Page 18 of Forbidden Professor

Not even my own life is mine. He’s made that perfectly clear.

I have a guilty thought that maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll just die at his desk soon. I know that I shouldn’t feel that way, especially after I lost my mother. But I can’t help it.

My father is a toxic influence in my life.

And unless I figure out a way to do a lot better in Carter’s class, I’m proving toxic to myself. I have to do better. Biting my lip as I cross the bridge, I suppress an exasperated noise.

ChapterEight

Eve

I dream about my mom.I don’t remember many of the details… other than my mom was still alive.

That’s not entirely true. I remember her blue cashmere sweater. I remember her smile.

But when I wake, reality bleeds into my warm, cozy little dream world. Sitting up in my massive bed, I miss her so badly that it’s like a physical ache. My mom died almost ten years ago from cancer and yet…

I’m still just not even sure how I’m supposed to begin to grieve her. Tears pricking my eyes, I go to my chest of drawers and dig through them. When I moved, I only had to keep track of myself, my laptop, and my mom’s blue sweater.

In the early morning light, I can’t find it for a second and I start feeling panicky.

Where could it be?

But I yank open the bottom drawer and there it is, right where I put it. The soft periwinkle fabric weighs nearly nothing as I lift it out. I press it to my face in a moment of weakness and inhale her baby powder scent. The scent has faded and only a few powdery notes remain, but smelling her sweater is a ritual for me.

I know that every time I handle mom’s sweater her scent fades a little more. I know I should put the sweater in a plastic baggie to protect it from the smells and lights that threaten to wash away its stored memories. I know this.

But here, kneeling on the floor like a supplicant, my head bowed, I can’t bring myself to stop. I let the moment of sadness wash over me until my knees protest being pressed bare against the cool hardwood floors. When I at last rise, I make sure to refold the sweater and tuck it back in the drawer.

I drag myself through a shower and breakfast, not really feeling like I can shake free of the funk I’m in until I have a cup of coffee. I sip the hot brew as I get dressed, glad that at least something exists to make me feel like a human again. Pulling on a pair of black leggings and a pale pink tunic top, I finish my look with a slouchy off-white sweater.

Brow creased, I head to campus. I had planned to study for a little bit before my class today. But my father made it clear that he’s going to ask for a contact within the U of W administration. Better to just get it out of the way so I can move on with my day.

I head to the administration building, only to be told that my request for a contact that will speak with my father must be funneled through the Dean of Medicine’s office. Once I get to the darkly wooded Dean of Medicine’s office, I am told to wait in the little waiting room.

Tall-backed wood chairs, muted colors on the walls, several portraits of former Deans hanging in gilded frames. It’s hushed and luxurious. I chew on my bottom lip as I wait, checking the time on my phone.

It’s 8:10, about two hours until my class. No reason to feel pressured for time, I guess. I look up just as a woman with dark hair and dark glasses appears in the hallway. She’s stylish, wearing a floral one-piece pants suit and a long dark cardigan. From her eggshell-colored skin and beautiful raven’s wing hair, I guess she is maybe of Chinese or Japanese descent. She’s about a decade older than me, if I had to guess, but she just looks elegant and serene.

“Geneviève?” she asks, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiles.

“Yes,” I say, standing. “It’s Eve, if you don’t mind.” I hesitate. “Are you the Dean?”

She ushers me back to her office. “No, no. I’m the associate dean of students. My name is Clarissa. My job is kind of like a nurse that does triage. I meet with people and decide how best to deal with each student’s needs. Dean Klausson herself is a very busy lady, as you can imagine.”

I step into her little office, which is perfectly appointed with lush plants, a huge oak desk, and two leather chairs for visitors. She waves me in a chair then sits down behind her desk, smiling kindly.

I clear my throat, sitting forward. “I have kind of an unusual request.”

I blush a little but she is unruffled by my words. “Ask away. Then we’ll see whether it is unusual or not.”

Sliding my tote bag off my shoulder, I fidget with the canvas material. “Okay. Well.” I shove my hand through my hair. “My father needs to have someone to contact about my grades. He wants an impartial, unbiased source of news.”

Clarissa’s delicate eyebrows rise. “And you aren’t good enough, I take it?”

My cheeks burn. “No, ma’am.”

Her brows furrow. Her eyes narrow on my face the tiniest fraction. “This may be too personal, but… have you done something to warrant him having an outside source of information?”

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