Page 35 of Fall From Grace
Feeling the need to explain myself, I say, “I spend a lot of time studying.” Wow. Not that I’m trying to impress my hot professor, but I’m making myself sound super lame.
He doesn’t mock me, though. He instead asks, “What are you majoring in, Wren?”
I hold my hands behind my back and shrug. “I’m undecided still.” That’s something I need to figure out this semester, because soon I’m going to run out of generic classes to take and I’ll need to narrow my focus. I already know what my parents want me to major in: business, or marketing. Something that can be applied to a lot of jobs, or so they say.
In this economy, though, I don’t know that it really matters.
“You should think about psychology. I have the feeling that your essays will be just as perfect as what I’ve seen from you so far. Someone like you would do well in the field.” In a quieter voice, he adds, “There are worse quirks to have. I’m sure many of your classmates would love to have your dedication and bright mind.”
I don’t know about that, and I’m about to tell him that, but then it occurs to me: is he complimenting me? I think he is. Should I thank him, or would that be weird?
All I end up doing is shrugging again and saying, “I don’t know about that.”
He leans down somewhat and whispers, “I do.” His blue eyes flick to someone behind me, just for a split second, before they rest on me once more. “Just be careful you don’t let anyone distract you too much.”
Logan. He’s talking about Logan. I didn’t realize even he saw how much Logan bugs me.
“And if you need anything, I’m here to help. Minds like yours are why people like me are here.” It’s such a strange thing to say, and yet I know he means it. In the short time since classes this semester began, I’ve already proven myself to him by doing something no one else ever had.
It should make me feel good, special, but that’s the problem with being a perfectionist: even a perfect score isn’t good enough. Nothing ever is. If you want to feel inadequate all the freaking time, just strive to be perfect, and you’ll never know a moment’s peace ever again.
“Thank you,” I say, and I’m slow in turning away and heading back to my seat, all the while Logan watches me with a scowl.
“The fuck did he want?” Logan asks.
I decide to paraphrase only one thing: “He said I shouldn’t let anyone distract me.”
“Bullshit. He didn’t say that.” The way I look at him makes him say, “Did he really? Fuck that guy.”
I only smile as class begins.
Maybe it’s due to the little talk we had before class, but it’s easy to tune Logan out and pay attention to Professor Scott as he lectures. He has this way of lecturing that makes it seem like he’s talking specifically to you and you alone—or maybe that’s just how I feel after his praise.
Professors always have a habit of meeting the eyes of the students they know are paying attention, especially those in the front row, since we’re closest to them, but it’s different with Professor Scott. I swear those eyes of his land on me the most, and he always holds my gaze longer than he does anyone else. Normally, eye contact like that might make me uncomfortable, but in this case it doesn’t.
I actually feel kind of good, like Professor Scott really did mean everything he said, and he’s checking up on me to make sure it all sunk in. He thinks I could go far in the field of psychology. Not sure what I’d do with it, unless I want to stay in the academic field, though.
My good mood is as good as shattered when, towards the end of class, Professor Scott starts talking about the group project.
He hands out papers, going row by row, as he speaks, “In other psych classes, you’ll be expected to create hypotheses, run small experiments, and summarize your findings. Here, I want to keep it simple. In groups of two or three, I want you to come up with a presentation, along with a written paper, of something you find interesting under the umbrella of psychology. For this, I want at least three academic sources, with at least one from the library. This isn’t a creative writing class, so you won’t be judged based on the skill of your writing, but rather how you assemble your ideas.”
As the class mumbles their unhappiness—no one is ever thrilled to receive homework, let alone a group project—Professor Scott returns to the podium and says, “Your presentation could be about sociopaths and their role in society today, or perhaps about serial killers and how they’ve evolved over the decades. Maybe you want to dive into the psychological effects of today’s world events or the rise of AI. I am giving you free rein in choosing your topic—just as I am letting you choose your own groups. I want groups selected before you leave today, and your topic by the end of next week. As always, if you have any questions, feel free to come see me before or after class, email me, or visit me during office hours.”
Nobody moves a muscle, leading him to finish, “Go on. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be waiting down here once you have your groups ready. Come see me, give me your names, and then you’re free to go.”
I hate group projects as much as the next person, but that’s mostly because I don’t really talk to anybody, and somehow I always end up doing all of the work anyways in whatever group I end up in. This one will be no different… although I have the feeling I already know what group I’m going to be stuck in.
A pair. With Logan, obviously.
I don’t even need to turn to look at the guy next to me to know he’s grinning ear to ear. Loan leans in toward me and says, “Good thing I already have my partner. I guess I should go up there and tell him so you and I can get out of here and talk about what we want our topic to be about. Maybe we should do that movie night at your place after all.”
With a sigh, I meet his expectant stare, the refusal on the tip of my tongue, but the way he looks at me, the confidence that oozes out of every pore, catches me up. Besides, even if I deny him and tell him I want to work with someone else, who will I choose? I haven’t spoken a single word to anyone else here.
I’m stuck. Working with Logan might mean I have to see him more, but odds are I’ll do the same amount of work with him than I would with anyone else. I could try to go for the unknown, but I’d almost rather deal with Logan more than other random people. At least with him, I know what to expect, and I know how to handle him.
Sort of.
“Fine,” I say, packing up my notebook and shoving it into my bag. I stand.
