When I step outside, Hobson is waiting with the limo. As usual, everyone looks at me as he opens the door, trying to figure out if I'm someone.

Nope. Nothing to see here, folks.

Five minutes later, we pull into the U driveway and Hobson lets me out at an expansive brick staircase, framed with giant pots of colorful geraniums. I open the door and drop my backpack on a stool at the center island of the kitchen, where Carol, our cook, is going through her shopping list. "Your mother said she's at a late work meeting and to eat dinner without her. She wants you to text her right now, though, to let her know how your first day was."

That's normal with my mom. She has a GPS tracker app on my phone that tells her where I am at all times, and so even though she's always working, she knows my comings and goings better than the FBI. I grab a Snickers bar out of the pantry and rip it open with my teeth, I'm so hungry.

"You'll spoil your dinner!" Carol exclaims, swatting my backside with a dishrag. "What would you like? Ravioli, your favorite? I can make it with low-fat cheese. Your mother said you should be watching your--"

"Forget it. This can be my dinner," I say, holding up the candy.

She tsks at me like I'm a recalcitrant child and I give her a little pout. It's like I can't be expected to do anything on my own, much less feed myself a nutritious meal. Sometimes I act like one simply because that’s what they expect of me.

I pull out my phone as I rush upstairs and text my mom. Survived. Everything fine.

A second later, she comes back with: Good. How are your professors?

My fingers hovering over the keyboard, I think of Dr. Hill. Hot is the first adjective that pops into mind. But that is far from what she means. She has been known to go on the warpath if my professors aren't up to snuff. Once I mentioned my Physics professor’s heavy German accent, and she nearly had the man fired for being too difficult to understand. Great. Seems like it'll be a good semester.

A moment later: Good.

She's satisfied, I think with relief. Satisfaction is always hard-won with my mother, which is why I decide against asking her if I can drive in to class tomorrow. Better to save my breath. She’d only assault me with a zillion questions and warnings and leave me wishing I’d never asked.

I toss my phone on the bed and pile my books on my eyelet comforter, then sigh exhaustedly. The room is all white lace, sugar and spice, pink walls, paintings of rainbows. Carol and all of them treat me like a baby because that's what my mother wants me to be. Under her thumb, a child, for the rest of my life. Even when I have my MD, I bet they’ll still think of me as a little girl in pigtails.

Sighing, I reach over and pull my heavy statistics book out of my bag. The second I open it, my eyes trail to the syllabus for Creative Writing.

I think of what Hill said. You must seek your passion. It will not seek you.

I have been, I think. The first time my mother mentioned to me that I could be a doctor and make a very good living, I was interested. When I told her it sounded like something I’d like to do, she went out and bought me a slew of anatomy books. I was five. Since then, I’ve been chasing it with every breath I take. Every class, every step I’ve taken has been in the direction of my MD.

That’s my passion. My mother, as hard as she’s been on me, is just doing it for my own good. She’s keeping me on track while I chase my dream. How can I begrudge her for that?

I reach into my bag and pull out my notebook. I usually do my work on the laptop, but it's a satisfying feeling, the scratch of the ball point pen on the paper.

It's not easy. I write and rewrite. But I get it done. An hour later, I study the words on the paper. My first actual poem.

I smile. No, it's not anywhere as good as the works recited today in class, but it's more than I thought I could do.

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m no doctorate in English. This is terrible.

Balling it up in my first, I look up and realize that I haven't even started my small mountain of Statistics homework.

But I have absolutely no motivation. I think of Hill, and a warm feeling settles low in my abdomen. God, the way he’d looked at me! And he is, undeniably, as Zoe had said, incredibly hot. Shivers travel down my spine as I think of the wolfish glint in his eyes when I’d declared I do anything to succeed.

I shiver more as a thought comes to me. For the briefest of moments, he really could’ve asked me to do anything, and I would’ve entertained it.

What is that power? Does he know he has it?

I imagine him striding to the door and locking it, giving me that same wolfish smile as he asks me to strip naked. I imagine his big, rough hands on my hips, his body between me, parting my thighs . . .

Stop it, Addison. He’s your teacher. And thinking these things when you should be concentrating on your studies will only hurt your chances of being a doctor.

Shaking the idea out of my head, I flip open my laptop and go to the school website, then navigate to the online classroom for Creative Writing 101. My name, AMcBride, is at the top, along with a green circle to indicate I’m online. I scan down the list of names from my classmates, noticing HLacara, whose avatar—the school ID photo—makes the funny freshman look younger still. To think, he’s written three books, really done something with himself. No, he’s not a doctor, but he’s still someone. There is a gray circle beside his name, offline. In fact, every student on the list is offline. Except . . .

I scan the very top name. CHill. I smile at that. He does seem very cool and collected. Hmm, I wonder what his name is. Christian? Cole? Cameron?

The circle beside his name is green, like mine.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. Then I open a chat message to him.

Dr. Hill? I have a question about the homework.

A moment later: Yes, McBride?

I smile. I don’t know why I like that he calls me by my last name like that. I type in: How long does the poem have to be?

I watch the three bubbles dance on the screen, licking my lips and waiting for a response. His response nearly makes my insides turn to jelly: That depends, McBride. How passionate are you?

I swallow. How am I supposed to answer that?

Those three circles again. Then: I’m teasing you, McBride. The answer is that it’s up to you. There is no length requirement.

I exhale. For a second, I thought he was flirting with me.

Actually, I’d hoped he was flirting with me. Oh. Okay, thanks. Have a good night.

I expect him to say something similar, but instead, my mouth drops open when I read: Truthfully, I was a little lonely until you messaged me. What are you up to?

Um. Okay. He’s lonely? And he wants me to keep him company? Why? Why me, when he could likely have anyone? Is he serious?

I read the message twice, then a third time, trying to think of how to answer. The first answer that comes to mind, “Trying to finish the stupid assignment you gave us”, sounds dull. My fingers hover over the keyboard, until I type out: I’m having a poetry party.

Am I invited?

My breath quickens. That sure as hell sounds like flirting. Or . . . maybe not. I remind myself to keep it classy. Of course you are. You live for poetry, don’t you?

Ah. But I’m a poetry party virgin. What do we do at these poetry parties?

I smile. Him, a virgin? He probably has more women than he knows what to do with. Rhyme, alliterate, throw a lot of onomatopoeia around. Generally raise hell.

A woman like you? Raise hell? Never.

I swallow. He called me a woman. Has anyone ever called me that before?

My radar is completely faulty for these things, but now I’m almost sure: He’s flirting with me.

I take a deep breath, type the next words, and then quickly hit enter before I can regret them. I can raise hell. But I’d hate to corrupt a virgin.

A second later: Corrupt away.

Oh, god. I’m pretty sure that if he and I ever got together, he’d be the one corrupting me. And why can I think of nothing I’d love more? My fingers tingle as they sweep over the keyboard.

I will with my poem. You’ll never be the same once you’ve seen my passion.

Is that so?

Shivering, I type in: Yes.

I’m looking forward to being corrupted by you, McBride.

After that, the door clicks open downstairs and my mother calls my name. I glance at the time on my laptop: 12:40 am.

Shit. Way past my bedtime. She must’ve seen my light on.

Quickly, I slam the laptop closed and flip off the light, then burrow under the covers.

My mother comes and checks on me a second later, while I’m still breathing hard. Thankfully, she just closes the door and walks away.

I exhale with relief and remind myself to delete the conversation with Hill in the morning, since my mother has been known to check my accounts. Then I wait for sleep to come.

It doesn’t for a long, long time. Instead, I find myself groping my body in the dark and imagining what it would feel like if it were Dr. Hill’s hands, all over my skin. I’ve never been touched like that before, but God, I want it so badly that by the time morning comes, I’m restless and sweating and so ready to see him again.

Even if one of us does end up getting corrupted.