I don’t know any of them, and I have an urge to find out. My restlessness is swelling, expanding. My breaths have escalated with the hint of possibility in the air, the possibility to tip over the edge into a different world with brick fa?ades and cement floors, a world with surly professors with eyes the color of hot flame and cool water.
My musings are cut short when Professor Abrams jumps down from his perch on the desk, his hands on his hips. What’s wrong?
“I wasn’t planning on saying anything because it’s none of my business, but I’m your teacher, and apparently I’m supposed to care about these things. Also, I don’t think I can stop myself, but that’s beside the point.” He paces, then pauses to scowl at the class, at no one in particular.
“All I’ve heard so far is how amazing an author is and how you want to write like him or her. I don’t think you understand what inspiration is. It’s not ripping off Hemingway or Shakespeare or Plath. It’s not the ambition to be like someone. That’s no ambition at all. If that’s truly what you want, then I’d rather not teach you. But, unfortunately, I need this job, so…” He puffs out an exasperated breath as he runs his thick fingers through his hair.
“I’m only going to say this once: there’s a difference between writing and creating art. Anyone can write, but only a few can create art, and for that, you need to find your own voice. Reading is good. Read as much as you want, but make your own rules. Don’t just follow. Strive to create something that comes from you. Strive to create your art, not recreate what someone else did, because frankly, you should rather want to be dead than be a rip-off.”
He is panting, his chest punching the taut fabric of his shirt. The hard planes and hollows of his face shift with emotion. This is the poet Emma was talking about. Passionate. Volatile. Genius. Magical.
I’ve got goosebumps under the sleeves of my sweater, followed by flashes of heat. I touch the spine of his book, going up and down the length with my finger. The smooth texture of it causes something heavy to swirl inside my chest. It causes me to bite my lip. As if he’s attuned to my actions, his gaze falls on me. We stay connected a beat before we both look away. For that one beat, I saw his eyes flare, and the blue was so prominent, it took my breath away.
Professor Abrams’ fervent speech has sparked interest and from there, the class practically carries itself. Emma is the first one to ask questions. Who was your inspiration? Who did you read while growing up? Did you always know you wanted to be a poet? Do you write every day? He dodges every one of those, never divulging anything about his favorite writers or his writing ritual—as Emma calls it—answering every question with a question of his own.
I stare at him. I observe him, his little habits. The tic in his jaw when someone seems to bother him. How he swallows down cutting comments when the same someone doesn’t get that he’s irritated. Every time he controls himself, I feel the familiar tug in my belly button.
As soon as the class is over, everyone submits their homework on the desk, reminding me that somehow, I’ve been spared. Happy or disappointed, I can’t decide. I gather up my winter gear, ready to leave, when his voice, sharp as a whip, stops me.
“Miss Robinson, can I talk to you for a second?” Not even a glance at me. His focus is on the essays as he bundles them up.
The room has almost emptied as I approach the wooden expanse of the desk, the solidness separating us. Is it weird that I notice how he’s changed since the class ended a few minutes ago? He isn’t the rigid professor anymore. He is…Thomas.
The reappearance of the guy from the bookstore injects a shot of mischief and boldness in me. I’m reckless in the moment, light and airy. I give him a smile and my most innocent look: wide, blinking eyes and a hint of a frown on my smooth forehead. “Yes, Professor?”
But he isn’t in the mood to indulge. He thumbs through the essays while staring at me, and I know I’ve been found out. Any second now, he’s going to give it to me about my missing homework. My heartbeat gallops.
“What are you doing in my class?” he asks instead, with the typical tic in his jaw. Yeah, I’m in trouble.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re clearly not a poet.” He studies me. “In fact, I don’t even think you like books. So, it begs the question: what are you doing in my class?”
“I like books! I read all the time.” I’m outraged that he knows this about me, that he sees my deception in being here.
But isn’t that what I wanted? I wanted him to see me. It doesn’t make any sense. My reactions to him don’t make sense.
“What was the last book you read?” he challenges.
Yours. But I don’t say that.
“It was called, um, something…I forget the name, but it was about love. Uh, childhood sweethearts getting married and having a bunch of kids.”
“So who’s your favorite author, then? I’m sure you’d remember something like that.”
He is relentless, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m relentless too. “There are too many to count.”
Thomas puts his palms on the desk and leans toward me, curling his athletic body over the desktop. “Name one.”
From this close, I breathe him in, his scent. The intoxicating combination of cigarettes and chocolate is turning my brain to mush. I take a step back. “You know what, I’m late for class, and I have to go all the way back to the south side of campus, so—”
“Name one author you love and I’ll let you go.”
I’m ready to wave the white flag and peace out of here. Instead, another lie blurts out of me. “Sh-Shakespeare.”
The vein on the side of his neck looks alive and breathing, like it could leap off any second, separate from his body, and attack me with the anger pulsing through it.
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Try again.”
“That wasn’t the deal. I told you—”
He straightens and lifts a thick, ridged finger. “One. Just one.”
Oh God. I almost groan out loud as I study the bumps on his finger. It looks worn, well-used. It looks like…yeah, magic, a magic that spins out words and poems, poems I can’t stop reading. I wonder what would happen if he ever accidently touched me. I’d pass out, most likely.
“Y-You. I love you.”
Wait…what?
I clap my hand over my mouth, my eyes going wide. I did not just say that. I’ve never said that to anyone except Caleb—not that he ever understood my meaning. He thought it was in fun, in friendship.
But here and now, I rush to explain, “I mean I love your work. I—”
His jaw is ticking again, but this time around it’s more dangerous, because it comes with a twitch in his right eye. “I know you’re not in my class because you’re not on the official roster, so technically, you’re trespassing, and I want you to stop. Next time, don’t be here.”
I’m tempted to say okay, but the thought of not showing up is even worse than braving his wrath.
“Or what?” I swallow and curl my fingers around the edge of the desk.
“You don’t want to do this.”
“Do what, exactly? This is a class and I’m a student—why can’t I be here?”
He pins me with his gaze before hitching one side of his lips up in a tight, mocking smile. “You really think this is going to work?”