Page 2 of Teach Me
I pursed my lips. My fingertips were numb from the cold, and I could use the caffeine kick, but there was a free computer in the study area to our right.
‘Don’t you need a wee?’ I moved around her to peer down the other corridor. Our lecture would be in the closest auditorium, but the room was still dark.
‘Yeah,’ she sighed, ‘but I figured you might, you know, want to talk about this.’
No, I didn’t.
‘The cafeteria queue will also be too long. We’ll get coffee during the break.’ I hooked my arm around hers and pulled her towards the study area. ‘I sent the new draft of my ethics application to Doctor Braithwaite last night. He usually responds quickly.’
I ignored Carly’s sigh and slid into the chair, dumping my bag on the floor. We’d had countless discussions about our male lecturers, especially him. She knew I had a crush on Dr Braithwaite, just like I knew the university had a non-fraternisation policy. That didn’t stop me from imagining he could be more than my lecturer.
‘He probably forwarded it to the committee.’ She set her bag next to mine, unzipped her winter coat, and fanned herself. ‘Jesus, why’s it always so hot in this building?’
‘Because you always wear woolly jumpers?’
She shot me a look.
‘And I doubt he forwarded it,’ I continued. ‘He always finds something to nitpick. In his last email, he wanted me to justify using interviews rather than a focus group.’
‘A focus group would be fun,’ she said with a low laugh.
‘This is my fourth revision, so he better be happy…’ My frozen fingers forced me to re-enter my credentials twice, but I finally managed to log in. And there it was – an unread email fromDr E. Braithwaite.
‘He replied,’ I whispered. ‘Just five minutes ago.’
Carly’s long blonde hair swept against my coat as she leaned over my shoulder to squint at my screen. ‘What does it say?’
‘I don’t want to open it.’ I gave her a pleading look. ‘Can you do it?’
‘Sure, after Christmas, which is when I’ll check my application.’ She straightened, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘Why are you stressing about this now? It’s our last day on campus.’
‘Not for me.’ I pointed behind. ‘I’m spending Christmas in the library.’
Her huff drowned in the chatter of other students walking past. I stared longingly at their polystyrene cups and pastry bags. Unless I begged my parents for money to pay for the parking ticket, I couldn’t afford such luxuries until the next student loan payment.
‘Open the damn email, Ophelia.’
‘Fine.’ I drew a sharp breath and clicked on the email. We both leaned in. I only made it to the second line before my dreams of graduating with a distinction in abnormal psychology unravelled. ‘What the fuck?’
A dozen heads swivelled in our direction, including the last person I wanted to overhear my lack of restraint. Dr Braithwaite stood by the auditorium, cradling a cup of coffee. He dipped his chin, giving me a stern stare that had me squirming in my seat.
We first met in a developmental psychology lecture when I was an undergraduate. Four years later, I still flushed whenever his deep blue eyes lingered on mine. It frustrated me because now I wanted to throw his coffee in his face. How dare he outright reject my hypothesis? That wasn’t his job as my supervisor.
Carly also noticed him and cringed. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to…’ My tongue darted out, wetting my lips. ‘I need to… umm, I should go. I should…’ I pushed my chair back too hard, rolling it into the path of another student. He slammedinto it and dropped his cup of tea. The hot liquid splattered across his sensible winter shoes and my fuck-me boots, which I felt like an idiot for wearing, considering that Dr Braithwaite was already fucking over my academic career.
‘Watch it,’ the man snapped.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I blurted. ‘I’ll get you a new one.’
‘Forget it. I don’t have time.’
Carly gave me a sympathetic look when he stormed off. ‘I’ll get paper towels. You should speak to Doctor Braithwaite.’
I ran my hands through my hair, smoothing more wayward strands that had come loose from my ponytail. Talk to him about what? He had effectively invalidated months of research. I glared at the door he’d disappeared through. Didn’t he understand the fiddly, time-consuming process of completing an ethics application? I’d spent days in the library, nose deep in thick volumes, followed by even longer nights staring at a screen until my eyes were gritty.
He thought my hypothesis was flawed? It wasn’t.Hewas the only problem with my dissertation. Or rather, my feelings for him. I could have pursued my master’s degree in psychology at any other university. Could have followed my dream of earning a postgraduate degree in Human Sexuality. He had encouraged me to do so, but it would’ve meant moving to London. I stayed here because of him, hoping he would take me under his tutelage when I progressed to my doctoral studies.
