Screw empathy. I smother my snicker, paste a business-like expression on my face, and approach the podium.
“I wanted to talk to you about my lab assignment.”
“Of course you do.” He sighs. “No changes. All placements are final.”
“But...”
“I won’t be teaching a lab section. My only role for this course is to be the lecturer, so you see, it will be impossible for you to switch into a section where I’ll be leading the small group discussions, because I don’t have a section. I can assure you that the TAs are all articulate, intelligent, and knowledgeable. They will do their very best to make sure that you do well in the class.”
His words reek of arrogance. It surprises me to find that I’m disappointed by it.
I stiffen. “Dr. Evans...”
“I just told you that it’s Holden.”
I choose to ignore him. Formality is my best, and possibly only, weapon.
“Dr. Evans, I need you to change my placement and it has nothing to do with wanting to spend more time with you.” Pompous prick. “I have a personal issue which I do not intend to discuss with you at this moment. Suffice it to say that it will be quite impossible for me to stay in my current lab group.”
At least that got his attention.
“Look...what’s your name?”
“Stella...Walton.”
The first name slips easily from my tongue, but the Walton sticks in my throat. It belongs to that girl in the mirror, the one who lives her life in funeral attire. It was a necessary change, given all of the flashbulbs and cameras that would have inevitably followed me to Greenview, but it feels like I’m living a lie. Like I am the lie.
“Ms. Walton, if I may call you that?”
At my nod, his mouth twists into a smile. It’s pretty clear that he’s mocking me. Well, this day just gets better and better. I should buy a lottery ticket or lay the balance of my bank account on black. Or something.
The corners of his mouth turn up in a ghost of a smile. “Ms. Walton, you’ve probably been at Greenview for a grand total of about three days. I understand that dorm friendships spring up quickly, but suffice it to say,” he says, pausing to widen his smile. “Suffice it to say that you have plenty of time to develop other friendships. Perhaps even in psychology lab.”
It’s a good thing that he’s so pretty, because he’s not exactly scoring a lot of points on the personality scale. I grit my teeth and smile right back at him.
“For your information, Dr. Evans, I’m a senior at Greenview, not a freshman, and my desire to switch lab sections has nothing whatsoever to do with newly formed friendships. It’s a personal issue, like I said, and the issue is with the teaching assistant, not my classmates.”
I promptly shut my mouth. I’ve already given away too much. I wait for him to ask me for more information, but he’s amused, not curious. It’s a far more infuriating response.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” he says, tilting his head sideways and studying me carefully. “Assigning students to specific sections because of personal issues is one matter that’s above my pay grade. However, you can take it up with your advisor. Alternatively, you can drop the course.”
“Well, it’s not like I really wanted to take a beautiful journey into the human mind.”
God, why am I such a bitch? I open my mouth to apologize, but I’m disoriented by the frankness of his gaze, so the apology remains stuck on my lips.
“I’m sorry to hear that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Walton. Perhaps our paths will cross again.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for all of your help.” My voice sharpens when I reach the word help, and I’m surprised he can’t see the fumes emanating from my body.
I’m halfway out the door before his voice causes me to whirl around.
“It’s a shame.” His eyes laugh at me, and I’m annoyed at myself for not totally hating him for it. “I think you would be a very interesting addition to the class.”
“Undoubtedly.”
I add a “thanks, douchebag,” under my breath, but I’ve never been a very good whisperer. His wicked, gleaming smile informs me that maybe I should have put more work into my stealthy insult skills.
* * *
T
wo hours, a styrofoam cup of coffee, a meeting with my advisor and his supervisor, and one unladylike tantrum later, I’m standing in front of the douchebag’s office, completely defeated and willing to beg for mercy. I did everything short of calling in the cavalry to get a schedule change. It seems that lab sciences are the most in-demand courses on campus, and as Dr. Allen so aptly pointed out, I was asking for trouble when I chose to ignore that provision in the student handbook. Personally, I think he took a perverse pleasure in denying my request.
To my surprise, the door to Dr. Evans’s office is wide open, as if...
“Ah, Ms. Walton. I’ve been expecting you,” he says, with an enormous, cheeseball grin. “Steve called me about fifteen minutes ago. Please, come in.”
Evidently, he’s on friendly terms with my advisor, who is so in love with the idea of himself that he insists on signing his name as Dr. Allen, Ph.D. Every time I get one of his e-mails, I want to send off a snarky comment about redundancy. Only the vague threat of a bureaucratic nightmare keeps my finger from hitting the send button.
“Take a seat,” he offers, motioning to a comfortable-looking armchair in the corner of the office.
I glance around. I don’t see any unopened boxes, towering piles of books, or half-eaten cartons of Chinese food. I can’t even find a dangling power cord. The space is overwhelmingly organized, which fits nicely with my type-A sensibilities. It’s also completely unlike any professor’s office that I’ve ever seen.
“The woodland creatures did all of the hard work,” he says casually in response to the bemused expression on my face.
“Maybe you should let them out once in a while. The economics building is in serious need of some fairy cleaning.”
His unbridled laugh disarms me, and despite all of my best intentions to remain firm, I smile.
“I’m impressed,” I admit.
“Thank you. I spent two days unpacking. I need a clean space to work. It improves my productivity.”
That’s a surprise, too. Most of the professors I know are inclined towards chaos. My mother is included in that number.
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“Undoubtedly.” His mouth curves into a smile. Oh, yeah. He definitely heard the douchebag remark, and unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s still amused.
I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling back, because he has the kind of smile that warms me from the inside out. The hot chocolate after sledding kind. The second shot of whiskey kind. I’ve only ever met one other person who had a smile like that. I push Jack to the back of my head and tap my nervous fingers on the edge of the chair.
“Dr. Evans...”
“Look. Three months ago, I was living on ramen noodles and writing my dissertation on a crappy Dell that I got from Goodwill. My degree hasn’t technically been conferred yet, so I would feel like a fraud if I allowed my students to use a title I haven’t earned. I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m actually qualified to be teaching here. Do me a favor and call me Holden. Please.”
“Fine.” I have no intention of doing any such thing, but I’ve surmised that there are few arguments in which this man comes out on the losing side. I need to save my strength for more pressing conversations.
“Before you ask,
Catcher in the Rye
is not my favorite book and no, I don’t share any character traits with Holden Caulfield, the prototypical hipster.”
He looks so disgruntled that I can’t help myself. I smile. Again.
“I wasn’t going to ask. I really wasn’t. My name is Stella, remember?”
“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Estella or Stella?”
“Both were intended, but no one calls me Estella.”
“You might have me beat, then. That’s a first.”
“I don’t know.
Catcher in the Rye
is a rite of passage for angst-ridden teenagers. Most people get Cliff Notes for Dickens, so I lucked out there.”
He inclines his head in agreement, but his eyes linger on my face and I get the distinct feeling that he’s trying to psychoanalyze me. He can go right ahead. Others (with far more impressive credentials than a recently completed dissertation and a neat office) have tried and failed. Miserably.
I extend the olive branch anyway.
“I’m sorry for my behavior earlier. I was a little bit worked up, and I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“I’m the one who should be apologizing. I was a little worked up myself. There seemed to be quite a few students who had...” He pauses, clearly searching for the right word.
“Scheduling concerns?” I suggest.
“That’s very diplomatic of you. Anyway, you just happened to come along when I was running out of patience.” He clears his throat. “But you didn’t come here to make small talk about the class.”
“I tried to follow your advice, which was to either talk to my advisor or to drop the class. Unfortunately, all of the other lab sciences this semester are either full or reserved for premeds...”
“And you need a lab science to graduate.”
“It’s kind of a complicated situation. Theoretically, I could take one next semester, but...”
“You’re Greenview’s top candidate for either the Fulbright or the Rhodes scholarship and your basic requirements need to be completed or in progress for the administration to recommend your application.”
He made quick work of checking up on me. I stare at the floor.
“It’s not every day that a student calls you a...what was that you said again? I think it’s possible that it wasn’t meant for my ears; however, I couldn’t help overhearing.”
Oh my god. I want to die. My face is burning. My ears are burning. My chest is burning. I am combusting. Right here. In Dr. Delicious’s incredibly neat office.
“I am so sorry. So sorry. I just...”
He holds up a hand. “Stella. I spoke to a colleague of mine in the economics department, someone that I knew from Berkeley. He said that despite your somewhat odd appearance, you’re the most delightful, thoughtful, considerate, and singularly impressive student he’s ever had the pleasure of teaching. I also looked at your record. Internships at Goldman Sachs and the UN, in addition to a handful of publications and presentations at academic conferences. That’s notwithstanding the glowing recommendations from everyone who has ever worked with you.”
It’s not fair to call it a blush anymore. I’m a putrid shade of purple.
“I lucked into a lot of that stuff. I think Dr. Keller probably wrote most of those recommendations himself,” I stammer.
“I doubt that.”
I muster a weak denial, but he’s already moved on.
“You said you had a personal issue with the instructor for your lab session. Luke Dixon, is that correct?”
“I don’t have an issue with him, it’s just...I...I don’t...” I scramble for an excuse, anything but the real reason why I can’t be in the same room with Luke Dixon. Ever.
His eyes twinkle. “One of the recommendations remarked upon your eloquence. I think the exact phrase was, ‘She has a remarkable ability to speak in poetics. If politics wasn’t such a repulsive business, I would recommend that particular career path for Stella.’ So, I’m sure you can come up with a more articulate response than that.”
“Please stop.” I sound like a whimpering buffoon. Handling flowery, over-the-top compliments mixed with thinly barbed insults has never been my strong suit. “I just...”
He backs off. “Do you have a personal relationship with Luke?”
Not far enough. A personal relationship. Sure. It’s true enough.
“Would it matter if we did have a personal relationship?”
He sighs. “Honestly? Not at this point. Since you’ve been at Greenview for the last three years, I suspect that you’re more than aware of the red tape that must be untangled in order to change the instructor of record. Normally, I would just assign you to another section and ask Luke to follow the other TA’s recommendation in terms of a grade, but that requires handing over liability, and then we’re right back where we started. Since I’m new here, I’m not much help in navigating murky institutional waters.”
“No matter what?”
“Even if he was your long-lost brother, I don’t think it would make much of a difference.”
His offhand remark hits just outside the bull’s-eye. I search his face for some hint that he knows more than he’s saying, but I find only contrition and a wisp of a smile. No pity, no deep understandings of my psyche, and thankfully, no sick, twisted fascination. I let out a deep breath.
“So, I’m stuck.”
“It appears that way.”
Then I’m finished here. I stand up.
“Thank you. I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Mr. Dixon. I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to drop the course or not, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I’ve made up my mind.”
“Of course.”
I extend my hand and he takes it in his own. His handshake is like his smile—irresistible. I have to jerk my hand away before he melts the last of my carefully built defenses.
“I sincerely hope that you choose to stay enrolled, Stella. I really do think you would make a very interesting addition to the course. Also, Dr. Keller would never forgive me if I allowed his prize student to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime because of a minor, and mysterious, personality conflict.”
“I’ll take that under advisement. Have a good weekend, Dr. Evans.”
“Holden,” he says firmly, his eyes locking onto mine. He’s already beaten me once today, and I can’t lose again, so I hold the gaze to the point of discomfort. Eventually, he leans back and concedes defeat with a slight shrug and a long, wicked eye-rake over my face.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to play the coquette. Queens of devastation don’t generally spend a lot of time honing their flirtation skills. However, I was good enough at that particular game, once upon a time, to know chemistry when I see it. Unless I’m very much mistaken, Holden Evans was eye-flirting with me.
What’s worse, I think I kind of liked it.