Page 6 of Can't Have Him

“There aren’t any other classes that will work. Not any other Art History classes, I mean. I have to takethisone. If I don’t, I won’t graduate in the spring.”

“Oh.” James rubs his temple, and I can’t help myself—I admire how strong his hands are. And then I wonder how good he is with those strong hands.

“Well,” he says, sighing and dropping his hand to his side. “I guess we’ll just have to deal with it.”

I swallow. “I guess so.”

He studies me for a second, and heat ripples up my spine. Then his eyes shift toward the doorway and he clears his throat. Without even having to look, I know that my classmates are starting to show up, and that this conversation with James is over.

“Thanks, Professor,” I say, realizing as soon as I say it that it’s probably more suspicious to say anything rather than nothing. Well, whatever. I quickly turn away and head up to the same spot I sat in on the first day of class—as far away from James as possible.

* * *

I don’t haveany direct interactions with James in the few weeks that follow. Actually, I go out of my way to avoid him as much as it’s humanely possible to avoid your own professor. I make a point of showing up to class at the same time as the bulk of my classmates show up so that I can blend into the crowd. I always sit in the back row. And when class is over, I slip out the back exit so that I don’t have to walk by James on my way out.

During lectures, I train myself to focus only on the artwork that’s up on the projection screen. I try to think of his voice as just a voice. I can tell that he’s given these lectures many times over, and his tone of recitation helps me think of his voice as a detached thing.

Sometimes, though…when he’s answering a question that someone has, and his talking becomes more animated, I have a really hard time not focusing on him. He’s so knowledgable about all of this stuff—from the Old Kingdom to the New Kingdom and seemingly every little detail about those times—and, well, it’s a turn-on. I know he doesn’t know everything abouteverything, but in those moments, I feel like I could raise my hand and ask him any question in the world and he would be able to dazzle me with his knowledge.

Another few weeks pass, and we continue to make it through class without incident. The tension is still there, though. Every time I walk into his classroom, I get that butterfly feeling in my stomach.

And I can sense that he’s struggling with this just as much as I am.

Midterms approach, and I spend three days with my head buried in my textbooks, studying until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. In the days that follow, I rock the midterms in all my other classes.

Then Friday comes, and it’s time for my last test—in James’s class. I’m ready, though. I’ve done all the reading. I’ve studied hard. Nothing’s going to trip me up.

When I walk into his classroom that morning, though, I’m faced with the one thing thatcouldactually trip me up. My usual seat up in the back row is occupied by someone else. In fact, there’s nowhere to sit anywhere in the back of the room.

The only empty seat I see is front and center in the first row.

With dread creeping up into my chest, I slowly walk over to the empty seat. Before I sit down, I take one more glance around, hoping that I missed an open seat—but of course I didn’t. Of course this is my only option.

Shit. I sink down into my seat, the dread growing more intense. Why didn’t I show up earlier? Why didn’t I—

“Good morning, class,” says James, bursting into the room. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here until now. There was a problem with the—”

His words catch when he sees me sitting in the front row. He blinks, then sets his jaw.

“—copier,” he finishes, sliding his eyes away from me. “I’m going to pass out the exams now.”

James walks up the steps on the side of the classroom, handing stacks of tests to the people sitting on the end of the rows. As soon as my neighbor hands me the thinning stack, I grab one, pass on the stack, and lower my eyes to the test.

All the words swim together on the page.

I close my eyes. I take a slow, deep breath in, then let it out. I can do this. All I need to do is focus on the test. Andnotlook up. I just need to pretend that James isn’t there.

Opening my eyes, I look at the front page of the exam again and sigh with relief. The words aren’t swimming any longer. I read the first essay question, and immediately, I know what points I need to cover.

I press my pen to the page and start to write.

* * *

On Monday,though, when we get our graded exams back, I’m shocked at the number scrawled at the top of the page. Furiously, I flip through the exam pages, adding up the red numbers by each essay answer. To my dismay, they add up correctly.

I can’t believe I got a fucking C+ on the exam.

As everyone looks over their exam results, James reminds everyone about his office hours, requesting that if any of us want to discuss our grade, to please show up then instead of approaching him after class. His words barely register in my ears, though. I’m so irritated right now. I shove my exam into my backpack and rush out of there. And I spend the rest of the day still pissed off about it. I’ve never gotten a grade like that on an exam.

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