Page 5 of Left on Read

Actually,heshould avoid me. He’s on my turf. We’re not in a lab. This isn’t the science building. Future Doctor Collins isn’t going to top this class.

I am.

With that thought, I wipe the last of the tears from my eyesand make sure I don’t have snot dribbling out of my nose. By the time I make it back to the classroom, other students have filed in. No one I recognize. All actual college students. Some barely older than me, some old enough to be my mom. (I like those people; they’re usually the nicest.)

This is fine. This is still the moment I’ve been waiting for. The day I’ve been waiting for.

I wait for it all to wash over me, for a sense of rightness to set in. There are plenty of feelings washing over me in intense, all-consuming waves, but I don’t think any of them are close torightness.

That, at least, I’m used to. Most of the students aren’t even aware of the early college program on campus. What I’mnotused to is the gnawing ache of watching the clock tick. Two minutes past. Five minutes past. Eight minutes past …

Before I have time to stew further, Professor Lowry steps through the door, nearly a full ten minutes late. To her own class. On the first day.

I knew what she looks like because I’ve literally wanted to take her class for years, but seeing her in person versus her buttoned-up photo on the English department website is … different. Her glasses are on top of her head, lying on a riot of messy and possibly irreparably tangled curls. They’re light brown with some salt and pepper strands mixed in. Bags under her eyes, minimal makeup aside from a strange amount of blush. She looks like someone who spent all night in the library.

She’s … a bit of a mess. I hope it’s in a “disheveled genius” kind of way, but I’m not sure. Her white cardigan is stained with something that might be coffee, and I don’t really understand why she’s even wearing it because it’s hotter than Dante’s inferno today. (Damn. I wish I could’ve made that joke out loud. She might have loved it.) Underneath, she’s wearing some crepey yellow blouse that doesn’t fit, and a blue-and-red patterned skirt that doesn’t match. Looks like the primary section of the color wheel melted all over her.

It’s, um, a lot. I was always told to dress for the job you want, and right now, it doesn’t look like the professor in front of me wants her job. Another wave of emotion crashes onto me again. But it’s more identifiable this time.

Anxiety.

She’s the head of the English department, and she’s supposed to be my ticket to a promising college career as an English major. Then a PhD in literature and a professorship. Starting with this class. Starting with this very moment, where she’s digging through her briefcase, I think in an attempt to look for the glasses that are on her head.

“Alright,” she says, her voice brisk. “I’m going to call roll, and as I do, you will all move to your assigned seats in alphabetical order …”

Seriously? Assigned seats? We don’t even have assigned seats in our high school classes. That’s middle school stuff. She starts calling names, not even looking up from the roster in her hands.There are two A’s, so they sit at the first table in the left, front corner. Then two B’s.

With any luck, there will be someone between me andhim.

“Carter,” Dr. Lowry drones.

I move to my seat, right in the front row, center of the room. Right in front of her.

“Collins,” she calls, and for a split second, I hope there’s another Collins in the room. A different Collins. My eyes shift as a presence takes up my peripheral vision.

It’s Hayes, sitting down in his assigned seat, right next to me.

There is no other Collins in the room, and there is no luck, at least not for me.

“Hey, Novella,” Hayes whispers. His voice isn’t teasing or chiding or even annoying in the slightest, and I find that extremely suspicious. “Listen,” he says, but I won’t, and I’m not gonna, and he can’t make me, except he’s sitting right next to me, basically whispering in my ear. I sort of have to. “I didn’t mean to make you … flee, or whatever. Earlier. Did you cry …?”

I scoff, but it’s kind of wet and gross. I meant it to be snappy and unapologetic and unaffected. Joke’s on me. I couldn’t be unaffected if I tried. I’m always trying. Never not trying.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I tell him. “That wasn’t about you, trust me.” It was, but I can’t let him think that. Can’t let him know that. “This has just been …” My left hand lifts into the air and sort of swivels around the room, like I’m presenting this disaster to him.

“Weird? It’s looking that way.”

Just then, Dr. Lowry appears in front of my table, dropping a giant stack of stapled pages in between my elbows. She doesn’t tell me to take one and pass them along, I just do. They’re syllabi, of course. I was excited for this part. I can still be excited about this part.

Instead of staying in my seat and letting everyoneelsepass them around, like a normal person, I stand up and hand out each syllabus myself. I hoped my initiative would impress her, but as I sit back down, Dr. Lowry is scrolling through her phone with her head down.

“Read through your syllabus,” she mutters, waving one hand in our general direction. She still doesn’t look up. “That’s what the first session is for.”

Minutes pass, pages turning in relative silence.

It takes me about half a page of reading before I realize this is basically the default English department American Lit 1 syllabus. I’ve read it all before. It’s on theschool’s website,and it has been for years. There’s nothing in it about her beyond the bio that’s also on the website. No contact information beyond her office number.

The volume rises around me as people start chatting. I expect her to stand up, to say something, to quiet the volume. To introduce herself, ask us how we are, or verbally confirm that we’re actually in the right class. Honestly, I wish I were in the wrong class.