SUBMISSION 101

Nothing More, Nothing Less

It is Friday night. And I, for once, am not out at the bars, or the clubs, or at one of my friends' houses getting marvellously drunk. I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, papers and folders and notebooks scattered around me like they are the points on a pentagon and I'm trying to conjure good marks on my finals.

Well, it’s only one final that really matters, anyway.

Instead of going out, I decide to stay in and study for Harlan's class. Final exams are a few weeks away, but the end of the term is always the fastest.

There are three main takeaways from my encounter with Professor Harlan earlier in the week.

First, he has f****d me senseless on his desk in my English lit classroom, and he'd made me scream like a wild animal in heat.

Second, I found a letter on his desk, with his property, not made out to a "Harlan," but instead to a "Ethan Hale," making me more confused about my mysterious professor than ever.

Third, he promised my class just before our encounter, that our essays would be returned to us on Friday.

Friday is nearly over, and class has come and gone, and Harlan has failed to hand back my essays. He'd failed to give me so much as one fleeting glance, come to mention it.

I try not to let that thought get under my skin and burrow there.

Think, I remind myself, think.

My essay – not the one I have failed to turn in, but the one before that from three weeks ago, sums up Russian formalism to the extent it would be on the final, I'm sure of it. It’s a damn good paper.

What was that articulate thing I said about the organic model? It was good as hell, I remember that.

I rack my brain but can't come up with anything. Three weeks later and Russian formalism seems like a lifetime away.

So much has happened between then and now. I've f****d my professor, for one thing. And I've discovered he may not be who everyone thinks he is.

I stand up in defeat, glancing at my clock. Eight PM.

With any luck, Professor Harlan is still in his office. He’s notorious for working late, or so I've been told, and if he’s worth his word, he'd be working late to get those late papers graded. Plus, he’s the head of the department; all the more reason that he'd be there longer than everyone else.

I take the ten-minute walk across campus, hands shoved into my jacket pocket. The grounds are nearly empty; I'm sure everyone besides me is out on the town enjoying their youth while they still can.

I, on the other hand, approach the English building under the cover of darkness and moonlight and stars, walking along the side of its brick walls.

I know from my friend, a TA to one of the adjunct English professors, that the handicap entrance to the building remains unlocked even after five PM when the offices technically close. And I can access the offices through the back stairwell.

I climb the steps, beginning to feel nervous. I'll take just one quick peek, and on the off chance that Harlan is still there, I’ll collect my essay and leave. Nothing more, nothing less.

I push open the door to the third floor, peering into the hallway. Most everyone has certainly left for the night; the floor is dark with the exception of one office at the end of the corridor that is obviously lit.

I hold my breath and walk slowly, suddenly wishing I hadn't come. I didn't actually expect him to be there, and even if a part of me did, the false sense of confidence I had just a few minutes earlier in my room when I was irritated, and quite frankly, missing my professor, is gone with the f*****g wind.

A trembling, slightly sweaty hand, turns the knob on his door, and I step inside, holding my breath and wishing I'd just drop dead.

His office is one of the reasons I guessed he'd come from money. I've only been in there once before when he wasn't there, to drop off a late assignment. I recognize the old-money smell, the mahogany study-desk, the elegant artwork that hangs on the ceiling. No pictures of friends or family, though, I can't help but notice.

Professor Harlan's eyes lift from the document on his desk and meet mine instantaneously.

For a moment, he makes no reaction to seeing me. After that moment has passed, he gives me a simple, "Office hours are closed, Ms. Shaw." And goes back to reading whatever is in front of him.