Page 9 of Playing By Their Rules

Me: Can’t. My next class starts in three minutes.

He starts to text again, but the first students are already filing through the door. I tuck my phone in my pocket and lean back against the desk at the front of the lecture hall as the rest of the students walk in. Four hundred students in Intro to Psych 101. I don’t watch them all—that would be weird. But I also can’t be on my phone, which would be unprofessional. I expect them to keep their phone usage to a minimum during class, so I try to set a good example. Almost all of them are college freshman and sophomores, although there are a few upperclassmen and graduate students in the mix.

I look over my notes one last time. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but it’s on silent so if anyone hears it, it will be faint. I ignore it.

“Welcome to Intro to Psych,” I say. “You can all peruse the syllabus at your leisure. My office hours are listed there, and we have two graduate student TAs—Carrie and Derek—who have office hours listed as well. If you have questions you may drop in or make an appointment. Let’s get started.”

No hands come up. I’ve been told I’m intimidating in the classroom. It makes things more efficient by discouraging all but the important questions, so I’m okay with that.

I pull up some slides and dim the lights. “We’re going to first go over the lobes of the brain and their function.”

I cycle through different images of a human brain with certain areas emphasized to make it easier to discuss the parts.

“And this,” I say, pulling up a new slide with the frontal lobes of the brain highlighted, “is the prefrontal cortex. This part of the brain is responsible for what? Just say it, no need to raise hands, we aren’t in first grade.”

“Decision making,” someone says.

“Impulse control,” someone else offers.

“Both of those are correct,” I say. “It helps manage higher-level executive function—decisions, impulses, the ability to plan. At what age are the frontal lobes considered fully developed?”

A soft, feminine voice speaks from the front. “Age twenty-five.”

That voice. The sound of it hooks me behind the gut and yanks hard.

I squint through the darkened room, but I can’t see who spoke. I have to be imagining this. In the past five years, I’ve seen her a thousand times, a thousand ways, in a thousand different places, but it was always a mirage, or a fantasy. This must be another of those instances.

I return to my lecture. The words come out automatically. I could talk about brain function in my sleep. Once the talk is over, I brighten the lights somewhat and scan the lecture hall. Where is she? She’s here, I know she is.

It takes me a moment.

Right up front. Wearing a fucking schoolgirl outfit, of all things. Plaid skirt, a white shirt. She’s sucking on a motherfucking lollipop while she types notes into her tablet.

I used to think she was half angel, half succubus. No. This girl is all demon, sent from hell to torment me.

The boy next to her leers at her long legs. I want to break his disrespectful face.

I allow students to ask questions about the lecture. There are a few good ones, requiring some thought.

Eventually, class ends. Several students come up to the lecture area to introduce themselves. I’m used to this. It’s difficult to get the attention of a professor in a crowded lecture environment, and many of these students hope to major in psychology.

Maisie doesn’t approach me, though. I try not to look at her until she’s turning around, walking out of the classroom. Her skirt flounces up with every step, revealing more of those long legs. I can’t gawk, though. I’m a fucking professor, and twice her age, and all of this is wrong.

I need to tell Chance.

Fuck. The truth dawns on me. He must already know, and that’s what he was calling me about.

As soon as the last of the stragglers head out, I pick up my phone and call him.

“Now you want to talk,” he says. “I was calling to warn you—”

“She’s here,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“She’s in your class, too?”

“Yeah.”

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