Page 5 of Office Hours
Andie sits up, crossing her legs to mirror me. “Okay, okay, but I heard a rumor about him. Like, a real rumor. Are you ready?” She leans in, and her hair falls in a curtain of gold.
I brace myself. “Tell me.”
“I heard,” she says, eyes huge, “that he got a girl pregnant. Like, a student. Last year? Or maybe it was the year before. But it was totally hush-hush and the girl transferred and the department covered it up.”
I blink. “You’re joking.”
She shakes her head, solemn as a nun. “Swear on my AirPods. He’s kind of a sex legend, isn’t he? Like, the brooding ones always have drama. Maybe that’s why he only wears button-down shirts. Camouflage for all the sperm on his conscience.”
I almost choke. “Jesus, Andie, that doesn’t even make sense. Where did you even hear that?”
She shrugs. “I have sources. You’d be amazed what people tell you in the laundry room at two a.m.”
I try to picture Professor Thomas, brooding and gorgeous, knocking up a coed in some back hallway. Sad to say, it’s equal parts impossible and inevitable. “But he seems too controlled,”I say. “Like he’d rather drown himself in the Mississippi than admit to a human need.”
Andie gives me a sly look. “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about sex with him.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “I haven’t thought about anything except not flunking out. For real.”
She grins, but it’s the nice kind, the kind that says I know you and it’s okay. “You’re allowed to want stuff, Simone. Like, maybe wanting it is the first step to actually getting what you want? Manifestation and all that.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s an effort. “Pretty sure the only thing I’ve manifested is an ulcer.”
Andie sighs and flops over, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin up with both hands. “You know that he’s already tenured? And he’s, like, thirty-five. My mom says that’s, like, unheard of. And he’s published, too. Five books. All poetry.”
I smirk. “He told us the only reason people write poetry anymore is because they want to get laid.”
She giggles again. “See? Sex legend. If you sleep with him, can I see the videos?”
I throw a wadded-up Post-It at her, but miss by a mile. “You’re deranged. I don’t even know why you think I’d sleep with him.”
She shrugs.
“Who wouldn’t? Let’s just say I have a dirty imagination.”
I shake my head because Andie has no idea how dirty I’ve been. To be honest,Ican’t even believe it, but what happened really did happen. I flashed my steamy, glistening pink pussy at myprofessor during class, and then fucked myself with a pencil while he lectured, making him stutter and swallow. Meanwhile, my roomie keeps talking because she has no idea.
“Please.” She waves her hand. “I heard even his TA has a crush on him.”
I gasp.
“Belinda? But she’s like fifty and a grandma!”
Andie shrugs.
“Every woman has a crush on this man. He’s catnip to ladies of all ages and sizes. Ask him for extra credit,” she adds with an evil smile. “See what he says.”
I want to fess up to my friend about what I did, but I can’t. Not right now. I want to say that my entire life is not a porn setup, but then I remember the way Thomas’s eyes had darkened, and my stomach does this nervous somersault.
I decide to change the subject. “I heard he’s on the short list to be the next Poet Laureate. Like, of the United States.”
Andie’s eyebrows scrunch up with confusion. “Is that a real thing?”
“Yeah. It’s a huge deal. Means you’re basically the national poet. You get to go to the White House and everything.”
She stares, mouth open. “But, like, what do you actually do? Do you have to write about wars and stuff? Or does the President call you to, like, summarize the national mood?”
I snicker. “Probably both. You have to write an inaugural poem, and then you get to spend a year just being paid to think about words and feelings.”
