Page 13 of Damaged Professor

She calls it people watching.

James used to call it creep studies.

I land somewhere in between, because who hasn’t taken the chance to check out random people at the mall. But at the same time, Nichole needs to get better about asking people before she snaps their pictures.

“Why?” Nichole asks, not looking down at me.

I throw my arms out to either side, my fingers curling in the fuzzy white rug. “Does it matter? If you asked me to kill you, I would do it without making you give me a thesis to review first.”

“One, you totally wouldn’t. Do you remember finals last year? I practically begged you to put me out of my misery, and you laughed at me.” Nichole flicks a highlighter towards me. “I mean, full out belly laughed.”

“You shouldn’t have put studying off until the last minute.”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean. You don’t offer ‘no questions asked’ mercy murders, so why should I?”

Nichole is laying on her stomach, bright pink and purple pillows piled up around her and one under her chin. A book has been spread out on the bed, in front of her. It’s a gallery piece showing the work of—oddly enough—Goya himself. Nichole took a year off to find herself before she started college, so she’s further along than I am.

“Why aren’t you helping me?” Groaning, I drop my hands onto my face, grinding my palms down against my eyes. It makes bright blobs of color appear in my vision.

“There’s a reason why I’m not helping you.” A pause. “And I’m not talking about the fact that I'm trying to study.”

“Then what is it? What’s so important that you won’t be a good friend and put me out of my misery?”

“Because you’re blowing this way out of proportion. You know, I once picked up this total hunk of a guy at the bar, and then, a week later got pulled over by a cop and—”

“It was the same guy,” I finish. The cop story is old news. It’s from the month before James died. “You tell me this story all the time, but it’s not the same thing.”

I’m not trying to be a dick about it, but it’s not. Nichole recovers from embarrassment super fast. In that instance, he didn't even give her a ticket because she gave him head on the side of highway eight twenty. She says it was embarrassing, but there’s always this note of pride in her voice when she talks about it—which means that it's totally not the same situation that I’m in right now.

Nichole hums. “It was pretty embarrassing.”

“I’m not embarrassed about sleeping with Dylan,” I protest. Which is true. There was that moment of instinctual embarrassment when I first stepped into his classroom and saw him there behind the podium, but any embarrassment was quickly drowned out by dread.

A note of a whining creeps into my voice. “I seriously don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it,” I tell her, my mouth pulling into a thin line.

Nichole finally snaps her book shut, realizing that she won’t be able to get any studying done today. Once the book is pushed out of the way, she shifts so that she’s leaning over the edge of the mattress and looking down at me.

“Alright,” says Nichole. “I’ll help you figure this out, but you need to tell me if he was good in bed. That’s my one stipulation, and I’m not going to let you wiggle out of it this time. If you want my help, you tell me if he at least dicked you down good.”

“Do you have to talk like that?” I ask.

Nichole stares at me, unwavering in her demands. “Do you want my help with this or not?”

My lower lip juts out. “Nichole, I’ve already told you.” I say as I roll my eyes. “He’s my professor. We can’t see each other. That’s like, so against…everything. I have to get him out of my mind.”

“You’re twenty-four,” Nichole points out. “You wouldn’t be breaking any rules—that I know of. Come on, I want the details before we go any further into this little feast.”

“Fine,” I tell her. I know that Nichole won’t let it drop until I do. “Fine, yes, he was really great in bed. I literally couldn’t move my feet afterwards. Can we get back to the actual problem that I’m having now.”

“I suppose,” says Nichole. “But FYI—when someone asks how your lay was, they’re looking for at least a few sparse details.” I give her an unimpressed look. “Fine, fine, go on, tell me why you can’t sleep with him again.”

“It’s an ethical thing,” I explain, waving one hand through the air above me. “Think about what it would do to his reputation, if word got around that he’s seeing a student?”

There’s a surprisingly long silence after that. In fact, Nichole goes so long without responding to me that I actually sit up and flop backwards against the bed instead, so that my shoulders are braced against the edge of the mattress.

Still, nothing.

A frown settles on my face. I reach out and poke her hard in the shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

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