Monster in His Eyes(35)

"I don't believe that," she says. "That's crazy."

"You're failing Santino's class?" Paul chimes in with disbelief. "I didn't think that was possible."

"I'm not failing," I say defensively. "I'm just not passing."

Paul laughs. "What's the difference?"

"The difference is I'm surviving by the skin of my teeth but that's not good enough to keep my GPA where I need it to be."

"Tough break," Paul says. "Seriously, though, Santino's class is a breeze. I bullshitted my way through it and still got a B."

His words don't make me feel any better. In fact, they piss me off even more.

My phone rings as I'm lying there. I pull it out, glancing at the screen  to see Naz's name. Sighing, I answer it, muttering a quiet, "Yeah?"

He's silent for a moment. "You okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You called me."

"Oh, yeah …  I just saw your car was still there, so I called to see what you were up to."

"Ah, I was just handling some business. You back at your dorm?"

"Yeah, just got here."

"You want to grab some dinner?"

"I'm not really hungry."

"You want to come to my place?"

"I really shouldn't. I have class early in the morning, and I still have  some homework to do for it. It's probably going to be a long night as  it is."

"That's not what I asked. I want to know how you feel, not what you  think. It doesn't matter if you should come over. I asked if you wanted  to."

I hesitate. "I do."

"Then I'll pick you up in five minutes. Bring your homework. I'll help you with it."

I start to argue, but he hangs up on me. Standing up, I grab my bag,  waving to Melody as I head for the door. "You crazy kids have fun. I'm  going to Naz's."

"Will you be back for class in the morning?"

"Yes," I say. "Just don't expect me any sooner."

She laughs, wishing me a goodnight. Paul says nothing. I don't think he  much likes me either, and that's okay. He watches my television and  throws his dirty socks on my floor and eats my Ramen noodles and the  cherry on top of the icing is he makes a better philosophy grade than  me.                       
       
           



       

I'm beginning to like him less and less.

Naz is double-parked right in front of the dorm, not seeming to give a  shit as people honk, annoyed that he's blocking traffic. I laugh as I  climb in the passenger seat, seeing he's staring down at his phone,  paying no mind to what's going on outside of the car.

He lives in his own little world, where he's the king, and I'm more than  happy to be his minion …  although, when he looks at me, flashing that  dimple, I feel like nothing less than his queen.

He pulls into traffic and drives straight to Brooklyn. He takes off his  coat and loosens his tie when we get to his house, tossing his keys down  on the living room table.

"You sure you're not hungry?" he asks. "I can make you something."

"You? Make something?"

He laughs. "I probably have something you can make yourself."

"Thanks, but I'm okay. I just wanna get this work done so I can try to relax."

I settle into the den, cracking open my math book to finish some  problems. Naz distracts me more than anything, sitting beside me on the  couch. He sucks at math, fucking up basic multiplication when he tries  to help.

I even catch him counting on his fingers a few times.

I merely smile, having to do some of the problems over again, but I  don't mind much, even if it does take twice as long. It doesn't feel  like work with Naz involved.

I'm finishing up the last problem as he twirls a piece of my hair around  his finger. It's the typical word problem bullshit, two trains going  too damn fast and eventually intersecting, but nobody gives a shit  where. Naz watches me as I try to work it out, his mere gaze  distracting.

"I have a word problem for you," he says.

"I'm listening."

"If Naz forgoes sleep, and Karissa gets naked, how many orgasms can he give her before sun up?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure," I say, trying not to smile, but one cracks my face.  "I'm not sure you have enough fingers to count that high."

"Oh, I know I don't," he says. "Besides, my fingers will be busy doing other things tonight."





I'm dumbfounded.

Santino stands at the front of the classroom, droning on and on about  something. I don't know. His voice is little more than a dull murmur as I  stare at the paper on my desk.

I expected an F on this essay. It's incomplete, and impersonal, and everything Santino didn't want.

So why is there an A written at the top?

There's no other red. No comments, no corrections. No explanation. It's  the first time it has ever happened to me. I don't know what to think.  My eyes shift from my desk to Melody's, wondering if he took it easy on  everyone this time around, but she got her coveted B, her essay marked  up.

It makes no sense.

I stay quiet through the lecture, not raising my hand, not uttering a  peep. When he dismisses us for the day, I stand up and put my bag on,  clutching my paper.

"I'll meet you back at the room," I tell Melody. "I have to ask Santino a question."

She looks at me like I've sprouted a second head, like I've just said  the world was going to end. She looks at me like I'm certifiably insane.  Hell, maybe I am. But I have to ask him.

I don't understand.

I wait until most of my classmates are gone again before approaching his  desk. He looks up at me, his expression blank, and doesn't speak. He  looks like I'm the last person he wants to talk to.

"Sir, I just had a question about my paper."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Well, it's just that, I didn't get a chance to complete it, or type it  like I was supposed to. It wasn't finished when I turned it in."

"I noticed," he says.

"Yeah, so I'm just curious... why the A?"

He stares at me. Hard. Like if he stares any harder, he might  telepathically blow me up, obliterate me right in front of his eyes.  When he speaks, his voice is icy. "Not good enough for you?"

"No, it's not that," I say quickly. "I just didn't expect..."

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, not sounding amused in the least. "I'm sure you didn't."

My brow furrows.

"Look, Miss Reed, I don't know what you want me to say. If you'd rather  have the F that paper deserves, I'll happily give it to you. But I'm  quite certain, on the topic, you're well versed, even if you didn't put  forth the effort to show it."

I feel like a fool. The man gives me an A and I'm questioning why  instead of taking it and running. Whether it's deserved or not, he threw  me a lifeline, giving me a fighting chance of scraping by this  semester.

"Thank you," I say, clutching the paper as I back up a few steps.

"Don't mention it," he responds, looking away from me. "Ever again."

I nod, turning around and quickly getting out of there. The air is warm  when I step outside, spring well upon us. It's so warm that even I feel  the heat, and push the sleeves of my long-sleeved shirt up to my elbows  as I pull off my scarf. It's the last week of April, and in a mere two  weeks classes will be over for the semester. I have a lot of work to do  between now and then, but I feel calm, like maybe I won't screw it all  up, after all.                       
       
           



       

Just two more weeks, and I can say goodbye to the professor known as  Satan, never having to step foot in that godforsaken classroom again.

Two weeks. I can do two weeks.





I'm in Hell.

It's dressed up pretty to look like a renowned private university, but  don't be fooled-it's Hell. I've been trapped in the deepest pit for  going on fourteen days, the world pressing down upon me until I'm barely  able to breathe. The toxic cloud of smoke from the raging inferno swept  out from the gates of Santino's classroom and blanketed everything,  suffocating everyone in its path. Judgment day is coming, and it's  coming fast.

Finals.

I'm being dramatic, but it's hard to see the world clearly when you  haven't had a full night sleep in two weeks. Everything's drowning in a  haze of notes and practice tests.

"Okay, what about this one?" Melody says, holding up an index card with something in Latin written on it: modus tollens.

"Modus tollens," I say out loud, not sure if I even pronounced that  right. "It's, uh, one of Voldemort's people in Harry Potter."

She laughs, spouting off a definition that makes just as little sense to  me as the words themselves. I wave her away, motioning for her to show  me the next one.

Probability.

"Oh, this one's easy," I say. "It's if something's, like, probable."