Page 32 of Virgin Sacrifice

“Thanks, Professor Blackwell.” The poor girl practically swooned.

After a couple more questions, where Locke again pretended to be a benevolent educator and everyone ate it up, his late start was wholly forgotten, and we finally began.

He was a good lecturer, I had to give it to him. And while he occasionally asked questions of the class, he never pressured students to answer them. There were more than enough eager hands raised every time he did.

Still, he rarely ventured beyond the confines of the textbook and prescribed course outline, which meant that since I was four weeks ahead with my reading, I had already reviewed everything he was covering.

I zoned out at some point during the lecture, lost in my own thoughts. Of course, Locke chose that moment to call on me.

“Miss Torres,” he called out, his voice devoid of any of his usual charm.

I startled. “Yes, uh, Professor.”

“Care to answer the question?” he drawled smugly.

“Apologies, Professor Blackwell. Could you repeat the question?”

He tsked at me with disappointment painted over his face, but I only saw the satisfaction and delight dancing in his emerald-green eyes.

“Care to offer your thoughts on the state of the domestic labor market and the risks and opportunities it poses to the US economy, Miss Torres?”

“Oh yes, of course.”

If Locke Blackwell had been planning to humiliate me further by showing my supposed ignorance, he was going to be greatly disappointed.

“Over a million Americans have died from COVID-19, and we know that racialized and low-income Americans were far more affected by the virus in terms of deaths. Both these groups are overrepresented in low-wage sectors, meaning the market’s supply of labor decreased with the losses. At the same time. . .”

By the time I was finished Blackwell’s face was tight, and I could see the discontent in his eyes.

He took a moment before he spoke.

“Yes, well, thank you for your thorough, if not tired, critique of contemporary economics. Though, I suppose it’s hardly surprising that someone with your background would come to such conclusions.”

“Do you mean middle-class or Latine, Dr. Blackwell?” I shot back at him, my usual control having vanished in his presence.

The collective inhale of my classmates’ gasp rang throughout the hall.

“Miss Torres!” Locke thundered. “That sort of insinuation is unacceptable and inappropriate,” he all but snarled, “and I won’t have it in my classroom.”

I knew better. I really did. I had played it smart and sweet my entire life, just like Mami taught me. But something about Locke Blackwell made me want to fight back. “Then perhaps you should have left my background out of the classroom to begin with.”

This time my declaration was met with shocked silence. Apparently, it was beyond my classmates’ comprehension that someone would stand up to the great Locke Blackwell.

“That’s enough!” he bellowed, slamming his hands down onto the lectern, unable to maintain the cool professor charade any longer.

“Pack up your belongings, Miss Torres. If my classroom is that intolerable to you then it’s time you leave it.”

I bit down on my lip hard enough to draw blood. As much as I wanted to fight back some more, this wasn’t the time or place to do it. I knew what Blackwell had done. I knew he would start baiting me once the course drop date passed, and still here I was letting him get to me.

So instead of calling him out on his pathetic elitist nonsense, I packed up my things, well aware that most of my classmates were glowering at me while Locke stared me down, refusing to continue his lecture until I had left.

It wasn’t until I had packed up all my stuff and made my way down to the floor of the lecture hall that he spoke again.

“We’ll need to discuss this incident further. You can wait for me at my office until I can speak to you after class,” he ordered, as if my compliance was assured.

I guessed it was to a certain degree unless I wanted to drop out of the economics program.

“Looking forward to it, Professor,” I snapped before marching out of the room.

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