“Your grade stands,” I say in my most professorial tone, then start walking.
He follows, torso twisted awkwardly so he can face me better. “What? You don’t even know what I’m about to say!”
“You want to contest your grade.”
“Yeah, but you don’t understand. I worked so hard!”
“We all do, Mr. Tanner.” The name fits—this kid had to have dedicated most of his semester to getting that golden-copper tan. Too bad he didn’t apply the same vigor to his coursework.
“Yeah, but see, I need this to major in economics!”
By this, he means a decent grade in econometrics. You need at least a B- for the course to have it count toward your major.
“My dad’s counting on me getting this degree,” he adds, like that will make a difference.
“There’s always the final,” I point out blandly.
“But the midterm’s worth thirty percent of the grade.” His incessant whining makes me briefly fantasize about gagging him with the midterm he’s clutching.
“And the final is worth seventy. Your time will be better spent on mastering the fundamentals of statistics, because those are your weak points. Breaking your habit of napping during class would also help.”
His face turns red. It’s likely that I have the dubious honor of being the first person in his life to drop a fact bomb on him.
I know his type. SoCal golden boy from a rich family who can do no wrong. Get into trouble? No worries. Mommy and Daddy’s money will fix it for you.
I give him a thin smile. “If you don’t have anything to say except how much you need me to give you a better grade you didn’t earn, you should probably go now.”
“But—”
“Every word out of you will cost you a point on the final.” I know for a fact he can’t afford that.
His fist tightens around his test, the bright red C- catching my eyes as he does so. Huffing, he walks away stiffly. I’d bet my entire investment portfolio that he’s going to waste the next two weeks complaining about me and my class to anyone who’ll listen.
It won’t help. He can’t switch to another class, since I’m the only one teaching econometrics. Most professors at Wollstonecraft hate teaching the course because of how frequently this sort of encounter with students happens. I don’t like it either, but I don’t have the seniority to avoid it.
I reach Fullilove Hall, which houses the econ department, and take the stairs up to my office on the second floor. There’s a long line snaking down the hall. At least eighty percent of the class is here. The other twenty received a B- or better, and they’re probably too relieved and scared to argue their grades, in case I change my mind.
Without making eye contact with any of them—their pitiable, pleading gazes already feel smothering, and I want to Hulk-smash the lot before they say a word—I march straight to my office door and unlock it. I open the door and turn around.
“Who’s first?” I say.
“Me!”
I frown at the young woman to my left. She’s somewhat short, her long red hair curled artfully and flowing over her shoulders. She wearing a trench coat, which is a bit odd, but then, college kids get desperate when they forget to do their laundry. And it is windy today.
The problem isn’t just her outfit, though. I don’t remember seeing her before. I know every student in my class, but nobody with a button nose like hers or a mouth that looks like it’s just gotten an injection. It might be the makeup. She’s wearing tons of it, including fake lashes so long they look like dead butterfly antennae. Maybe she’s considering switching her major to drama.
“All right, come in,” I say, jerking my chin.
Shooting me a saucy grin, she saunters inside, her hips swishing left and right in what’s no doubt supposed to be a sexy walk.
I leave the door open and sit down at my desk.
“You sure you don’t want to close that?” the girl says without taking the empty seat in front of the desk.
“No. It’s my policy not to close it.” I gesture for her to sit down.
She blinks, as though an open door is an unexpected obstacle. She’s definitely not cut out for my class. “Why?” She pouts.