He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, fiddles with the buttons with his thick, long fingers. I feel especially drawn to them. He is a writer. He writes, with those hands. They are little gods, aren’t they? They create things, words, poems. For someone like me, that’s extraordinary.
I’ve got zero knowledge of poetry, but he makes me want to crack open his book and read. Huh. No one has ever made me want to do something as innocent as reading while simultaneously, making me want to get high and drunk.
Who is this man?
He’s like candy-coated toxin.
I’m so caught up in my musings that I almost miss the golden glint of a ring on his hand. For a split second, I’m confused as to what it is. Then I realize it’s a wedding band.
The blue-eyed professor is married.
My heart slows down for a few beats, making me dizzy, and then it picks back up. Thundering, galloping; it’s anxious. I almost want to rub my palm in circles where it’s making a fuss inside my chest. It’s bizarre. What do I care if he’s married?
Biting my lip, I look up and find his gaze on me. It’s one of those things where you accidently meet someone’s eyes. It’s not deliberate. It’s not like he was watching me watch his hands. And yet, my skin crackles with the tiny bit of electricity that is left behind after a gaze touches the body. I shift in my chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs.
Before long, it’s my turn to talk. “I’m Layla. Layla Robinson.”
His focus stays on me a beat longer than it did on other students. “Why do you want to take Introduction to Poetry, Miss Robinson?”
Great. The first thing he asks me is the one thing I have no clue about. Maybe I can say my therapist/guidance counselor suggested I try something new and here I am, but I don’t want him to know I’m crazy.
We are not crazy, my unhelpful heart chimes in.
I sit up straight and clear my throat. “Well, because it’s interesting. I like poetry.”
“What do you like about it?”
My breaths bubble up from my chest but don’t reach my mouth. I can’t exhale a proper puff of air as I contemplate his question. I’m under scrutiny, and I hate it. I feel everyone judging me, picking me apart. It feels like home, and I want to disappear.
But, like always, I keep my chin up and my eyes unblinking. The question churns inside my brain and I have an epiphany.
“The words,” I exclaim.
“Yes?” He raises a sarcastic brow. Asshole.
“It’s like lyrics without music.” I forge on. “It’s so easy to lose yourself in the beat of music, but lyrics keep you grounded. It keeps your mind active, you know. You have to pay attention, listen to it over and over to get its meaning, to read between the lines.” I nod, agreeing with my own analysis. “Yeah. That’s why I like poetry. Because of the words. They ground me.”
The silence is absolute. No one even breathes, or maybe it’s just me who doesn’t. I’ve never thought about lyrics in that way, but maybe it’s true. Words. Lyrics. Poetry. Aren’t they all the same?
The professor has the same look on his face as he did while he watched the cigarette and the book. His control is tick-tocking and I’m afraid. I’m…thrilled, which is a very strange reaction to have.
Then he turns his gaze away. “Let’s discuss the syllabus, shall we?”
A relieved breath whooshes out of me. This man has some serious self-control, if you don’t count the cigarettes. I should take lessons from him. I should register for this class. At least Kara will be happy.
He moves around the desk and fishes out a stack of papers from the drawer. It’s copies of the syllabus. He keeps one and hands the rest to Emma in the first row. For the next few minutes, the room is filled with rustling of papers and scratches of pen.
The sheet reaches me and I see it. His name. On the top right corner of the page with his office number and hours, and his extension.
Thomas Abrams.
Thomas.
Professor Abrams.
I bend down and retrieve a pen from my bag and underline his name. Once. Twice. Three times in purple glitter ink. Then I draw a circle around it. I tell my hands to stop, but they don’t. They dig the nib of the pen in, even more furiously at my protests.
Once we all have a copy, Professor Abrams proceeds to read out the important parts. This class is part workshop and part lit, meaning we will have to write our own poems and have them critiqued, along with reading poems by some famous people. Honestly, I don’t know the names of half of them—Dunn, Plath, Byron, Poe, Wilmot.
Professor Abrams’ voice has very little inflection to it, making me think he doesn’t have much interest in the syllabus. He frowns at certain places especially, like when the syllabus outlines the homework to be given and the grading system.
There are a few moments when Emma tries to engage him in a conversation, but he evades smoothly. I can feel her frustration from where I sit in the last row. Either Thomas Abrams doesn’t care, or he has no idea how to be a teacher. I’m guessing it’s a little bit of both.
Before long, the class is over and we have our first assignment: write a one-to two-page essay on our reasons for choosing this class and authors that inspire us. The assignment is enough to send me dashing and never return to this side of campus.
As I’m exiting, I pause at the threshold and look back. Professor is fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt again, and sunrays reflect off his golden wedding band. Rolling his shoulders, he puts the jacket on and shakes his arms out. Still graceful. Still fluid like a song. Still potent enough to make me shiver.
Before he can catch me staring, I walk away and almost collide with someone out in the hallway. It’s the guy from the front row; I forget his name. He’s got messy hair and black-rimmed glasses. He is cute in a nerdy sort of way with the hood of his jacket crooked around his neck.
“Hey.” He greets me like he knows me.
“Hey?” I cock my head to the side, trying to remember if I know him.
“You’re Layla. Layla Robinson.”
“I am.” Did I do something to him?
“I’m Dylan Anderson. We had history together.”
“We did?”
“Uh-huh. Professor Allen? He used to pick at his nose while writing on the board?”
“Oh yeah. Oh my God, how did I forget that?” I shudder. “Ugh. That was the worst.”
Dylan laughs. It’s a goofy, awkward kind of laugh, and I love it. He turns to the girl who sat beside him. “This is Emma Walker.”
“Hey.” I raise my hand and wave at her.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Her greeting is wary, and I don’t understand why that would be. “You were in history too?” I ask her.
“No. I passed on that after Dylan told me about the professor.”
“Yeah. You coward.” He elbows her playfully and coaxes a reluctant smile out of her. “She’s a big chicken when it comes to taking risks. We’d decided to do the class together, but then she abandoned me.”