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And even though I know there won’t be any evidence of what happened last night, I scrutinize his face as sneakily as possible, which, as it turns out, is not very possible at all. But nope: there’s no puffiness, no redness. No indication that a potential time traveler pepper-sprayed him yesterday.
There’s a faint scar beneath one eye, so barely there it could almost be the crease of his skin against a pillow overnight.
“Is there something on my face?” he asks, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve essentially been gawking at him.
I shake my head. “No. Sorry.”
When class starts, I feel a little like an asshole in the front row, given I’m not listening to anything the professor is saying, but then I remind myself this is my third time through. On day one, I paid attention.
After Dr. Okamoto discusses the syllabus, she asks if anyone has any questions. There’s a shuffle behind me as Miles’s hand flies up—because of course.
“Dr. Okamoto? This isn’t a question, exactly, but I’m curious what you might say to someone trying to switch out of this class. How you might convince them to stay.”
An odd smile crosses her face. “Are you planning to switch out, Miles?” There she is, already knowing his name. I should have asked him about that last night.
He lets out a soft laugh. “No,” he says, “but she is.”
What. The fuck.
Even with my back to him, I can tell he’s pointing at me, gesturing at me—whatever he’s doing, he’s incriminated me. The lecture hall goes silent, and my face burns with the heat of several hundred strangers’ stares.
I should have known I’d regret sitting in the front row.
To my shock, Dr. Okamoto seems to take Miles’s question seriously. She steps away from the podium, leaving her clicker behind. She pauses a few feet in front of me, her dark eyes filled with an intensity I’m not sure I’ve seen on a teacher’s face before.
“What’s your name?” she asks calmly.
“Barrett.”
“Are you a freshman, Barrett?”
I nod. If she starts quizzing me about the reading, I’ll make a run for it. Two extra days, and I haven’t done the reading, because nothing could feel more insignificant than those few chapters right now.
“Tell me. Do you already know what you want to study?”
“Journalism,” I say, unsure if her question is rhetorical.
“I see. If you’d like to leave my class because you’re not interested in physics, or because you think it’ll be too difficult, by all means, go ahead. And that goes for all of you.” She keeps pacing the front of the room. “Maybe I can’t convince you to love physics,” she continues. “Maybe you’ve already convinced yourself you’re not a STEM person, or that you’re right-brained. And to that I say, bullshit.”
A couple scattered laughs as the shock of oh my god, the teacher just swore makes its way around the room.
“Anyone can learn this. Sure, it might be hard. It will be hard. But telling yourself it’s not for you is the quickest way to fail. You seal your fate if you begin something, anything, with that mindset. Most of you are freshmen, and for many of you, this is your first real taste of independence. To me, college is about new perspectives, seeking out the things that make us uncomfortable and test us and reveal who we really are. It’s a privilege, this job—one I’ve never taken for granted. It’s a privilege to have all of you in these seats, telling me you’re up for the challenge.”
I’m no longer sure whether I’m terrified of her. When Dr. Okamoto speaks like this, I believe her. And that means I might have to believe in physics, too.
When she dismisses us, I pack up as quickly as I can, waiting just outside the door until I spot the red blur of Miles’s shirt.
And then I round on him. “What the fuck was that?” I hiss, falling in step next to him. “In what world is it okay to do that to a total stranger? I don’t know what the hell kind of superiority complex you have, but that was completely uncalled for.”
Miles blinks at me, looking almost a little dazed. He hitches his backpack higher on his shoulders, slowing his steps. “I’m sorry?”
“Is that a question?”
“No—it’s not. I’m sorry.” His fingers dig deeper into his backpack straps. “Period. Exclamation point, even!”
Students rush past us, hurrying out of the building and to their next classes.
“Somehow, I get the feeling you’re not an exclamation-point kind of person.”
