Page 9 of Forbidden Lessons

“How itimpactsthe alleged victim of said act…”

Another furious round of tapping on the second word.

“Or how both participantsinterpretthe act?—”

The chalk screeches as he circles the last word.

He turns to us, shaking his head, the beginning of a smile teasing his mouth.

I’m not the only one who’s spellbound. I swear I hear his paper coffee cup slowly uncrumpling under the desk.

“How can we definitely say someone is being cruel?”

He lifts a finger, turning and heading back to the board. “You’re not the only ones having a tough time putting a cage around this thing. Ancient philosophers grappled with it. Plato spoke of a man ruled by his basest desires who inflicted suffering on others for his own gain.”

Rooke raps his knuckle beside the word INTENT. “That’s an easy one. He didn’t have the best intentions, and someone suffered for it.” He raps beside IMPACT. Shrugs. “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

I take notes, alternating between chewing my pen and tapping it against my chin.

If this is what college is like, I’m fucking hooked. I still don’t know what the Lucifer Effect means that the teacher had been scrawling on the board when I walked in, but maybe I’ll have scrounged up enough guts to speak to him after class.

He lectures about Aristotle, Freud, Seneca, Nietzsche.

Some names I’ve heard before, others are brand new. Time slips away, his lecture so riveting that I forget I’m in a class with forty other students.

And a boy who would giggle with me as we jumped into rain puddles together.

How did we go from that, to him spitting on me?

Okay, he’s done it before. But in a whole different context. There was mutiny involved, and a very grubby bandana that was supposed to be an eye patch. And he kept saying, “Aargh, me matey.”

My head is reeling when Professor Rooke glances at his watch before sighing and setting down his chalk. He keeps his back turned, and I can see students slowly emerge from his spell. Some stretching, others taking quick peeks at their phones.

But as soon as he starts speaking in a low voice, everyone is straining to listen.

“No matter where you think it comes from, how you want to define it.” He turns, arms crossed. “If you want to label it evil or neutral or ‘it’s complicated.’” He puts air quotes around the word, and I hear the redhead beside me huff out an amused little laugh.

“We all have a cruel streak inside us.” He holds out his hand, then slowly closes it into a fist. The veins under his skin are a dark blueish-green, and in that moment I suddenly get all the fuss about vampires.

“It’s a muscle we’re born with, much like any other. The difference is who chooses to let it waste away…” he opens his hand and shows us his palm. “And who hits that gym five times a week to pump iron.”

When he claps his hands together, my soul leaves my fucking body.

“Unnecessary,” I mutter, tugging in a breath to replace the air in my lungs.

The redhead turns and gives me a little smile, her hand still pressed to her chest.

“Right,” Professor Rooke announces. “I touched on some assignments you’ll be completing for me this semester, but I left the best for last.” He extends his index fingers, hands still clasped, and points at us. “Journals are all the rage these days. Or maybe you kept a diary as a kid?” He laughs, but the sound is sardonic. “Christ, what am I saying? You’re all still kids.”

There’s a smattering of laughs and a few groans.

He gives us a genuine smile, and damn it if I don’t feel that warmth all the way down into my toes when he glances over at me.

But his voice is frosty when he say, “Mr. Jordan?”

There’s a jolt inside me. It’s as if Professor Rooke is asking me what the hell my deal is with Kai.

But then my all-grown-up childhood friend stands, snatches the stack of notebooks off the desk, and saunters over to us.

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