A Classroom, and a Betrayal.

The last day and a half had taken me from a red-faced, hands-trembling rage to a simmer that, on the surface, might have seemed calm. But underneath I still simmered. Disbelief had hardened into resolve, the hurt honed to a plan. Or the shape of a plan, anyway.

Thankfully, after years of the routine, teaching had almost become a thing of habit. I could drone on about the subject I’d talked on a dozen times before with little mind paid to what my mouth was going on about. Unlike in high school, it wasn’t a professor’s job to watch students, to snip if they weren’t paying attention. These were adults. As long as they weren’t distracting others, they were free to fail on their own terms.

Speaking of failing…

Beth trudged into the full classroom, laptop drooping in her hand, stumbling as if she’d just woken up. Which she might have. On the rare occasions, like today, that she bothered to attend non-exam classes, she was at least fifteen minutes late. According to the clock on the far wall, she was twenty-two minutes late today.

If this was her experience at 10AM, I’d hate to see how often she made it to any 8AM classes.

That’s what Freshman year was for, though. Staying up too late, partying when you shouldn’t, and then going, oh shit, maybe I should pass some classes. Based on her gnarled scarlet-dyed hair and her slept-in baggy hoodie, she was just navigating between parties and oh shit.

I didn’t let her interrupt my lecture on Mary Shelley, but my eyes did follow her all the way to the back and into an empty seat. A slim ass in spandex was hard to ignore at the best of times, and the problems my wife and I were having didn't help.

A thought rose like noxious bubble in a fetid swamp, like something submerged and long-thought dead, but I refused to acknowledge it.

Most of the students were less than enraptured by my tangent about Mary Wollstonecraft, Shelley’s mother, and how her women’s rights advocacy could be seen in elements of Mary’s work. But none were as transparent as Beth, who was slumped over her desk, clutching her laptop like a pillow. Why did she come to class if she wasn't going to pay attention? Why bring the laptop if not to take notes?

My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I tried to ignore it. She'd been calling all day. I should have turned the damn thing off.

On the outside I was calm, talking about how the themes of parenthood and grief in Frankenstein had been inspired by the loss of Mary Shelley's first child. But inside, I was raging.

I'd gone eight years without using my power. Eight years of conscious effort in every interaction. Eight years of toil. Eight years of playing fair, of earning every inch and every dollar.

Where did it get me?

In debt. My career, stalled behind the false allegations of plagiarism and inappropriate flirting. My family, fragmented. And my wife...

How much had I sacrificed for her? Too much, for too long.

The next glance at the clock brought relief. "We'll continue from here on Thursday. Read the first five chapters on Frankenstein and be ready to answer questions about Victor. Who is he? Where's he from? How did his upbringing lead him to breach all those ethical barriers? What gave him the hubris to create his monster?"

Half the students were out the door once they had the reading. Some were slow to leave, but a few were staying to ask questions. The usual things. Papers they were late to turn in--No, I said 10% deducted per class it's late, and I meant it--and clarifications about what would be on the test--If it's on the board, it's in the exam. One particularly animated student, who'd obviously read the books before, chatted me up about the theme of confronting our own monsters, and how Victor accepting his creation and nurturing him might have prevented all the tragedy.

Normally I'd have been thrilled to have a student so invested in the work, and would talk to him until the next class. But even as others behind him decided that whatever they needed wasn't worth the wait, Beth fidgeted, leaning on a desk in the front row. Whatever it was, she was willing to risk being late to her next class.

I'd wanted a few minutes to myself before the next class. I could feel myself fraying, the calm surface wearing away. I just wanted to brood and compose myself. But it didn't seem I'd get it.

I wanted to silence the thoughts echoing through my head like the strike and rebound of some warped bell. I'd been a fool to marry Moira. I'd been a fool to give up all that power.

"I look forward to hearing your thoughts about Henry next week, Miles," I said, setting a hand on his shoulders, when he was too excited talking to take my hints. "Thanks for staying after and talking. Thursday?"

"Thursday!" he said, waving on his way out the door. Odd kid, but sweet.

I was surprised Beth waited until I was done with everyone else. Only one thing made a girl like this hang back to chat with a professor of her own accord.

"Email could have saved you a lot of trouble, Beth."

Beth stood, plucking at the frayed cuff of her hoodie, not looking me directly in the eye. It was only as she approached that I was reminded of how short she was. Her thin form always made her seem lankier than she was, but the half-Korean girl barely reached my chest.

"Professor Stevens?" she said, as if **** now that she had the opportunity.

"You need something, Beth?" I asked, unwilling to make it easier on her.

She was never the center of attention in class if she could help it, but she wasn't usually this timid. If anything, I'd always assumed she didn't care how she did in my class. Seeing her so nervous--shy, embarrassed, almost afraid--made something in me stir. Back in my college days, I would have had a lot of fun with this one.

Pushing the thought away, I watched her work up her resolve, until her warm brown eyes met mine.