Perrie Lancaster has zero plans after college. No dream job she's working toward, no one to impress, and no care for anything other than making her last two years of college one big party.
Levi Saints wants nothing more than to follow his dream of t...
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"Miss Lancaster, my desk," Professor Doran calls from his podium at the front of the lecture hall. The rest of my classmates pack up their belongings, hightailing it out of the classroom in case he feels like calling on anyone else.
But he won't. I already know what's coming. "Crap," I whisper to myself, shoving the last of my things into my bag. Walking the steps down to his desk brings on a sense of impending doom and I internally berate myself.
He shuffles some folders on his desk as I approach, gesturing with a free hand to the lone random chair placed in front of his desk. Tentatively, I take a seat.
A folder drops onto the desk in front of me. He gives me a disappointed frown. Here we go. "I'm sure you're aware of why you're sitting here right now," he states, sitting across from me. "Frankly, I'm disappointed, Miss Lancaster."
"Thanks," I reply, leaning back in my seat, longingly staring out the classroom door watching the student mill about.
His hand slams on the table and I casually flick my gaze back in his direction. "This is not a joke, Perrie."
I shrug. "I never said it was, Sir."
He clasps his hands together, resting them on the desk. "Why is it so difficult to get you to give a damn about your grades? How many emails do I need to send you, how many times do I have to pull you aside in class to get you to focus?" He demands, his tone fed up.
I sit up in my seat, staring at him. "I've posted more sir, and I've written up the statistics—."
"Posting three images all together on a social media page when you've had months to post is not good enough," he reaches for the folder her dropped in front of me and opens it, "and your statistics? Barely count for anything when a previous following is attached to the page. You've given no effort into forming a proper demographic of your audience."
I remain silent, knowing from childhood that when an adult yells at you, sometimes you just need to sit quietly and let them get all their frustrations out. My face remains blank.
"Where was the enthusiasm I saw at the beginning of the semester? You were so excited about this project once you knew what you wanted and now? It's like you don't even care if you fail the class," he says, slipping his glasses off his face and placing them on the desk, rubbing his eyes. "I heard so many rumors about you from the other faculty about how you start off strong at the beginning of the semester and slowly taper off as you lose interest."
I refuse to make eye contact with Professor Doran. "I'm just a procrastinator, Professor, it'll be done in time. Promise."
"Forgive me if I think your promises are full of shit," Professor Doran speaks frankly and my eyebrows lift in surprise at his words. "This is your grade on the line, and mind you, this class is mandatory for someone with your major."
