Page 20 of The Tartan Thesis

“No—” I start to say as the professor continues to call our names, his voice growing more stern with every attempt to get our attention.

“You weren’t trying to prove yet again that you’re the smartest boy in class?” Maeve is shaking his arm now; he doesn’t even glance her way. He’s clearly been bottling up his irritation with me, and I feel even worse. That is until his words catch up with me.

Did that prick just call me a boy? I was trying to help him, and now he’s name-calling? This is what I get for trying to be a good classmate? Fuck that.

“Yes, I do prefer being the smartest person in the room. It beats getting a C-plus and trying to get by on my looks, pretty boy.”

Beau slams his hands onto the desk and shoots out of his seat, causing everyone to jump in theirs. His fists are balled, and his entire body shakes as he stands there, staring me down. My spine presses hard against the back of my chair. Even like this—flushed, shaking, furious—he’s absolutely beautiful.

“That’s enough!” the professor yells. Beau’s eyes flick briefly to him but are back on me in a flash. My anger melts as quickly as it came. I did this. Once again, I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Professor Drummond takes a step toward Beau. “Sit down, Mr. Fontenot.” Maeve grabs one of his fists and tugs on him with no effect. He stands there, breathing hard.

“Mr. Fontenot,” the professor says, calmer this time. Beau finally lowers his large, rigid frame into his seat, then pulls his gaze away from me as his heaving chest deflates. He stares down at the pages in front of him again as everyone else glances around with wide eyes.

I look at the professor who whips off his glasses and rubs one eye before shaking his head and turning to the chalkboard. “That’s all for today, I think,” he calls over his shoulder as he begins to erase his writing. “Please post your thoughts on Mr. Fleming’s work online before our next session. Class dismissed.”

It takes a moment before anyone moves, but once Blair reaches for his bag, everyone else starts shuffling around as well. I stay where I am. So does Beau. Maeve packs up slowly. When she stands, she puts a hand on Beau’s shoulder, dipping so her face drops into his line of sight, but his eyes don’t leave his flexing fists.

“Thank you, Ms. Byrne,” Professor Drummond says. “If you’ll be so good to step out while I speak with Mr. Fontenot and Mr. Ramsay…”

She files out after everyone else, concern in her eyes. No one looks at me at all, much less shows any kind of support. Given my little performance just now, I don’t deserve it. I fucked up, and based on the stern expression on Professor Drummond’s face, the assistantship I was so sure was in my grasp is almost certainly slipping away.

I finally look at Beau. His chest rises and falls hard, fists flexing against the desk as if the wood beneath them is the only thing keeping him upright. When he lifts his head, his eyes shine like he’s trying not to lose control in front of me.

I’d wanted to beat him. That’s the whole point of graduate studies—prove you’re the best, prove you deserve the opportunities that come next. For weeks I’ve told myself he’s just competition—someone to outwork, outthink, outrun on the way to that assistantship.

But this wasn’t the win I’d had in mind.

I hadn’t wanted to break him.

8

Beau

Steamin’

Translation: Angry

Usage: To describe someone who is very upset or very drunk

Blood pounds in my temples as everyone else files out, muttering under their breaths. A cold fury burns in my chest, and embarrassment sits heavy in my stomach. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, adding insult to injury. I cry plenty, but rarely in front of people. And I won’t give Torin the satisfaction.

Someone told me that anger is where hurt meets disappointment, and I can confirm it’s true. I’m hurt that a colleague I really liked at first, despite his prickly nature, could be so unkind. I’m disappointed I’ve come all this way to almost fail a course and then start an argument in class. Things aren’t at all how I thought they’d be.

I hadn’t made a perfect first impression on Torin, but this is more than a simple reaction to misinterpreted banter. His venom bites deeper than that.

I don’t know if I can stay if this continues, and at this point, I’m not even sure I want to.

With our classmates gone, Professor Drummond asks Torin to come sit by me. I don’t look up as he shuffles over and flops down into the seat next to mine with a huff. I don’t know why he’s so upset. He’s the one who created this mess.

“Now,” the professor says, “I don’t know how the tension between you two started, but it has been present since the start of term, and it ends now. You remember me referring to all of us as colleagues? I meant it.” He jabs a finger on the desk in front of me. “We should be collaborating, communicating, learning from and supporting one another. But after today, I’d settle for the two of you behaving civilly, not blatantly competing in classroom discussions, much less trading insults like schoolchildren.”

Shame creeps into the wadded mess of feelings inside me. My granny taught me from an early age that all I can control is myself and how I react. Her wisdom helped immensely every time my father implied I wasn’t living up to be the man he expected.

While I’m less worried about disappointing him, it is upsetting to think how disappointed Granny Fontenot would be with my behavior today. No matter what Torin does or says, I’m the only one responsible for my words and actions. I could have risen above it or tried to talk to him outside of the classroom, but I hadn’t. I still feel wronged, but I had a part in all of this, too.

Professor Drummond goes on. “Let me make myself plain: if this sort of behavior continues, I will expel both of you from this program.”