When You're Ready (26 page)

“You don’t know Professor St. James,” Nola said, a little anxious. “She picks people apart over the smallest little things. I’ve got to be ready, Scout, for anything.”

“But you’re not even going to see her, baby. You’re just going to leave your essay at the desk and then we’re going to get you a new phone. Besides,” I grabbed one of her curls and twisted it between my fingers, “you look beautiful.”

Nola’s cheeks flushed pink and a little smile crept across her lips. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from ravaging her mouth, but I couldn’t help running my thumb along her soft pout.

“Scout,” she caught my hand, “I should probably—“

“Well, what do we have here?” A redheaded woman exited the elevator and nearly bumped right into us. She glanced between Nola and me and a smirk lit up her entire face. The woman looked like a well-dressed Grinch, and I immediately knew she had to be Nola’s professor. “Ms. Chambers, I take it you’re feeling better?” she asked, giving me the once over.

Nola stepped away from me like we’d been caught making out and nodded; her cheeks instantly darkening from light pink to deep crimson. “Oh…hello Professor St. James. I’m feeling much better, thank you.”

I noticed Nola’s whole body was suddenly on edge and her voice was unsteady. I had just met the woman, but had the overwhelming urge to call her a bitch. Nola probably sensed my displeasure with her professor, because before I could say something she spoke up.

“I was just about to drop off my essay. Because of my accident I’ve been at home working on it the entire week.”

The professor glanced at me and clucked. “Sure you were.” Nola knitted her eyebrows together and sighed in defeat; her professor, on the other hand, seemed pleased. “Follow me Ms. Chambers. I wasn’t expecting you today, but I guess I can take a look at your essay anyway. But,” she paused and turned to glare at Nola, “it
better
be worth it.”

Professor St. James swept into the office so dramatically I thought she might have been on a broom. From what I could see she was certainly evil enough to have one. It was clear the woman also enjoyed exerting her power over Nola a little too much for my liking, which was even more reason for me to give Nola the money for school.

“Wow, she’s a piece of work.”

Nola rolled her eyes and huffed. “I know. She’s completely impossible.” She cut her eyes at the woman and sighed again. “I’ll just be a minute, okay?”

“You don’t have to put up with her shit, Nola.”

She bit her lip, stepped closer to me, and dropped her voice. “Professor St. James is
really
connected. A recommendation from her could open a lot of doors for me, Scout. She’s….difficult, but if I get on her good side—“

“Her good side?” I chuckled. I couldn’t imagine a woman like her even
having
a good side. “Nola that woman is on a serious power trip. She gets off on making your life hell.”

Nola opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by the professor’s blistering voice. “Ms. Chambers,” she boomed from the other side of the door, “I don’t have all day.”

I grabbed Nola’s hand, but she hunched her shoulders and pulled it away. “I better go, Scout. See you in a bit.”

Nola trudged through the door and disappeared into an office with Professor St. James, leaving me to figure out how I was going to convince Nola to take the money. I loved that she was independent and could take care of herself, but there was no way I would sit by and let
anybody
treat her like shit.

“Excuse me,” I said, to the young receptionist who looked more like a student than a seasoned professional.

“Yes?” She twirled her hair around a finger and let her eyes crawl over my tats.

“If I wanted to pay a tuition bill, how would I do that?”

“You can pay it online on MyUCLA,” she grinned. “Just login with your student ID and take care of it. Takes like five minutes, tops.”

“And if I want to pay it for someone else, you know, as a gift?” I matched her smile, hoping a little harmless flirting would give me the information I needed.

“A gift?” she gasped, her eyes growing wide. “For your girlfriend?”

I nodded, watching her face expand into an even bigger smile.

“Oh my gosh, that’s so sweet!” she said. “You can pay it in the registrar’s office in Murphy Hall. It’s like a 10 minute walk from here.”

“10 minutes, huh?” I checked my watch and considered my options. I could wait to see how Nola’s meeting with her professor turned out, or I could jog over Murphy Hall, pay her tuition, and surprise her later. Every nerve in my body told me to go settle the bill, and my instincts were usually right. It was settled, my mind was made up. “Can you do me a favor?” I asked the young woman.

“Sure,” she nodded eagerly.

“If my girlfriend comes out before I get back, just tell her I stepped out to get some air and I’ll meet her downstairs, okay?”

“Okay. Got it!” she sung, as I turned to head out the door.

I hustled of Rolfe Hall, through the quad, and across the campus to get to Murphy Hall. When I got to the registrar’s office the room was practically empty and there was no one waiting in line. I’d heard horror stories about students suffering through long lines on campuses, so I took the vacant room as a sign that paying Nola’s tuition was the correct thing to do. All I had to do now was convince her not to freak out.

29
Nola

Professor St. James was a
bitch
. A horrible, heartless, evil bitch who seemed determined to mess up my life. When she invited me into her office—wait, no,
demanded
I join her—to discuss my paper I held onto a shred of hope that things would turn out fine. But when she whipped out her red-rimmed glasses and began picking apart the very first line of my paper I knew I was in trouble.

“Hmmm, ‘third wave feminism has run its course,’ eh?” Professor St. James said, reading my essay aloud. Her voice, brusque and taunting, caused me to scrunch down into my seat. Professor St. James was one of the leading voices in the movement, and the one thing she did not tolerate was people disagreeing with her. I knew I was taking a risk by staking out such a critical stance, but I hoped she would respect me for it in the end.

“Well, it has its place in the cannon, it’s just that—“

“And what do you know about the cannon, Ms. Chambers?” she hissed, staring at me over the top of her glasses. “I’ve been writing about feminism since before you were born. But I guess, according to your little paper, I’m supposed to pack it up and let the young women handle it.”

“That’s not what I meant, Professor St. James. What I was trying to say is—“

She held up her hand and shushed me. “I’m reading….since
apparently
I need to learn something.”

For the next 25-minutes Professor St. James read my entire essay, grunting her disapproval and feverishly scribbling notes as she moved from page to page. I melted further into my seat, hoping to disappear from the room all together. I wished I could have traveled back in time and pick another class—
any class
—besides Professor St. James’, but I couldn’t. I’d been stupid enough to write-off all of her negative reviews on RateMyProfessor.com as entitled and whiney. Now, I could kick myself for not paying attention.

I stared at the clock watching the minutes tick by, wondering what Scout must be thinking. He had to be bored out of his mind, or regretting bringing me to campus in the first place, and I couldn’t blame him. I was fed up too. I was tired of Professor St. James jerking me around, only I didn’t have much of a choice. She knew she could make or break my future in one fell swoop and she didn’t even care. Actually, maybe Scout was right. Maybe Professor St. James did get off on having so much power over her students; hell, maybe this was the only excitement she had.

My eyes wandered around her office looking for signs that Professor St. James had a family, and perhaps a heart, but I came up empty. Instead of a spouse, I saw picture upon picture of the professor’s signature scowl peering out over crowds, signing books, and commanding stages, no doubt making everyone else’s life a living hell.

“So,” Professor St. James said, snapping me out of my thoughts, “that was….interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Yes, interesting: intriguing, curious, compelling, amusing…” she rattled off a litany of synonyms like I needed a definition. “And brave.”

“What?” My eyes perked up at the surprising compliment. I swallowed hard. Was Professor St. James actually…
pleased
? “Brave?” I asked, unsure I heard her correctly.

“I’m still not convinced your thesis is valid, you know, that third wave feminism is—as you say—
over
. But it takes balls to make such a claim, Ms. Chambers, especially to
me.
” Professor St. James’ face twisted into a tiny, smug smile that made her look almost human. She was still scary as hell, but she
smiled
—at me. This was good,
very
good.

I was almost ready to start counting my scholarship money, but then she crushed my little daydream.

“I don’t agree with all of your points, but this is a solid effort Ms. Chambers, perhaps even the best I’ve read all quarter.”

“Seriously?”

“A little more work and you could have an A on your hands. I’m giving this a C-plus.”

My smile dropped and I felt like a bullet had gone off in my brain. Did she say…a C? 

As in I was just an average student, I would lose my scholarship,
and
I couldn’t pay for school?

“I’m sorry, Professor St. James, I don’t understand. You said my paper was solid…and brave,” I whined. I knew she respected strength but I felt like the professor had set me up, and then pulled the rug out beneath my feet. I was in a tailspin and hoping to grab onto something—
anything
—that would help the moment make sense.

She just nodded, seemingly oblivious to my distress. “Yes, yes it was brave. Not many students even attempt to disagree with me. It showed spark.”

“So I got a C?”

“Plus…’ she added it like it made a damned bit of difference.

“But…” I blinked back tears. “I need a B to keep my scholarship, Professor. If I don’t get a B in this class I won’t be able to pay for school.”

She laughed. “Ms. Chambers, surely you can do like all of the other students and have your parents cover it.”

“My parents?” I repeated like she was speaking another language. That was her grand plan? Ask my dead father and my deadbeat mother to pay my tuition? I was screwed.

“Yes…the people who raised you,” she said it like I was an idiot. “Lucky for you UCLA is quite reasonable, Ms. Chambers, unlike Princeton. You know I went there?” She asked even though
everyone
knew she went there.  “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Professor St. James, my parents are…” I searched for the right words to explain just how fucked up the whole situation was. “My parents can’t help.”

“Just talk to them, it will be fine,” she said again.

I rubbed my temples, trying to keep the hurt and anger from edging into my voice. If I could have slapped Professor St. James and gotten away with it I would have clobbered her on the spot. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. “Professor, my parents can’t help me. My dad passed away, and my mom—“ I paused. What the hell
was
my mom? Inept? Uncaring? A mess? Me in a few years? “My mom is…not able to help me out either. My scholarship covers half of my tuition, and the other part I have to pay for myself. I waitress full time, and I
really
can’t afford to stay in school—or live—if I don’t get at least a B in your class.” My eyes pleaded with her for consideration…or pity. At that moment I’d take either one. “I don’t have anyone else,” I admitted.

The hard edges of Professor St. James’ face softened just enough to prove she was actually human and I was heartened by the momentary glimpse of sympathy. Professor St. James sighed, took off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t just give away grades, Ms. Chambers. You have to earn them.”

“But a C-plus is almost a B.”

“Almost…but it’s not.”

My head fell into my hands and I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I didn’t want to show Professor St. James she had broken me down, but I didn’t know what else to do. My future lay in the balance and she was quite literally stopping me from reaching it. Crying probably made me look like a weak little girl to a hardened feminist like Professor St. James, but I didn’t care. It freaking
hurt
.

“Ms. Chambers,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “You know how I got where I am today?”

I shook my head, not really caring to hear the details of her battles with the sexist establishment. I knew she’d grown up somewhere on the East Coast and had attended an exclusive all-girls prep school before getting her degree at Princeton. Whatever hardships Professor St. James encountered while fighting The Man had to have paled in comparison to my mess of a life. So no, I didn’t want to hear how she climbed the ranks to be the insensitive bitch she seemed to be today.