It’s over now. Laurie made a move, I turned him down. I’ll tell Fitz about it eventually.
Right now, I want to forget it ever happened.
But that’s easier said than done, especially when it becomes apparent that Laurie doesn’t want me to forget.
When he strides into the lecture hall on Wednesday, his gaze seeks out mine almost immediately, and the ice in his eyes sends a chill up my spine. Then he breaks the eye contact and greets the rest of the class with a broad smile.
“Guess what day it is, boys and girls!”
Titters ripple through the room, mostly from the females. In the row ahead of me, Nora whispers something to one of her friends, and they both giggle. She’s actually backed off these past few weeks, her dirty looks and combative remarks slowly abating. I think she’s accepted that I’m Laurie’s “pet” and that no amount of Chanel-bashing is going to make him hate me.
I should give her a heads-up that all it takes to invite Erik Laurie’s hatred is not allowing him to shove his tongue in your mouth.
“As you know, I’ll be returning your midterms today.”
There are excited whispers, intermingled with some groans and worried voices.
“Don’t worry, for the most part you all turned in some excellent work. Many interesting papers in the bunch. Miss Ridgeway, yours in particular was a fascinating read.”
Nora’s head snaps up in shock. This is the first time he’s singled her out to praise her. I can’t see her face, but I imagine she’s probably blushing happily.
“With that said,” he continues, “I did notice that some of you had issues with the basic tenets of essay writing, such as how to correctly cite a source or organize a paragraph. I thought perhaps a tutorial is in order.”
He snaps open his briefcase and removes a laptop that he sets up on the table near his lecture podium. “Now, I’ve found that sometimes in order to teach a student how to do something correctly, it’s useful to show them what an incorrect version looks like. So we’re going to dissect two papers, each of which earned a D-minus, and we’re going to examine why that was.” He winks. “Don’t worry, these are midterms from a fashion history course I taught at UCLA a couple of years ago. I tend to reuse the same essay topics. I blame laziness.”
That gets him more laughs.
He bends over his computer. “Let’s start with this paper on the evolution of New York fashion.”
I freeze.
That’s got to be a coincidence, right? He just said he tends to assign the same topics. Anxiety roils in my stomach as I wait for the essay to appear on the projection screen.
And then it does, and the sick feeling shoots up to my throat, and I almost choke on bile.
A cover page fills the screen for about half a second before Laurie quickly scrolls to the first page.
But half a second is all it takes for me to make out my name on the cover sheet. The date underneath clearly indicates it was written and submitted this semester. UCLA, my ass.
And I’m not the only one who caught it. Ben, my bushy-eyebrowed row-mate, shoots me a weird look. Nora twists around to frown at me before facing the front again.
“As you can see, the student had many issues with basic essay structure. Take a look at her thesis—she’s very clearly told us what she plans to discuss in the essay and in what order. And yet the paragraph that follows doesn’t follow this blueprint…”
And on and on he drones, picking apart the paper I’d spent the last two months slaving over. Crying over. My cheeks get hotter and hotter with each passing second. My stomach gets queasier and queasier. My classmates saw my name on that cover page. Or at least most of them did. They know I wrote it. Laurie did this on purpose, and he’s winking and smirking and having a frigging ball down there as he dissects my work.
“As you can see, the student had all the bones, but none of the meat, if you will.”
Nora snickers. Ben gives me a sympathetic look.
I desperately try not to cry. I glue my gaze to my hands, which are clasped in my lap. I don’t want Laurie to know how close I am to tears. I refuse to let him see that his humiliation ploy worked.
The smug bastard is now pointing out a spelling error I’d missed when I was proofreading. Fitz missed it too.
“This isn’t kindergarten. This is an Ivy League university. Spelling matters, children.”
I shoot to my feet. I’m done. I’ve had enough. My hands shake like branches in a windstorm as I gather up my stuff and hurry to the aisle.
Laurie is still talking when I push open the doors and flee the lecture hall. I’m halfway down the hall when someone calls my name.