Office Hours: A Student and Professor Story

Bad Professor

Mara bit her lip, staring at the essay in front of her. A big fat red F marked the white paper, along with the ominous note, See me after class. She had known plagiarizing the essay she had found online was a bad, bad idea. Had that stopped her from plagiarizing it? Of course not. But she'd been desperate. She could barely understand a word of Foucault's needlessly complex prose, and taking care of her wasted mama had not left her much time to write 2,000 words on The History of Sexuality. Nevertheless, she should have known better. Plagiarism was grounds for expulsion; George Eliot College had little tolerance for academic dishonesty.

When Professor Murray said, "That's all I have to say about Nietzsche; see you all on Monday," Mara gulped. She looked longingly at her classmates who ran out of the room and to the freedom of the weekend. If only she could join them.

Professor Murray beckoned to her from the front of the classroom. "Let's go to my office, Mara."

She swallowed, ready to puke. "Okay, Professor."

On a regular day, she disliked small talk. On the walk to his office, she hated it and found it an excruciating method of torture.

"How are you?" he asked.

Terrible, because I'm going to get expelled. "I'm okay," she said. "How about you?"

"Good," he said. "Have any fun plans this weekend?"

She had made zero friends on campus, so her answer was, "Not really. I think I'm just going to chill at home." Again, she asked, "How about you?" As if she cared about his plans. He'd likely only asked about hers to be polite and to try to put her at ease.

"Not sure yet." Then he smiled at her, catching her off-guard. That didn't seem like the look of someone who was going to get her kicked out of school. Despite herself, she admired his looks. On several occasions, she'd ogled his lean yet muscular body and imagined running her hands through his dark brown hair, which managed to look sexy in spite of its messiness.

Once they were in his office, he closed the door. She bit her lip, stopping herself from letting out a whistle. He had an entire wall of handsome leather-bound books, a shiny mahogany desk, two plush black leather chairs, and a large white leather sofa in the corner. His office was bigger and nicer than her dorm room, which was cramped though it held only two small desks, two chairs that were even tinier, and two twin beds.

He sat in the chair behind his desk, then gestured toward the second one in front of him. "Have a seat."

Like Marie Antoinette walking toward her executioner, Mara went to sit in the chair.

He tapped his desk. "So I'm guessing you know why I gave you an F on my paper."

She nodded. "Yes. I totally deserved it."

"I know Foucault is difficult, but that's no excuse for plagiarism. If you were having trouble with the paper, you should've come to my office hours. But if you couldn't make those times, I would've been more than willing to set up an appointment at a different time."

Shame heated her face. "Are you going to report me to the dean?" she asked quietly.

"I should."

A semester and 4 weeks—that was how long her stint in college had lasted. To be honest, that was a lot longer than she'd thought; she'd come from self-proclaimed trailer trash who believed the only valuable reading materials were the ones you could jack off to. She bowed her head. "Thanks for a great class, Professor." Truthfully, she'd almost fallen asleep during every one of his lectures, but in his defense, no one could make Introduction to Philosophy interesting to her.