Page 8 of Lessons In Grey

“You all may call me Professor,” he announced, leaning back against his desk, gripping the edge of it, looking around.

He still hadn’t spotted me.

“Professor who?” a girl asked. “Do we not get a name?”

And as if he had known the entire time that I was there, his eyes flicked right to me. “Names are just constructs.”

Goddammit.

I dropped my eyes to his tie. Nobody was allowed to know me like that. Nobody.

“You may call me Professor.”

“That’s hot,” Katelyn cooed, fanning herself.

I rolled my eyes and reached into my pocket, large enough to fit a bag of Trolli Sour Gummy Worms in it. I pulled out a blue and red one and slid it over my tongue, enjoying the feeling of the sour crystals grating against my tongue, causing my mouth to water.

I suppose it was my vice.

“It’s the first day, so I figured I’d set up some expectations for my classroom,” he went on, turning his attention to the rest of the class. “I do not allow fidget toys or safe spaces. If you’re so victimized in your own head, triggered by the breath of a bee, you don’t deserve to be here, get out.”

I ran my tongue over my bottom lip, licking up the extra crystals. I liked that.

“Too many people nowadays are self-diagnosing themselves as mentally ill. It’s pathetic. I don’t accept that even half of you are victims. I don’t want any ‘poor-me’ stories of bullshit that you made up in 7thgrade to get attention from your daddy. You don’t have autism, you don’t have depression, you do not have OCD. If you do, and you’d like to make that known, I would like proof. If you are triggered by my need to have proof, then you may leave.”

Shit. I kind of liked this guy.

“Hardass,” Katelyn frowned. “I’d still let him fuck me.”

Christ.

He was right though. Nobody in this world was stronger than a true victim, but the world was so satiated with false ones that everybody just stopped giving a shit. A sob story was just a sob story until it could be proven, and in a world of photoshop you could prove anything you wanted with a click of a mouse.

It was pathetic.

People were pathetic.

“Two, I don’t need your excuses to get out of class. If you don’t want to be here, I won’t bother teaching you. Leave. Three, this class is a fourth-year writing class. I will not be dumbing down the way I speak to meet your needs. You’re expected to keep up. I will not be repeating myself. Four,” he went on, his eyes finding me again, “I don’t care what you eat or drink in here, just don’t make a mess.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t have to break a rule then. I didn’t care what he said, I would eat my bullshit at 8am if I wanted to.

“Now, does anyone have questions they want to ask me? You have the right to ask, I have the right to decline. This will be the only time this year that I will allow this. You have the floor.”

Katelyn’s hand shot straight up.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to my notebook. I knew exactly what she was going to ask, and I was already embarrassed for her.

“Yes…?”

“Katelyn,” she said eagerly. “Do you have a wife?”

Shallow.

“The ring is on the wrong hand and it’s representative of something far deeper than a paper binding two people together.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but she didn’t know that. In fact, she was giddy with excitement.

“How old are you?” a male asked.