My professor in Art History 101 is, simply put, incredibly attractive.

“Hot” is the word I really want to use, and even that doesn’t feel adequate: “sexy as hell” fits the bill best. He’s probably nine or ten years older than me, though, so I decide to ignore these thoughts, even as the girls around me raise their eyebrows at one another and fan themselves with looseleaf.

In the end, even I can’t resist it: when he folds up his shirtsleeves to write on the whiteboard, I feel myself melting back into my chair.

I expect him to write “Dr.” or “Prof.” in front of his name, but he doesn’t. Just Teague West, underlined once.

“All right,” he says, “roll call.”

Of course. I’d be way too lucky to have class with a professor who’s attractive and doesn’t take attendance.

Besides the obvious flaws of taking roll (a headcount is much faster; aren’t we adults now, anyway—responsible for our own decisions?), there’s one huge reason I hate it: I’ve never had a teacher get mine right on the first try, and I’ve never had one not surprised to hear a girl’s voice answer when they spit it out, completely butchering it in the process.

“Jacob Ainsley,” he says. From behind me, a kid calls, “Here.” I watch the tendons in Professor West’s arm flex as he checks it off.

“Carly Billings.”

“Here!” a preppy voice chirps, belonging to a girl sitting at the end of my row. She’s got blonde hair in flawless beach waves that definitely didn’t happen from a romp in the ocean. I might be imagining it, but I think I see her give Professor West the once-over.

I decide that I hate her dress, a thin black shift with too much leg for fall, even if it’s still technically summer for a few more days. But God, how easy would life be with a name like hers?

“Leon Gates,” he reads, chuckling as a kid up front raises his hand. “Any relation to Bill?”

A ripple of laughter travels through the class as the boy gives a tight-lipped kind of smile. He’s probably heard that a million times. It’s the one thing about my name I can be thankful for: I’ll never be linked to anyone else.

“Katherine Gilbert?”

“Katie,” a girl says. He makes a note on the chart.

This is it. I can tell, because his brow knits together and he tilts his head ever so slightly, his mouth already trying to form the trash heap of syllables he’s about to create from my name.

I’ve got my hand raised before he even speaks, but he doesn’t notice. “Breton Guillaume,” he says, only it sounds nothing like it should, so far removed from the lyrical lilt of my mother’s voice when she says it, or the smooth tenor of my father’s when he sings hello to me through the phone.

Instead, he stumbles through, everything clunky as brass. “Brit...Britain Jill-owm? Jillem?” He looks up, spotting me, and points his pen at the paper. “This you?”

“Breton Guillaume,” I correct, fixing what he’s twisted like wire and smoothing the edges, taking my name back. I repeat it, slower: “Brit-on Ge-yome.”

Some of the class titters, mostly girls. A few whisper, “What?”

I wait for the requisite apology every teacher gives, followed by a frantic, “What a unique/interesting/insert-placeholder-here name!”

Instead, though, Professor West folds his arms, stepping back from the lectern with a weird smile, like I’ve amused him.

“That’s, like, the craziest name I’ve ever seen,” he says.

The class bursts out laughing, and so does he, because I’m sure he expects me to nod and shrug, haha, all in good humor.

Imagine his surprise, then, when I simply gather up my books, hoist my backpack onto one shoulder, and leave.

Ah, shit.

I tell the class to open to Chapter One and read about ancient cave paintings for a few minutes. By the time I’ve made it up the lecture hall stairs and out the door, she’s all the way by the building’s exit.

“Wait,” I call, jogging towards her, which isn’t easy in dress shoes. She stops, her hand on the push bar, and watches me close the gap between us.

I stand in front of her. She waits.

“I’m sorry.”

She keeps staring, so I take a breath and go on.

“I shouldn’t have said that, and I apologize if I was...insensitive.”

“I could report you, you know,” she says, but I hear something in her voice, a softness, that tells me she won’t.

Still, I play along. “If you feel you have to, I understand. But if I can make it up to you in any way, instead, please let me know.”

“Okay,” she says, shifting her books to her other hip, “give me an A.”

“Oh, uh...I meant more like.... See, I can’t—”

Her mouth lifts into a small smile. She’s joking.

“Thank you for apologizing,” she says, turning on her heel and walking back towards class. I follow, one step behind.

“So,” I say, “Breton—are you French? I mean, are your parents? I ask because it…sounds French, I guess.”

“My parents are French,” she says curtly, “and yes, it’s a French name.” She glances back at me over her shoulder, and I notice how blue her eyes are. They remind me of when I was twenty-five, on the trip to Greece I’ve never forgotten: the clear, vibrant sea I dove into headfirst, fully clothed. “You know, I’d expect an Art History teacher to pronounce it a little better.”

She’s got me there. “I have to look up artists’ names on the internet,” I confess, as we approach the lecture hall. We slow down and stop just outside. “I find phonetic spellings and copy them down in my book.”

“No way,” she laughs.

“I’m serious. Foreign language is the bane of my existence.”

“Well, that explains a lot, then.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing high cheekbones and a small flash of cleavage at the top of her T-shirt. I don’t look at it directly, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice.

I notice more than that, too: she’s got an hourglass figure, classically curvy. Her fingernails are painted black and have chips. There’s a freckle on her nose, just one—right in the center, like someone poked her and left it there, a tiny auburn sticker.

“Allow me,” I say, pushing open the door for her. She blushes and shuffles past me, back to her seat.

“All right,” I tell the class when I’m back down the steps, behind my lectern where I belong. I pick up the roll call sheet and say, “Breton Guillaume?”

A few kids laugh, like I’m repeating it as a joke, even though I’ve said it perfectly this time—or as close as I’m going to get. Others turn and look at her. She’s blushing again, her face like an apple that’s just starting to ripen.

“Here,” she says, smiling. It’s quiet, but the whole room can hear it. I check the box.