as I saw him precariously read each and every one, as if he took the time to fully understand every word. 

Turner handed them each out after he was done, and passed me mine, looking right into my eyes as he did so; then rocked back onto his heels and back down the steps to his desk, without saying a word.

I looked down onto the page. In red pen, there were the words, "Come see me after class."