Tenure

2. Kiernan

2

Kiernan

Great start, Kiernan. Well done.

I slump against the wall, temple stuck to the cool cream-coloured plaster, and gently hit my head on it a few more times.

I promised I’d stay out of trouble. I promised I’d keep my head down and my mouth shut. But one look at that silent classroom and that smug fuck’s face, and I could tell he was just there to torture everybody who had made the gross misjudgment to sign up for his course.

My dad had always warned me about tenured professors. Arrogant pieces of shit, he called them . But then he’d never gotten tenure, so grain of salt and all that.

I’d spent the better part of the morning catching up on the lecture notes which—I had to admit—were wildly informative. Some of what he covered was familiar to me, but some of it was new. I’d expected to stumble a little, but the way he structured his lectures . . . It basically looked exactly like the notes I made for myself when I was breaking down problems.

I’d been so intrigued by his slides and descriptions—lyrical, almost emotional which was kind of shocking given the topic—that I’d read ahead to chapter six and then realized I was actually missing the damn tutorial slot.

What a monumental disappointment.

I had been so intrigued to meet the man behind the math, and he was something to look at, that much was for sure, but the way he practically boned his lecture material was a stark contrast with the dark-haired iceberg who looked like he jerked off to the requests for students to drop his class.

Why am I even here?

This whole thing was my guidance counselor’s idea. I’d made a joke about Mathletes being more interesting than school, and he suggested I get permission to enroll in university early. I didn’t think he was serious until he started showing me course catalogs and a permission letter from the Dean of Admissions.

My parents weren’t thrilled. They were spending most of my senior year of high school in Paris, a rare research opportunity for my mother that they couldn’t pass up, and felt bad enough about leaving me home alone for close to a year, never mind missing the start of my post-secondary education. But SJ cheerfully reminded them it was nobody’s fault that I was a big nerd and starting early.

Maybe I’m not ready for this after all.

I’ve always had a temper, but teachers in particular have always chafed. Too many years of assholes trying to prove me wrong, trying to catch me making a mistake in front of the class or worse, set me up for one. I can smell a self-righteous teacher a mile away.

Deep breaths, Kiernan. Just calm down.

“You okay?” someone asks.

“Peachy,” I sniff, without looking to see who it is.

“McGrath is a lot.”

I open my eyes and look at the guy with the backwards ball cap and York hoodie on. Tall. Cute. Strong jaw. Looks like a hockey player and—judgy as it is—I’m surprised he’s in this class.

He grins, like he can sense my skepticism.

“Not all athletes are bad at math,” he says.

“If you say so.”

“Can I buy you a coffee? To make up for the heinous crime of being an athlete?”

I sigh, wishing SJ were here. She’d been running interference on men for me since Tony Fotula tried to tell everyone he was taking me to the Halloween dance in sixth grade.

“I’m good. But thanks.”

“I’m not going to strip you in line, you know. It’s just a coffee.”

I eye him and can practically hear SJ screaming that it’s now or never. She’d approve. But she’d approve of most things in a backwards baseball hat.

“Fuck it,” I say.

As we wander towards—I guess a coffee shop? I don’t know, I haven’t had a chance to tour the campus yet—he starts probing.

“How’s your first week going?”

“First day, actually. And I’ve had better.”

His mouth twitches. “I think he broke his teeth clenching his jaw after you left. Most of us decided it was probably a good idea to bail.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt you’re missing much.” I scowl. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

I sound tired. Already. Cool.

“Graham.”

I extend my hand. “Kiernan.”

But Graham is looking behind me and he pales a little.

“James,” says a deep voice.

Goosebumps raise on the back of my neck. Fuck.

“ May I speak with you for a moment, Kiernan?”

It’s not a question.

Graham glances back and forth between the two of us, eyebrows raised, before sticking his hands in his hoodie pocket and shrugging.

“See you in class, Kiernan?” And then he heads off down the corridor at little less than a run.

Super cool.

I turn around to find James standing inappropriately close to me, well within my personal bubble, towering over me with a twitchy glower. I fight the urge to step backwards and glare right back at him.

Dick.

“What do you want?”

He cocks his head and studies me. Like I’m a problem he needs to fix. Like something’s gone wrong in his formula, but he isn’t sure what. He just knows he’s getting the wrong answer.

“I’d like to go over your questions,” he says smoothly, his voice low.

I shrug, still vehemently fighting the urge to back up, my heartbeat accelerating and palms starting to sweat.

“I’ll email them,” I say.

He narrows his eyes at me, dark hazel and clearly irritated, reaching out to cup my elbow and gently steer me back the way I came.

“You’ll ask them now,” he says, his voice falsely pleasant.

It feels like a threat.

I swallow but yank my arm out of his grasp. He doesn’t seem to pay much attention, just continues walking back into his classroom like he fully expects me to follow him and sit at his feet like a dog.

I dump my shit in the same seat at the back of the room despite the fact that it’s empty now and cross my arms.

He turns around and frowns at me, his face glacial.

“Oh good,” he says, gesturing at me. “Maturity. I was worried you didn’t have any for a minute there.”

I grip the edge of my desk, hands shaking with anger.

Who—in the actual fuck—do you think you are?