We leave the theater building still linked, bumping up against each other as we walk. Bash is sprawled on the stone stairs out front, smoking a cigarette. He looks up for a second, his eyes passing over me like I’m another tree in the Oak Grove. A little wisp of anger curls in my chest, but I try to ignore it, focusing on the feel of Allison’s elbow curved around mine.
My high school was full of guys like Bash.
They always look right through girls like me.
But I see them.
11 SCARLETT
“Of course he deserved it,” Mikayla says.
The lecture hall is meant for a much larger audience, so the twelve students enrolled in my advanced Shakespeare class tend to spread out across the room, using extra chairs to hold their backpacks or serve as footrests. As usual, Mikayla is the only one sitting down front near Jasper and me.
Ryan Cutler, a senior who always sits in the back row, shakes his head in disagreement. He’s wearing the same holey Game of Thrones T-shirt he had on in last Friday’s class.
“I just think it’s messed up,” Ryan says. “That they tricked Angelo into sleeping with another woman.”
“Compared to what he was going to do to Isabella?” Mikayla shoots him a challenging smile, one eyebrow raised. Her angelic looks make the expression all the more unsettling. “That’s nothing, and you know it. He was—”
“Yeah, but,” Ryan interrupts her. “Isn’t what they did to him sexual assault or whatever too? I mean, technically?”
The girl behind Mikayla shifts in her seat. Ashleigh Lawrence, junior. From the papers she turns in, I can tell she’s smart, but getting her to speak up in class is next to impossible, especially with strong personalities like Mikayla and Ryan in the room. Ashleigh opens her mouth, then claps it shut again, chewing on her lower lip.
“Ms. Lawrence,” I say. “Did you have something to add?”
“N-no.” She twists her braid nervously around her fingers, the diamond ring on her left hand glinting in the fluorescent light. “I mean, not really.”
Mikayla is more than happy to take the last word instead. “Angelo had no qualms about coercing Isabella into sleeping with him. So I say he got exactly what was coming to him.”
Jasper grins at her. “Well, since you’re such a revenge enthusiast, Ms. Atwell, I’m sure you’ll enjoy next week’s assignment.”
He starts distributing handouts, explaining the requirements for our upcoming module on Othello. Mikayla’s already read it; she’s onto Titus Andronicus, which we won’t be covering for weeks yet. I know I shouldn’t let her dominate the discussion as much as she does, but it’s hard not to play favorites when she’s so far ahead of most of her classmates.
As soon as Jasper and I dismiss the class, Mikayla approaches me. “Do you still have time to meet now, Professor Clark?”
We’re not even halfway through the semester and Mikayla has already been agitating to lock in her spring course load. I have to chase down most of my other advisees—or send Jasper after them. I don’t know whether it’s his harsh grading or his height or that unsettling gaze of his, but the students seem far more scared of him than they are of me. If only they knew.
“Of course,” I say. “Although it’s too nice outside to stay cooped up in my office. Coffee?”
Mikayla nods eagerly, following me into the hallway. Jasper brushes past, his long strides overtaking us. He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers graze my hip. I tense, glaring after him. Mikayla doesn’t seem to notice, but someone else might have.
Mikayla and I pass Dr. Stright’s office just as he’s ushering Ashleigh Lawrence inside. Ashleigh is in his honors writing seminar and already a better writer than he’ll ever be. I sincerely hope she’ll keep writing even if she goes through with her—in my opinion ill-advised—plan to marry her high school sweetheart next summer.
Stright eases the door shut behind Ashleigh, hand hovering near her spine, and my jaw muscles clench. He’s not as shameless as Kinnear yet, but it’s just a matter of time. In some ways, he’s already worse than his mentor. At least Kinnear doesn’t have a wife at home waiting for him while he fools around with his students.
“Are you still planning to apply for Stright’s honors seminar?” I ask Mikayla as we exit Miller out to the Oak Grove. It’s practically summery today, and the students are taking full advantage of it: stretched out on the grass with their jackets as picnic blankets, using the pretense of studying as an excuse to bask under the clear blue sky.
“I’d like to,” Mikayla says. “If you think I can get in.”
She can definitely get in—on the merits of her writing talent, of course, but also because Stright handpicks the seminar students every semester, and they’re nearly all pretty young women.
“I’d be more than happy to give you a personal recommendation,” I tell her. “But I have to warn you—”
“About Professor Stright?” she says. “Don’t worry, I know all about him. I still want to try for the seminar, though.”
I’m loath to praise anything Stright does, but I have to admit his seminar seems to be valuable. One of his students last year got into the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Others have ended up with internships at literary magazines, publishing houses, the New Yorker. I don’t want Mikayla to miss out on opportunities just because Stright is a creep.
But if he touches her, I’ll fucking kill him.
“I was planning to take your Victorian poetry class too,” Mikayla says. “But if you get that fellowship in London, I guess Dr. Kinnear will be teaching it?”
“Or Dr. Torres.” Drew’s already been reviewing my syllabus, just in case. “You should consider his gender-theory course too. He only offers it in the spring.”
“Do you think he’d take over as my advisor too?” Mikayla asks. “I mean, if you leave.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to. But I’ll still be available via email if you need anything.”
She smiles. “Good. I’ll really miss you, though.”
Our walk to town takes us past the cluster of dormitories sitting at the edge of campus. Mikayla waves at a student coming out of Whitten Hall—a girl I’ve never seen before, with frizzy brown hair, wearing a flannel and frayed denim ensemble that would have been stylish when I was her age.
“You’re in Whitten this year?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Mikayla says. “It’s the only place I could get a single as a sophomore.”
Whitten is one of the older, more run-down dormitories on campus, and so not a favorite choice of most students. But I’ve always thought it had a certain charm, with its white columns and leaded windows, the ivy covering the facade. In the afternoon light, the overlapping leaves gleam like the scales of a snake.
With so many students outside enjoying the sunshine, the coffee shop in Gorman’s small excuse for a downtown is nearly deserted. Mikayla and I are discussing options for her global literature requirement as we wait for our drinks—plain black coffee for me, a caramel chai latte for her—when a man comes through the door and walks right up to us.