William

I sink back into my chair and goggle at my own hands, looking at them as if I've never seen them before. The world is spinning, turning crazily around me like I'm standing on a top that's running out of spin and ready to topple over. The chair creaks under my weight, shuddering in protest.

Damn it, I need to stop being alone with him. I can't keep my hands off Ethan, and it doesn't matter if he wants it, even if he initiates it. I'm in the position of responsibility here. I'm the one with authority.

Authority, a little voice whispers. He likes that.

I shake that away, roughly, and surge to my feet, then pace my office. Damn the beginning of the semester for leaving me little to do, with no exams to grade or papers to turn in. I won't have review questions or a quiz for Ethan to grade until next week.

Why didn't Carol just listen? Of course, I made a mistake telling Ethan to talk to her first; I should have done it. It should have come from me, if I truly wanted this ended. That's the truth. I tuck everything back into place and open my door. Sniffing the air, I try to discern if the office smells like sex or if it's just in my head.

It doesn't matter, I'm not expecting anyone to show up. It does matter. It bothers me. I can smell it whether it's there or not. An itch wriggles at the base of my brain.

I have another class. I duck into the bathroom and check myself out, staring hard into the mirror for a good five minutes, sure that I'm marked somehow. There's nothing visible, but maybe they'll sense it.

Before my next class, I run down to the snack bar on the first floor and buy a bottle of sports drink and a stick of deodorant. In my office I guzzle the one, though it's warm, and reapply the other, then set everything to rights.

My lecture notes are prepared. I have a 300 level class this afternoon, so I need to be more on my game. Thankfully, Ethan isn't in my class. He took it already, I remember him being in it last year. When I think about that now, every interaction is subtly shifted in my mind.

I keep searching through them, looking for signs. Longing looks, stolen glances, anything. Was I blind? Or choosing not to see? Why now, why did I allow this to happen?

I can't blame myself. I had no idea he was working that bar, no idea what would happen. If I did I would have avoided it. Now all I can think about is hurting him. The longer I wait to cut this off, the more painful it will be. It barely occurs to me that he might be vindictive. I just don't see it in him. He has enough over me to expose me already.

This is a terrible thing I've done. He deserves someone who can give back, who can meet him on equal terms. I have to find a way.

Almost before I've realized what happened, I'm in the classroom for my afternoon lecture. This room is smaller, on the fourth floor, and there are barely thirty students, almost all history majors or education grad students taking my course for a specialization in social studies. I know most of them.

The ritual of greeting them and offering a little more openness than I do with freshmen takes my mind off Ethan enough for me to go through the motions. With this group, the assignments start right away, and I'll be collecting papers for the next session—nothing lengthy, just analyses of the reading material.

It elicits a few groans from the class, but they're all in good spirits. The freshmen spread tales of terror, but my juniors come to love me. I indulge myself with this one and let my skill as an orator and storyteller shine. Not having to gloss over everything is enjoyable, too.

By the time I dismiss them and pack up my materials, I've pushed Ethan down to a dull throb in the back of my mind, a problem I can sort out later. I check my watch; I have an evening course on Thursdays that meets once per week, but I'm free for the rest of today, and no office hours.

An old student of mine, a girl named Becky who is a year behind Ethan and took both of my freshman American History courses, falls in beside me as I leave.

“Professor McDonough,” she says.

“That's still my name,” I say, gruffly.

Not put off in the slightest, she giggles. “I was really looking forward to this class.”

“You must be a masochist,” I mutter, more in character than anything else.

“I'm happy to be in one of your courses again. Don't let what everyone else says get to you. You're one of the best teachers on campus.”

I eye her. “Why the flattery?”

She snorts. “Sorry, Doctor McDoom.”

I don't flinch, but I do study her carefully. The rare student that's worthy of my praise and attention—Ethan, this young woman—often earns a degree of familiarity that I don't permit with others, but there are limits. There have to be limits.

“I was talking with some of the members of the campus historical society,” she says.

“Why on God's green earth would you do that?” I ask.

She snorts at my joke. “We're looking for a sponsor.”

“For the club? I thought you had one.”

“No. We're talking to the national historical honor society and we want to open a chapter here.”

“For your resumes,” I mutter.

“Well, yeah, but to have it. You know a lot of people feel we get the short end of the stick around here.”

By we, she means history majors. She's largely right; it wouldn't surprise me if the school administration wants to cut history as a major entirely and only offer courses for general education and degree requirements, plus a few higher courses for the graduation students in the education department. This isn't a big institution, and the stars of the show are the nursing and education schools, and the management program. We don't even offer doctoral programs, only masters.

Becky eyes me.

“What would this sponsorship entail?”

“Well, nominally you'd be in charge of organizing it, and you'd be the one to submit students to the national organization for entry into the honor society.”

I scratch at my chin. Carol has been after me to get involved with more campus programs. She says it'll help when I apply for tenure next year.

“What would I need to do?”

“Some stuff with forms and things like that, and see about taking us to the conference in October. The national conference.”

I snort. “Rebecca, you have to understand, the administration probably won't give me the keys to one of the school vans, much less money for airline tickets.”

“We could raise money if we need to. Besides, it's not really a flying thing. It's in New York this year.”

I consider that a moment. It's only about a three-hour drive to the city from our quiet little town.

I walk for a while, sensing her eagerness for an answer.

“When do you need to know what I've decided?”

“As soon as possible,” she says, a hint of pleading in her voice.

I stop. She clearly cares a great deal about this, about the field. It doesn't sound like too much extra work.

“I'll do it—tentatively.”

Her face is a roller coaster of emotion as she processes that sentence.

“I need to be convinced. Make up a report for me. Send an email to my official contact address when it's ready and I'll make time for you.”

She nods vigorously. “I will, I will.”

“Off you go, then. I have important nothing to do.”

I wave her away imperiously, though her reaction is more amusement than annoyance. As she stalks off, I cross campus, ignoring my office, and walk back to my apartment, taking a long way around to get some fresh air and think.

Think hard.

Try not to think about being hard, though.

Ethan invades my thoughts, worming into my mind unbidden and unwanted but inescapable. It really is for the best if I shut things off with him. I should call Carol in the morning, after I've had some time to think—perhaps stop by her office in person before classes begin.

Hell, I was just handed an excuse. I'll use the honor society and the conference as a pretext to drop mentoring Ethan; I'll be too busy to work with him and work with the students to open the society chapter on campus.

I'm sure that will work.

When I step into my apartment, I'm even able to muster the energy to start unpacking. I begin by changing my clothes to something better for exertion and start in the bedroom, assembling the flat-packed furniture. I decide I'll do the bed last so I won't get lazy and give up on the rest once I'm no longer sleeping on the floor. It goes faster than I expected, fast enough that I can grab a beer and let the breeze roll in through open windows.

The bookcases are another matter. I figure I'll start with one and do the rest later; I bought five, and the sooner I have them up and my library organized, the sooner I'll have some real room in here. Might feel a little more homey if I'm not navigating a box labyrinth.

By the time I have one of the bookcases against the wall and my dresser and nightstand together, I'm exhausted and ready to collapse into bed.

Morning comes. My routine follows. I leave early and walk past my own office to find Carol; I know she's here.

“Open up,” I tell her through the door after rapping my knuckles on it.

She swings it open and motions me inside, closes it. I feel a chill; I was a student here once, when she was not the department head but a newly minted Ph.D., untenured. I still defer a little, for all my bluster.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” she asks, waving a Diet Coke at me until I dismiss it with a curt gesture.

Sometimes I think she works for them.

“I've been thinking. I thought I'd come over here and lay out my thoughts, just the two of us. I can't deal with Ethan this semester. He's going to be shortchanged.”

She eyes me, and I shudder; that gaze had the same effect on me when I was an undergrad, starting school on my GI bill benefits with my young wife paying the bills. Something else I owe her for.

“Why's that?”

“I don't know what to do with him,” I manage to say, smoothly. “I don't see what he's to get out of it.”

“Money, mostly,” she says. “The kid needs it. He supports himself, works while he's studying, works through the summer, couch surfs. He's dedicated as hell, William, and he's earned a little consideration. Plus, I almost had to go on my knees to Bob to make this happen for the kid.”

Bob being Robert Postelthwaite, our esteemed President of the College. Avid golfer and classic car enthusiast. Were I student, I'd be livid when my tuition goes up and the head of the institution buys another '56 Bel Air.

“I appreciate that,” I say. I have to make this happen, I can't let this spiral out of control. As if it hasn't already. “I was approached today by another student. I've agreed, tentatively, to sponsor a chapter of the national history honor society here.”

She nods in approval. “That will look good when you apply for tenure. Good job, let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“Plane tickets,” I say, smiling wryly.

“Let me know if I can do anything free to help,” she says. “I've already burned a lot of political capital next year, and you were at the last faculty meeting.”

I grimace. The education department is opening a charter school on campus, for first grade through seventh, and apparently they now feel that the entire college is here to support their endeavors there. Postelthwaite already gave them a building on campus rent free, and it's not enough.

The look on my face amuses her. We both know I'm not one for politics; when I get my tenure, I hope to involve myself in such things to the bare minimum and pursue my love—teaching. That's why I'm here, at a smaller institution, not in the publish or perish environment of a larger school where I'd be applying for grants, managing multiple TAs so I have time for my own writing, and the like. In all honesty I'd rather work on my novel than another academic paper—the classroom is and was my first, greatest love.

“What's the real reason behind this?” she asks, cutting through my thoughts.

I flinch.

Her eyes bore into me. Sometimes it's hard to separate out the professional side of this relationship from the teacher-student one. I often feel like I'm being called to the carpet when I'm in her office, even if she's never objected to my style or methods.

“I think,” she says, “you're afraid of getting too close.”

The blood drains from my face and I feel a wave of cold.

“You always put up this wall,” she says, leaning on her desk. “You can't be the student's friends, but it's okay to like them. Encourage them. Foster them. That's why we're here.”

I fight the urge to let out a sigh of relief and force myself to breathe normally.

“You make it too hard. It's alright to have high standards, but the students are people, too. I was hoping working closely with one of our star pupils would show you that.”

First I was drained and cold, now I'm hot under my collar. He was sucking my cock earlier. How's that for barriers?

I sigh.

“I'll try.”

I'll try to find a way out of this that doesn't raise any questions, I mean.

I am not going to let this take over my life, and I am not fucking him again.