Page 3 of On the Edge

“He assigned us seats?” I hiss, as she puts her books back into her bag. She stands, shooting me a look over her shoulder as she moves to the aisle. Annoyed, I toss my shit back into my backpack and follow her. Assigned seating? What is this, kindergarten?

It takes twenty minutes of our lecture time for him to put us where he wants us. Reason number three that a teacher is an asshole: assigned seating. By the time he calls my name, I’m already contemplating dropping the class. This is a two-part course, and if this is how the first day goes, I can’t imagine how an entire two semesters will be.

Tossing my bag down next to my shiny new assigned seat, I slump down as far as I can and close my eyes. I’m ready to go home.

“Hello. I believe I am to sit here.”

I crack an eye open at the soft, accented voice. There is a freakishly tall guy standing next to me, clutching one of those fancy shoulder bags rich people substitute for backpacks. He’s wearing khaki pants and a dark green polo shirt.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, screwing up my face in distaste. He pulls out the chair next to mine and gently sets his bag on the floor. He looks like every other rich white boy at this school: medium-length brown hair, blue eyes, straight teeth. Imake a vow right then and there to ignore the shit out of him all semester.

“I am Henri Vasel,” he says in that same quiet voice. In his accent, his name sounds a little bit like Enree. Maybe I’ll pretend not to understand that he said Henri, and see if I can fuck with him. “What is your name?”

I ignore him, crossing my arms and facing forward in my seat. Feigning deafness seems like a good way to make him leave me alone.

Dr. Robertson saves the day, pacing in front of the class—he too is wearing a polo and khakis, bringing the count up to two douchebags in the room—and giving us the verbal equivalent to what he already emailed us on the syllabus.

“Now,” he says, clapping his hands and rubbing his palms together as though he’s about to give us a surprise. “This class will be run a little differently than you’re used to in a college course. There will be lecture time, yes, but there will also be an equal amount of seminar time. And by that I mean time to work one-on-one with your seat partner.”

Oh dear God, kill me now.I chance a look atEnree Vaseland see that he’s sitting with hands clasped on the table in front of him, eyes trained on Dr. Robertson as he gives him his full attention. He’s wearing leather bracelets on his left arm, three of them looped around his wrist and sliding down a muscular forearm. I look away, because I don’t care about his muscles.

“Too often college courses focus on the individual and forget about the collective. And perhaps in mathematics, this approach works. However, this is communications and we must”—Dr. Robertson pauses, gazing around the room and smiling slightly—“communicate.Therefore, half of yourgrade will depend on group work. Half of your grade will depend on your ability, in short, to communicate.”

Several ass-kissers in the room laugh and Dr. Robertson smiles indulgently at them. He turns around to write an assignment out on that damn chalkboard, and murmured conversation breaks out through the room. The frat boy lookalike sitting next to me stays quiet, eyes on the professor as he waits patiently for the lecture to continue.

This is one of my longer classes—pushing two hours—and there is still fifteen minutes left until the end when Dr. Robertson stops his lecture. He awards us with another of his smiles and spreads his hands to encompass what he wrote on the board. He acts more like a politian than a doctor. I think I might hate him.

“For the rest of class today, we’ll be doing the simplest of exercises: getting to know one another. You and your partner will be together all semester, whether you want to be or not. There will be no switching. There will be no coming to my office and pleading your case to be paired with your best friend or dormmate. The person next to you will be there all semester, and possibly the next as well.” He gestures. “Time to say hello.”

Like a dog following his master’s orders, Polo Shirt turns to me and smiles.

“Hello,” he says obediently.

“Hi,” I bite out, crossing my arms tighter and scowling.

“I am Henri Vasel. You may call me Vas, if you wish.” He turns in his seat to face me fully as he repeats his earlier greeting. My eyes are drawn to his legs.Khaki. Honestly. “What is your name?”

“Atlas.”

He waits for me to say more, and when I don’t, he nods ina way that looks like he’s bowing to me. I stare at him. Is this guy fucking with me?

“Atlas,” he repeats, except on his tongue it sounds sort of like Ahh-tlos.

“Atlas,” I correct snappishly, earning myself a quizzical look.

“Atlas,” he says, exactly the same way he just said it. I roll my eyes. Whatever.

“I’m not calling you by your last name,” I warn him. The moment he told me I could call him “Vas,” I clocked him as an athlete. What the fuck is it with jocks and wanting to be addressed by their last name?

“You may call me however you wish,” he says equably, doing his head-bowing thing again.

I’m going to do my best not to call him anything at all. Pulling out my cellphone, I make sure the volume is muted and pull up social media. There are still eight minutes left in class. Eight minutes to ignore Polo Shirt.

“May I ask what are you studying?”

“No,” I answer, so quickly it catches him off guard, and he lapses into a surprised silence. The rebuke buys me a full minute of peace before he tries again.

“What student year are you in?”

---