Teach Me (6 page)

My
pencil taps anxiously on the blank outline. So far all I’ve
managed to write is the word
Outline
across the top of the page.

“You’re
one to talk, Harpy.”
Nick sticks out his tongue. I really regret that MK finally got
around to telling him my name. “Maybe
we should take a page out of your book and get a confessional booth
instead.”

My
cheeks flame. I shove my chair back, about to slam my book shut and
head to the library instead, where at least I can sulk about my total
lack of inspiration in peace and quiet.

That’s
when a warm hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and squeezes gently.
“Quit giving the
girl at hard time, Schwartz. You’re
just jealous.” The
owner of the hand, a native Londoner to judge by his thick Cockney
accent, slides into the seat beside me. Honey brown eyes lock onto my
blue ones, and a warm, off-center smile follows. “I
have to admit, though, I am a little jealous, too. The new girl is
here for a grand total of two weeks and she steals my crown as
reigning King of Daring Pulls.”

I
swallow hard. The way he’s
looking at me is almost . . . 
hungry.
I’m
not sure if I like it or not. I lick my lips. “Um,
what’s a pull?”

He
busts into laughter, and Mary Kate joins in. “You
know, going out on the pull, pulling a hot gal—or
guy, I guess, in your case.”
I must still look blank, because he speaks even slower now. “Picking
someone up. To hook up with them. Tell, us, who was the lucky bloke?”

Now
my cheeks could practically ignite a small forest fire. “A
lady doesn’t kiss
and tell,” I say,
even as I level a sideways glare at MK. I thought I knew enough about
Brit-speak to get around here, but she definitely did not explain
fancy dress or pulls in any of her emails.

Great.
Is this going to be my new reputation? Queen of Pulling?

The
new guy takes pity on me. “Don’t
worry, love. I’ll
steal my title back in no time. Confessional booths will be old hat
soon enough, once I complete my plan to seduce a girl in the middle
of Templars Square.”

Now
all of us snort at once. I really can’t
imagine anyone allowing themselves to be seduced in the largest
shopping center in Oxford. “Gee,
thanks for your sacrifice,”
I reply.

“I
dunno, though, King of Pulls,”
Mary Kate interrupts. “Harper
might have you beat there. I mean, if even half the things she writes
in her letters are true . . . ”

I
kick her under the table. “Whatever
happened to sisters before misters?”
I grumble.

“Hey,
I’m just saying,
your reputation’s as
good as his.” MK
winks.

The
King of Daring Pulls shrugs a shoulder. “Well,
perhaps she and I should have a contest of wills. See who pulls the
other one first.” He
winks, so fast I wonder if I imagined it.

“How
about you two get a room instead?”
Nick mumbles from across the table, probably not enjoying the way
Mary Kate is still giggling from this guy’s
last joke.

“Alas,
I’ve sworn off
hooking up with guys before I’ve
been properly introduced,”
I say.

“Patrick
O’Brien,
professional sexaholic,”
he replies smoothly, jerking me into a handshake before I even
realize what’s going
on. “And you are?”

Against
my better judgment, I find myself grinning. “Harper
Reed, stereotypical American screw-up.”

He
looks suddenly crestfallen. “Don’t
tell me you
regret
your confessional détente.
You’ll ruin all my
preconceived notions of your grandeur. Also, can I still make a nun
joke now, or should I save it for later, after we . . . ?”
He winks again. Definitely not imagining it.

“We
are not—there’s
not going to be a
later,
”
I sputter, extracting my hand from his. MK and Nick are outright
snickering now. Suddenly everything—the
realization that half our class seems to know about me hooking up at
that party, the fact that I’m
going to get the same reputation that I used to have, not to mention
this guy’s attitude,
seeming to think our hookup is already a done deal, it all hits me at
once, and I’m just
so done.

“I
have to go.” I leap
to my feet and toss my papers into my bag.

“Harper,
wait.” Patrick tries
to follow me, but trips on his chair, and only manages to hop
sideways on one leg. “I’m
sorry, I was joking.”

“Stay
Harps, come on.” MK
reaches for me, a pout on her wide lips. “We’ll
work on the essay for real, I promise.”

“We
will?” Nick says,
but she elbows him in the stomach.

“Sorry,
guys, I’m just not
in the mood,” I
mutter as I beeline for the nearest exit.

#

A
ghost tour crowds around the Bodleian Library. The tour guide,
dressed in a knee-length black cloak and carrying an old-school
lantern, is in the middle of a story about some old king’s
ghost that supposedly haunts the library. Yeah, sure. This library
and about a hundred others across the country, I’m
sure.

I
skirt around the tourists, my flats slipping on the cobblestones,
still slick from the soft drizzle that fell earlier tonight. It’s
still thinking about rain, though nothing is actually falling.
“Mizzle,”
my mother would call this. Thicker than mist, but not quite drizzle.

Thinking
about her sends a sudden pang of homesickness through me. I should
call her. I haven’t
in about a week—hard
to when you’re in a
different time zone, and you can’t
just pick up a cell phone while you’re
wandering around campus.

Suddenly
the library sounds less than appealing. I pause halfway up the steps,
debating if I should just go back to my dorm and try to catch Mom on
web cam before she goes to her evening SoulCycle class. I can work on
my essay from there. I don’t
need to be in the middle of this epic, awe-inspiring library just to
write a simple paper. Right?

Never
mind that I still have absolutely zero ideas what to focus on about
Heaney’s poetry. Or
that I really need some place I can just zone out and focus—probably
not my dorm room, with the roommate who comes crashing home drunk at
2:00 a.m., or the neighboring suite, which is inhabited by angry wild
raccoons, as far as I can guess from the sounds we hear through the
too-thin walls.

I’m
still standing there in the middle of the cobblestone square as the
ghost tour floods around me, some still snapping photos of the
library, even though all you’d
be able to see on their low-res camera phone screens in the dark
would be a few orange street lights and some building-shaped blurs.

This
is how ghost legends start. Bad cameras and suggestible minds.

I
sidestep the tourists, finally steeling myself. I’m
going into the library, and I’ll
call Mom later. First things first: finish this essay.

Of
course, as I whip around to make good on this promise, I collide with
another ghost tourist headlong. At least, so I assume. Until I feel
warm hands catch my shoulders, and a telltale baritone above me
saying, “Whoa
there.”

This
is not happening,
I
think in a panicked mental voice as I tilt my head back to meet his
eyes.

“On
the contrary, it seems to be real,”
Professor Kingston answers.

Oh
my god, did I say that out loud? I practically swallow my tongue I
clamp my mouth shut so fast. “Sorry,”
I say.

He
still hasn’t
released my shoulders. His palms sear into my skin, so warm I can
feel them even through my jacket. He seems to realize this at the
same moment I do, and releases me so fast it’s
like he’s burned
himself. “My fault
entirely,” he says,
his voice as smooth and unflustered as ever. “The
perils of dodging large groups of humans. You always wind up running
into one of them.”
He smiles, like this is nothing. “How
was the tour?”

Does
anything rattle him?

Well
fine. If he wants to pretend there’s
nothing here, two can play at that. I take a step closer to him, and
inwardly thrill when I hear his sharp intake of breath. “Fabulous.
I learned all about the distinguished ghosts who reside in our fine
library. King . . .
Edward, was it?”

“Probably
Henry. He’s the only
one they can be sure the Americans remember.”

Am
I imagining it, or is that a smile flirting with the corners of his
lips? “I remember
plenty of royalty!”
I protest. “There
was Elizabeth the First, and Mary Queen of Scots, and that other
Mary, the bloody one . . . and
current Elizabeth . . . ”

Yes.
Definitely a smile. It widens now. “I’m
surprised. You only remember our female monarchs? Most girls have
eyes only for the princes.”

“I’m
not interested in chasing royal guys. It’s
more interesting to imagine the kind of strength that women born into
power wielded.”

“I
imagine you have some experience there,”
he says, his voice so low I can’t
be sure I heard him right.

I
stare up at him, and even in the dark, with only the distant street
lamps to illuminate us, I can swear I feel his eyes staring straight
back into mine, burning holes through me. It’s
something about his eyebrows, I decide. The way they line up too
perfectly, just above his sharp cheeks. It makes his whole face
so . . .
severe. In an intimidating way. But sexy intimidating. I laugh
weakly, too late for it to seem natural. “What
about you, no royal role models?”

“Oh,
definitely Henry VIII.”

I
raise one eyebrow, actually backing away a step. “Seriously?
He was a total womanizing creep.”

He
bursts into laughter. The same laughter I heard in the confessional,
a sharp, short burst that sounds like he doesn’t
use it nearly often enough. “I
was joking.” His
eyes catch the streetlight and glitter at me like twin dark stars.
“Though you have to
admit, the man certainly knew how to take what he wanted.”

Maybe
it’s the night air.
Maybe it’s the scent
on his breath, like mint and smoke mingled. Maybe it’s
just that I am out of my ever-loving mind. But I take a step closer
to him, reach for his arm and wrap my slender hand around his thick
bicep. Wow. Professor does not slack on the gym visits, from the feel
of it. “I imagine
you
have some experience there,”
I reply, and I feel him tense under my touch with an undeniable sense
of satisfaction.

Turnabout
is fair play
, I tell
myself. He started it.

I
do feel bad, though, when he steps away from me, and my hand falls
back to my side. Did I go too far? I was only kidding. I didn’t
mean . . . 

Damn
it, Harper, not again.

“Have
a good night, Ms. Reed,”
he says, and then he’s
gone, disappearing into the mist across campus so fast that within
moments I’m
wondering if the ghost tour wasn’t
right after all. Maybe this library really is haunted.

By
the ghost of my desires.

#

Safely
ensconced in the library, my heart rate calms enough for me to reopen
the Heaney files and confirm that I definitely still have no ideas.

Also,
I feel a little guilty for how I just acted. I promised him I would
stay away. Behave normally. If I want this research aid position, I’m
going to have to work one-on-one with him. Now I just made him feel
totally uncomfortable, before I even had a chance to be considered?
Great work!

But
he
did
start it. Didn’t he?
Or was I imagining the flirtiness in his gaze, the firm grip of his
hand on my shoulder, the way his eyes bored into mine when he said
the man certainly knew
how to take what he wanted.

I
shiver.
Focus.
I
log onto my laptop and refresh my inbox.

1
new message from J. Kingston.

My
heart leaps into my throat, threatens to choke off my air supply.
A
Request,
says the
subject line. Cryptic, much?

Is
this about our meeting just now? Is he going to ask me to stay away
from him? To drop the class? Maybe I should. Maybe it would be easier
on both of us.

Or
is it the opposite kind of request?

Visions
of the so-not-appropriate variety dance through my head. I envision
everything this email could say.
Harper,
meet me in my office in ten minutes. Wear a shorter skirt this time.

Harper,
I can’t
stop thinking about how good you taste.

Harper,
I made you come harder than you ever have before, and in public, no
less. Care to get on your knees and return the favor?

Unfortunately,
the moment I click open the message, I realize it’s
not that kind of email. For one thing, he’s
CCed our entire poetry class.

I
trust you are all hard at work on your Heaney essays,
he
starts, with no preamble. Straight to the point. I’d
like it, if it wasn’t
so presumptuous. He only gave us the assignment this morning, and
it’s ten o’clock
at night now. We’re
not allowed to have other classwork? Or sleep?

I
reign in my annoyance and keep reading.

When
you submit them, do so in print and leave off any identifying
information. You may turn them in at my office mail slot. The due
date hasn’t
changed—5PM
on Wednesday.

See
you all next Monday.

He
didn’t sign the
email, either. It reads like he wrote it hastily, though I can’t
imagine why. Paper submissions? Maybe he’s
just old school. I still have a couple professors back home who ask
for all our assignments printed out, though they’re
usually a lot older than Jack—
Professor
Kingston
—seems
to be. He’s got to
be thirty, max. Maybe even younger. It’s
hard to see past the chiseled jaw and two-day stubble enough to tell.

But
why the anonymous thing? That seems weird. Doesn’t
he need to know who wrote which essays in order to grade us?