Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“I made a mistake? Do go on,” he says.
“I just wanted… um, I was wondering why my paper was graded so low?” I can’t make eye contact with him, but somehow I know he’s still looking into my soul. Being near this man is like being in front of a walking human emotional x-ray. He’s running me through a big clanking MRI of feelings.
He rifles through my paper for a brief moment before making a sound of recognition.
“This paper centered on your theory that your ex-boyfriend, Dave—name not changed to protect the guilty—is a sociopath,” he says. “The first problem is that psychopath and sociopath were both retired in favor of an ASPD diagnosis. You might know this because I happened to cover it in my lectures.”
“Yes, I am sorry, I used a colloquial…”
He talks over me as I stammer excuses.
“True psychopathy is rare,” he says. “But it can be a tempting diagnosis when someone behaves in a repeatedly hurtful manner. You need to integrate a finer understanding of this matter. I wanted an academic paper, not a character assassination of an ex. I gave you a C because at least you did not fall back on the overused diagnosis of narcissism.”
“Yes, Doctor Rollins. But, you see, I really need to maintain my GPA, and a C isn’t going to allow that. I have a scholarship and…”
“Look at me,” he says, his voice strangely soft.
I look up and meet his eyes. I can only do it for a split second. There’s a feeling that rushes through me, an intense charge that I don’t know what to do with. Maybe it’s the way his eyes rake over me and then seem to go straight through me, cataloging all my weaknesses one after the other. I feel safer looking at my toes.
“If you would like to resubmit this paper, I will allow it,” he says. “But it will involve you developing a true understanding of ASPD. I can offer some assistance during office hours. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes, sir,” I say quickly, lifting my head just a little. “Thank you so much. I won’t let you down. I promise!”
His lips twist in something like a smile. I can only see his mouth. I don’t know if it reaches his eyes. I am sure he thinks this is silly. To him, I am just one of hundreds, if not thousands of students he has had to talk to. I am panicking about my grade as if it is the end of the world, but it’s nothing to him. I feel very silly and quite small.
“I’m sure you won’t,” he says. There’s something in that little phrase. Said by someone else, it might be comforting. But I sense a darker undertone there. Like I wouldn’t dare to disappoint him now that he has given me a second chance.
I get out of the room as quickly as possible before he can change his mind.
I leave for my shift at the restaurant with a tingle low in my belly, and those deep words somehow ringing in my ears. I am going to have to work extra hard to impress him. I really need an A in his class to keep my overall GPA up. I’m smart, but not super academic. I can get high grades, but it’s never come easily to me. I don’t come from money. I’ve had to work for everything I ever had. Getting into community college was a big deal for me. Being taught by Dr. Rollins is the most exciting opportunity of my relatively short life. I’m twenty years old, eighteen years younger than the man I’m relentlessly crushing on.
Maybe work will take my mind off it.
I work at Winslow’s, a little family-run bistro in one of the suburbs around the community college. Everything here is a little run down. There are lots of tags everywhere, some cool street art mixed in, and the city doesn’t attend to stuff like litter and potholes very often so the street is kind of a patchwork of all kinds of temporary repairs left to be permanent.
The uniform is a green skirt that comes just above the knee, a little black apron that ties around my waist, sneakers and bare legs—though tights are allowed if you don’t shave your legs (Mrs. Winslow is particular about that)—and a white t-shirt. My hair always goes into a high ponytail ever since I worked out that gets me the most tips.
It’s a busy night at Winslow’s. They have their chicken parm on special. You get the chicken and a beer for ten bucks. I don’t know how they do it, but it sells the place out every Tuesday night, so I spend the rest of the evening taking orders for parm, and then delivering it to hungry customers.
My phone rings on break. I get one for fifteen minutes at 6.30 p.m., right before the rush gets super crazy. I don’t want to answer the call, but my gut twists with guilt when I think about letting it go to voicemail. A psychopath wouldn’t care. I kind of wish I was one, sometimes.