Summer Sanders is going through it. The pressures of school are mounting, and her home life is completely falling apart. Feeling bored and lonely on a Saturday night, she decides to get buzzed and surprise her hookup buddy with her best lingerie. Th...
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AS SOON AS spring break is over, I dive right back into my busy schedule. I've got assignments, tutoring sessions, work, and my relationship to juggle all at once.
I try not to linger on my small moments of breaks, just because they're so few and far in between with my hectic life, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss my week of sleeping in, minimal studying, and uninterrupted time with Carter and his family.
We spent our time well, and I think we're solid enough to withstand the rest of the semester, where we'll without a doubt have much less time to spend together.
Professor Kane, my pharmacology professor, seems to have enjoyed her break as well. Her shoulders aren't as rigid and her usual pale skin holds some color to them. She's relaxed in appearance but not demeanor, walking across the long white board through her lesson, small in stature but big in presence. A black marker remains in hand and her low registered voice projects authority and knowledge as she writes the different medications in our unit and their various uses.
She doesn't use slides nor does she upload her lessons online after class. Taking her means anxiety-inducing lectures where your fingers or pencils have to work as fast as her marker to get everything down before she's filled up the board and has to erase for more room.
Do not underestimate the power of her black marker.
She'll ask if anyone needs more time to copy, of course, but no one wants to be that person. Asking her to wait means holding her back from getting everything she needs to get out during our eighty-minute lectures two times a week. And trust me, she makes sure to use up every second of her eighty minutes.
She's not a bad teacher, not even close. You don't leave her lectures feeling clueless, you leave them feeling overwhelmed; overwhelmed from the knowledge she's relayed to you and overwhelmed with the tasks you need to complete to retain that knowledge.
Just looking at her stony face fills you with dread, that's why I tetter towards her desk after class, trying to decide if I should just email her later instead.
I wish she'd at least smile. With sharp cheekbones that could slice a cantaloupe and ocean blue eyes that could hypnotize any innocent peasant into submission, I feel the same way I always feel talking to her—like I'm entering a lion's den.
The devil is real.
By the time I get to her desk at the front of the class, all my other classmates have already rushed out. That's what we all seem to do, run with fear the minute we're dismissed.
"Hello, professor." My voice sounds robotic.
She finishes erasing the board, and crosses her legs when she sits down on her swivel chair.
"Sanders is it?" Her mask doesn't drop, she's as stoic one-on-one as she is in a room of sixty other students.
