You aren't a newbie, but your frazzled appearance might portray you that way.
Autumn air nips at your cheeks as you rush around the corner and continue along the edge of the sidewalk. Your feet carry you around other students who aren't as pressed for time. They give you amused side-glances as you hustle into the entrance of the closest brick building.
This was supposed to be your semester, the one where you get to class early and rewrite your notes by hand and get straight As. But one-too-many snoozed alarms later and your first day of classes has become your worst nightmare.
You take the stairs two at a time, and are rushing through the doorway to the second floor when you slam full force into a particularly solid shoulder. You're knocked off balance and a flurry of papers careen through the air to scatter the floor around you.
"Shit, fuck," a deep voice mutters from above where you've landed in a heap. You rub tenderly at the bruise that is bound to form from your collision.
"Are yeh okay? Yeh hurt?"
The man leaning down in front of you addresses you with a thick accent. With an upward glance, you find tired green eyes framed by a large pair of glasses.
"I'm fine," you answer quietly, pushing yourself back to your feet. "I'm late, sorry."
You spin around to rush down the hall. A prick of guilt stabs your chest as you leave your victim to collect his belongings. You hear a sigh and shuffling papers from behind you as you open the door to your classroom. Heads turn to assess you in your flustered state. The clock on the wall informs you that you're forty-seven seconds late—a feat, if you consider how late you woke up.
It's a small class with about twenty students. Seats are arranged in a large circle that you're forced to cross. The gaze from the professor—who must be Dr. Glasser—at the head of the room does nothing to soothe your nerves as you find an empty chair and slip into it as quietly as possible.
"As I was saying, on time is late in my book."
Your head lifts from the backpack you've set at your feet to find a pair of narrowed eyes. Dr. Glasser has his arms crossed over his chest, brows raised as he quirks his lips at a joke you're not yet in on. Getting on his bad side was everything you wanted to avoid today.
"Hey, 'm sorry."
The door closes behind a man who's entered the room unnoticed until now. His voice draws the professor's gaze from you and your eyes follow suit.
"Woke up not feelin' well and then some girl bowled m'over in the hall."
You cringe, sinking back into your seat in hopes you'll melt away. If your day could get any worse, you'd rather it happen now than later when it might take you off guard. But at least there's another student who can share the guilt.
"It never changes," Dr. Glasser replies with a curt nod and a knowing chuckle. "That's all right. This is Harry. He'll be your TA for the semester."
You sink even lower in your seat, stomach churning in discomfort. How could you fuck up your first day so terribly?
Harry sets a mess of papers down on a desk beside the professor's and turns to look at the class with a half-hearted smile. His white t-shirt is clean but wrinkled. You notice the red glint of his eyes and the way his fingers pause to rub at his temple as his hand passes through his tousled hair. He's sporting a nasty hangover, by the looks of it.
Your thoughts cease completely as his eyes stop scanning the students to pause on your regretful face. He gives a soft shake of his head and a quiet chuckle before he sits down. You're screwed.
"What does it mean to be an English major? What are we here for?" Dr. Glasser pipes up, pushing away from his desk to pace the center of the circle.
There's a short pause before a couple of stray hands rise hesitantly into the air. You remain stationary, unwilling to dig yourself a deeper hole. Until you're more sure of his personality and teaching style, you'll be a quiet student in this class.
"To study literature?"
"More generally."
The room goes silent and Harry smiles lopsidedly, fiddling with the rim of his glasses. Dr. Glasser gives him a prompting side-glance.
"T'study words," Harry corrects, and his smile widens as he shifts forward in his seat, "aesthetically. How they interact, wha' they make us feel. Lot o' people make fun o' English majors, but we have the best deal, 'f yeh ask me. We get t'play 'round. Not everythin's gotta be pragmatic and serious."
"Right," Dr. Glasser agrees with a nod and a grin that stretches across his middle-aged face. He's handsome in his own right, in a pair of glasses much thicker than his assistant's. They magnify his eyes to an abnormally large size. You notice the brown laces of his black shoes and the mismatched plaid of his socks that peak out whenever he takes a step.
"Everything we do is toward an aesthetic end. You don't really get that when you're collecting data or memorizing the anatomy of a rhinoceros, do you?"
"Rhinoceros?" Harry asks with a raised brow and a quizzical scratch of his stubbly jaw.
"It's a bit more interesting than a dog, wouldn't you say?"
"S'pose," he agrees with a chuckle.
You admire the way he can still stay focused and present with the leftover alcohol taking its toll on his body. You're sure you would be a useless blob if you were in the same condition.
"I'm not trying to say that English is the best major-"
"Yes, he is," Harry interjects, grinning at the professor.
"Okay, yes, English is the best major," Dr. Glasser confesses, stuffing meaty hands into the pockets of pants that are a size too large. You find yourself agreeing. Science classes are far less than enjoyable and math classes can be close to impossible. "And you may think that I'm a bit biased, but it's a fact. Ask your science-majoring friends."
You notice a girl a few seats around the circle from you who is scribbling intensely in a brand new notebook. You chew on your lip to hold in a chuckle. She must be a freshman.
"They're probably too loaded up with work t'answer yeh, though," Harry adds, sifting through the pile of papers on his desk and rearranging them. "Yeh wan' me t'take attendance?"
"Yeah, sure," Dr. Glasser concedes, hopping up on the edge of his desk and swinging his feet.
Harry smooths out a sheet of wrinkled paper with a faint shoe mark—one that would match the sole of your boot perfectly, if you were to put them side-by-side. His eyes flit over rows of printed pictures that match the faces in the room. He clears his throat before beginning to roll through the alphabetical list, and you consider not reacting when he calls your name. Maybe you can make one up, so your actual title isn't tarnished by your faulty first impressions.
"Y/N," Harry asks, and if you're not mistaken, you can hear a lilt to his voice, like he's testing the sound of your name on his tongue. His gaze lifts from the page before him to find you immediately, only a small pie-slice away from him in the circle of desks.
You lift your hand meekly in response. You don't trust the anxiety you feel not to stain your voice. His eyes hover on yours for a moment longer, flickering with amusement, before dropping back to the attendance sheet.
"It might take me half of the semester to remember those," Dr. Glasser admits when the list comes to an end. He returns to the floor with a heavy thud and presses his spectacles back up his nose by the bridge. "But we'll get there."
"Yeh didn' remember m'name 'til the last week o' classes," Harry complains, rolling his eyes playfully.
"That is most certainly untrue," Dr. Glasser denies with a feigned look of hurt. "You were my favorite student and your name was the only one I remembered. But let's stop our bickering, now."
The professor spins in a circle to survey the class before he speaks again.
"Harry is smarter than you," he states matter-of-factly. "When it comes to English theory, at least. I can't say he's the smartest at deciding which nights are good ones to go out drinking, however."
Harry coughs to cover his a laugh, but he can't hide his entertained smirk while Dr. Glasser shoots him a playfully disappointed look. He pushes his glasses up his forehead to rub at his eyes with long fingers.
"Anyways, I am also smarter than you in this department, but Harry happens to be much nicer than me. I'm not trying to intimidate you, I'm just letting you know that if you have questions or need help with anything, it's probably better to ask him first. Plus, his voice is a lot nicer to listen to than mine."
Harry groans audibly, but the ever-present smile is still plastered across his lips. You can tell how much he loves this class, and Dr. Glasser, specifically, and you can feel yourself hoping that your below average first day doesn't set the tone for your semester.
"He's quite talented. And quite the poet, if I may add."
"Yeh may not," Harry huffs, flicking his glasses back down in front of his eyes.
"Well, he's quite the poet," Dr. Glasser repeats, ignoring Harry's remark and smiling to spite him. "He's the smartest kid I've ever met and none of you will compare, but we can pretend."
"Oi! Can we stop talkin' 'bout me, now?"
"I love when he uses British terms. It's very endearing."
"Dr. Glasser," Harry complains again, rubbing his hands beneath the lenses of his glasses once more.
The professor shrugs with a grin to the class and checks his left wrist, which he finds to be watch-less. He then checks the clock on the wall.
"Does anyone have any questions?" he asks, continuing on before anyone has a chance to raise a hand. "Great! Your reading assignment is on the syllabus, which is online. You probably should have looked at that already. We'll start talking theory next class. And a bit of advice: don't drink as much as Harry did last night."
Students erupt into snickers as Dr. Glasser slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and leaves the room, and you can't help but laugh at his closing statement, too. Harry drops his head back in exasperation, huffing out a loud breath. The room is suddenly filled with a chorus of footsteps and ruffling papers and zipping bags.
You slide out of your seat, hiking your backpack up and over your shoulders. Your feet hesitate, mind trying to decide whether you should apologize or if it's best to just leave. Harry is stacking his papers and trying his best to align the rumpled edges. He slips the pen he used for attendance between his teeth. Before you actually make a conscious decision, you're standing in front of his desk, rocking on the balls of your feet nervously.
"Hi, Harry."
He lifts his head briefly and then looks back down at his papers, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
"I'm-"
"Y/N, yeah. Not gonna forget tha' one," he interrupts, mumbling around his pen and chuckling under his breath.
You sigh, fiddling with the straps of your backpack. Harry lifts his bundle of papers and hugs them to his chest, plucking the pen from his mouth and tucking it behind an ear.
"I just wanted to say that I'm-"
"'M late, sorry."
And with that, he gives you an amused smirk and skirts around you to leave the room.