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The clicking continues right behind me, and I clench my fists. If I turn around and claw his eyes out, do I have any chance of getting out of this lecture hall alive, despite the pseudo-servants of the Pack who will no doubt jump on me?
Tucker seems to have taken me for a little lamb to chew on. But I wasn’t kidding, I’m not a lamb. So his wolf delusions or whatever, let him stick them up his ass I guess.
I look around me. The noise doesn’t seem to bother anyone, or else no one dares to say anything. Or maybe I’m just a little too on edge. I discreetly turn to Tucker, sitting right behind me. As I discover his small smile, I almost suppress a grunt. His different colored eyes seem to sparkle with amusement.
“Stop it,” I breathe in his direction.
Both his elbows are resting on the wood, and he’s leaning forward, much closer to me than I thought. He clicks his four-colored pen again, raises a dark eyebrow, and tilts his head slightly, as if he doesn’t understand my request.
“Stop what?” he whispers to me with an innocent look.
My word, he wants to drive me crazy! I am now staring at him, and his smile widens. He understands perfectly my annoyance but doesn’t care. Not being able to stand it anymore and wanting to show him that I am not a fragile little thing, I put my hand on his.
His fingers touch the worn wood. I lower my eyes on our hands with rage. My little hand looks ridiculous next to his much larger one, but I don’t pull it away.
“Stop. This,” I say again, whispering angrily.
He doesn’t move, leaving his hand under mine. I raise my eyes and look into his. A few students are watching us attentively, like we’re putting on a show for them. I don’t move an inch, and neither does Tucker.
His lips part, and he is about to say something to me.
“Am I disturbing you?” exclaims a stern voice from behind me.
I widen my eyes. Maybe Professor Richards isn’t talking to me? Or maybe, if I play dead, she’ll forget about me?
“Seriously, this isn’t speed dating. Take your fingers off your classmate’s, you can resume your…activity later.”
My cheeks start to heat up as the entire amphitheater turns to us. Tucker doesn’t seem at all bothered. On the contrary, he settles a little more comfortably against his seat back.
“So…” he begins slowly. “Can I have my fingers back?”
Lost, I stare at his hand. Shit. I pull mine away as if I’ve just burned myself and turn to our teacher waiting on the dais, arms still crossed. I feel like I’ve become her new prey. She resumes her lecture without further comment, and the others eventually lose interest in me and focus on her words.
“So, as I was explaining, the profilers in this show have a role that is similar in some ways to a criminologist. Every professor of criminology will give you a different definition of the subject. Mine is simple. The purpose of criminology is to try to understand and analyze the implementation of a crime. My goal today is to open your mind. We will try to identify the human being behind the crime. I don’t want to study the legal system, I don’t want to study the consequences of his act. I want to study his motive.”
I am hanging onto her every word. That is exactly why I came here. That is why I chose this subject in my psychology course. To understand the act of the monster who shot my parents. Who shot them in cold blood.
Flashes come back to me, and in each of them, a pool of blood is present. I swallow hard, trying to ignore the images that keep haunting me. Then I feel a cold sweat running down my back. Maybe my aunt was right. Maybe it was too soon to leave Portland? Maybe studying this subject will keep dragging me back into the past, keep hurting me, keep me from moving forward?
Yet my former therapist encouraged me to make these choices. I need explanations. I need to understand in my own way what happened in order to grieve.
Listening to his final advice, I mentally count to ten while closing my eyes. When I open them again, right after, the crisis is over. All is well.
“As I told you at the beginning of the first class, my subject is closely related to psychiatry and sociology, but also to criminal law. You will have to use your instincts and your logic to good effect. The key to understanding is the analysis of behavior.”
My breath becomes regular again, but I still clench my fist on the desk.
“Are you okay?” asks my neighbor on the right, a petite brunette with glasses.
I turn to her, simply nodding.
“Okay,” she continues gently, “because you look—”
“I’m fine,” I cut her off.
Her eyes widen, and she turns her head, ignoring me again.
I hear a low chuckle behind me, proving to me that an onlooker has witnessed our little exchange that was anything but cordial. I ignore Tucker.
