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What, is there something wrong with my face?
They stare at the empty seat to my left, then at the seat I’m sitting in, and whisper before turning their backs to me again. I feel a third look at me. On the other side of the last empty seat is a beautiful black woman who is discreetly analyzing me. She raises an eyebrow, and I am about to ask her if I’m sitting in a cursed seat or something. Noticing my own look, she throws me a little smile before taking her things out of her bag.
People are very strange here.
I let out a sigh and pull out my computer. Near me, the students stand up to allow a latecomer to sit in the last free seat.
“If I tell you that this is my seat, are you going to insult me again?”
I hide my confusion as I discover Mr. Public Danger, an enigmatic expression on his face.
I can’t believe it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
I try to ignore his blue and brown stained eyes. Real trouble magnets, if you ask me.
I concentrate on the logo on the cap he’s wearing, partially hiding his mass of black hair. The guy crosses his arms. The veins of his forearms stand out through his gray T-shirt, and I try not to dwell on them.
The beautiful girl sitting right next to him holds back a little laugh before turning her attention back to the screen of her phone. She’s probably one of his friends.
“I could ask you the same question,” says Public Danger a little more loudly. “Are you following me?”
My mouth opens wide as I squint. What a cheek.
He cuts me off just before I can answer. “I don’t mind. I didn’t have many redheads following me.”
Seeing his little smile, a sign that he’s openly making fun of me and my hair, I’m inwardly enraged but try not to let anything show. I straighten my shoulders and lean toward him. “Wow, your humor almost equals your inability to park.”
I ignore the hoarse little laugh that comes out of my neighbor’s chest. The two people sitting right in front of us turn around again and stare at me as if I were crazy for talking to him like that. I barely have time to wonder at their outraged looks when the door to the lecture theatre opens with a bang.
A small woman in her fifties, glasses on her nose, walks towards the desk in front of us, a box under her arm.
A guy enters just behind her, a smile on his face as he sees some of his friends among the students.
“One minute later and I wouldn’t have accepted you,” the professor announces in a sharp voice to the guy who suddenly loses his delighted look.
The students gradually fall silent while the woman seems to be looking for something in her box. Even my neighbor seems to calm down, as if this woman were the devil herself.
She abandons her task with a smile and raises her head to address us. Her gaze is terribly direct as she analyzes us.
“Welcome to my criminal science class. I hope you had a good summer vacation, and I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that your summer vacation is over. Many of you are in your third year and come from different majors. Some of you know me because I have also taught criminal law for many years. I am Professor Richards. I emphasize the ‘professor.’ I know that many students call their teachers by their simple last name, but don’t make that mistake if you want to come out of my class alive. I am not your friend.”
“Damn,” I whisper at the end of her greeting, as shocked as I am impressed by her oral fluency.
“She’s always making an impression,” my neighbor murmurs. “A little more terrifying than you.”
“I didn’t know I’d just started a conversation,” I whisper angrily.
“Well, you just did, redhead.”
As I sigh, the teacher writes her name on the only board behind her imposing desk.
“They do anger management classes,” the insufferable dark-haired man suggests to me with an innocent look.
I turn to him with a squint and whisper quietly, “I don’t need to control my anger. I just need people to stop being jerks.”
He doesn’t seem really affected by my new insult, simply shrugs a shoulder and yawns without any embarrassment. He then runs a hand over his short beard before replacing his cap.
