Page 1 of Pining For My Professor
1
I hitrefresh on the homepageone moretime.
“Crap,” I mutter. It’s 9:45 and grades were supposed to be up by 9:30. I consider all of the things I might do to distract myself. I consider going for a run. I consider driving to the mall to pick out a new pair of shoes for graduation. Then I consider heading down to the quad to see if anyone is around for breakfast. This won’t cut it, though: it’s Senior Week, and everyone but me will bewaytoo hung over to watch me neurotically eat a bagel. Finally, my mind wanders back to the thing that has been distracting me all semester: my seriously hot professor and his seriously amazingbody.
Professor Landry isn’t what you picture when you conjure an image of the stereotypical English professor. Instead of wire-rimmed glasses and blazers with elbow patches, Professor Landry wears tight, dark denim and slim-cut button downs. And he doesn’t even let us call him Professor Landry. As he handed out the syllabus on the first day of class – a senior seminar, open to only the top students in the English department – he told us weabsolutely mustcall him Dylan. “I didn’t go through seven years of grad school for you to call me Doctor Landry,” he joked. “I did it for the love of reading.” The whole class chuckled, but I could swear that he winked in my direction. From that very first day on, just the thought of Dylan Landry could set my skin practically onfire.
The vibrations from my phone bring me back to reality. It’s a text from Alicia. She’s been one of my closest friends since freshman year – since before freshman year, actually. We met during orientation and she basically “took me under her wing.” On the second day of orientation we went to an artisanal ice-cream shop downtown. When a guy in our group made fun of me for asking if they had any nondairy flavors, Alicia immediately came to my defense and told him off. She’s definitely more of a party-girl than I am, but I think we balance each otherout.
Alicia is texting to remind me of thebigparty tonight, the final party that will cap off Senior Week. She has been talking it up all week: it’s a toga-party, which is supposed to be some sort of wink at the stereotypical college experience. I think it’s just an excuse tohavethe stereotypical college experience, but Alicia is convinced that it will be a life-changing event eitherway.
Stunned back to planet earth after my revelry and then Alicia’s interruption, I return to the homepage.Okay, it’s 10:00 AM. They have to be up by now.I hold my breath. I think about all of the sacrifices I’ve made, all of the events I’ve missed because I was editing a paper or reading a long, Victorian novel. I shut my eyes tightly and click refresh. My eyes burst open and readjust to the light. I read through my grades a dozen times. “Advanced Creative Writing: A.” “International Trade: A.” “Advanced Game Theory: A.” “The American Novel: A.” And, finally, Dylan Landry’s class: “British Fiction: A.” Suddenly, it’s official. I’m 22 and it feels like all of my dreams are coming true: I’ve finished my last semester of college with a 4.0GPA.
