I scurried down the hallway and into the small classroom housing my final class for the week. Students that I recognized populated the rows of desks beginning at the wall and moving forward to the front of the classroom. Only one seat remained. Front row, between two girls. One of whom I recognized as Samantha Adler, a student with whom I’d shared several classes. The other girl, however, was unfamiliar to me.
I nodded at Samantha who greeted me with a smile. We exchanged pleasantries and I was painfully aware that no one was speaking to the new girl. I turned to say something to her but stopped. Engrossed in her notebook, she was scribbling something down. Perhaps a fleeting idea that had come to her or maybe a kill list. I hoped for the former.
Moments later as I chatted with Samantha, the classroom grew quiet. I noticed movement from the periphery of my vision—someone walking into the room—and thought it was another student. Still finishing my account of the summer vacation I’d taken with my mom, my voice was the only one that resonated in the room.
“Fascinating tale, Miss…” a smooth and quiet male voice came from my left—the front of the classroom. I turned to see a man standing at the podium. He wore gray fitted trousers and a button-down shirt with a suit coat over it. Much more formal than the majority of the professors in the writing department. The way he trailed off with his sentence indicated he wanted my last name.
“Larsen,” I said, turning to fully face the front.
He was handsome. A strong jaw peppered with stubble met with messy hair that terminated at the nape of his neck in a wave. It dawned on me that this was Dr. Wolsieffer. He was younger than I’d imagined—maybe late thirties—and far more attractive than I’d pictured when I’d heard rumors of a student-professor affair the spring before. I’d pictured an old letch, not this.
“Miss Larsen,” his lips curved into half a smile. The ease with which he smiled separated him from us. His position in the university certain, he didn’t need to impress us. Dr. Wolsieffer was the dean of the creative writing department, and somehow, I’d never seen him until now.
My eyes followed his long fingers as he thumbed through the paperwork pulled from his briefcase. He found what he sought—the attendance sheet—and began calling names. When he got to mine, he looked from the sheet and back at me. His eyes lingered on me just a little too long. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat before he moved on.
We spent the majority of our first lecture going over the syllabus with Dr. Wolsieffer stressing the importance of not getting behind, as the final and only grade for the course was the first draft of a novel, the prospect of which both terrified and excited me. I hadn’t written a novel. I wanted to, of course. But there was a part of me that wondered if I really could—if I could finish something so grand.
He released us early. Several girls straggled as the rest of us poured out of the classroom. I chuckled to myself, imagining that each of them had their sights set not on finishing a novel, but on becoming the next object of Dr. Wolsieffer’s fascination. Even as I laughed, I couldn’t shake the image from my mind of his eyes locked on mine for that moment during the roll call. My legs moved quickly, trying to outpace the version of events in which my professor was attractive and interested in me.
Outside, I stopped. Ignoring one of the central tenets in the Don’t Get Raped handbook, I looked down, unaware of my surroundings, and dug through my purse for a pack of cigarettes that I’d purchased before driving to class. A nasty habit that I’d picked up and couldn’t seem to put down, I wasn’t proud of it. I looked up, trying to be a wary, world-wise woman. I couldn’t find the pack. I jammed my hand further into my bag, rearranging every item I came in contact with. Still, no luck.
Frustrated, I tried one more time. This time, I looked down, addiction making me care less about safety and more about my next fix.
“Looking for something?”
I looked up, startled. The girl from class—the one I didn’t recognize—stood on the sidewalk in front of me, a lit cigarette between black fingernails. I glanced at it.
“I bought a pack of cigarettes before class. I guess I put them down in the car before I walked over here,” I said.
“You can bum one from me,” she reached into her bag and brought out a pack of menthols and a lighter. She popped the package open and shoved it towards me.
“Thanks,” I plucked one out and put it to my lips. She held up the lighter and I inhaled.
“What do you usually smoke?” she asked.
The grimace on my face had betrayed me.
“Turkish silvers,” I said.
“Good choice,” her smile revealed a gap between her two front teeth that struck me as charming, like something nameless yet familiar.
“So, what did you think of him?” I asked, curious to see if the new girl had heard any of the rumors, or perhaps hoping that she knew more about them than I did.
“Full of himself,” she said. “Probably coasted by most of his life on his looks. I bet mommy and
