My Professor's Secret

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According to Chessie, they'd both had plenty to say about me during my performance, though I bit my tongue from asking her to elaborate further on what they might've had to say about me. It didn't matter. I'd been given this part because my peers thought I deserved it, and what did I look like letting two girls who held absolutely no importance in my life dictate how I felt about an accomplishment I worked my ass off to achieve? It was redundant and not happening again.

"They're friends with Rachael. Everyone on campus knows you're the one that got her demoted as sorority president of Iota Chi Theta, and a large amount of us thank you for that. For years she's been pitting girls against each other and making them feel inferior to her and her chapter. Someone needed to be the one to dethrone her. It's a shame it took four years."

The two of us continue out of the lecture hall and proceed down the slushy sidewalks in pursuit of nowhere. Perhaps I could use the darkness outside as an excuse to follow her lead. If I'd been being honest, I needed someone more to talk to other than Wyatt, Taylor, my brother, and occasionally my professor. After Lynn left, I hadn't had the desire to invest in another friendship so soon, at the risk of it being as fleeting as ours, but now I only realized how much it was genuinely stunting my growth on campus. We make it all of thirty steps from the lecture hall before I hear my name on the tongue of a familiar voice. Professor.

Chessie pivots in the opposite direction the moment I do, taking in the sight of our teacher standing outside the lecture hall with his hands shoved in his pockets before she shrugs me in his direction. She tells me showbiz waits for no one and then promises to catch up with me some other time to rehearse with one another. 

It takes a coherent thought for my muscles to move in the direction he stood, only for him to begin making his way back inside the lecture hall and down the corridor toward his office. A part of me dared to stop. At least to ask him what the purpose of my returning to his office was. Still, nothing would come out of my mouth, and I rationalized it as an excuse for him to congratulate me on winning the Scholastic competition again, especially since the first attempt was interrupted. We linger at the door frame as he struggles to grab his keys from his satchel. Once he manages to unlock the door, he flips on the light, lays his satchel at the foot of his desk, and signals me further into the room.

"You seemed shocked to find out you were chosen for the lead in the play," he says, finding himself comfortable in the seat behind his desk. "I had no doubt you'd be selected after watching you perform. You have a real talent, and that talent would have gone to waste on the part you originally wanted."

Accepting his compliments isn't hard, especially when he has never given me the impression of hiding the way he truly felt about situations he wasn't too fond of in the past, but to say they didn't stir up something illicit in me would be a tale. It would be naive to assume he wasn't already aware of that. I make my way from the center of the office to the sofa across from his desk to take a seat—watching as his lips pierced with more to say.

"With that being said, even though we spoke briefly of your responsibilities as the set director, I hadn't considered how taxing it would all be adding a leading role to the workload. Not to mention everything else on your plate, so I took the liberty of offering extra credit to you and everyone else who volunteers to take the initiative in bringing this play to life as it should."

There was no doubt he'd been referring to the situation with my dad. It was undeniable. Trevor's attempt to lighten the load to make my responsibilities more convenient for me was gracious—flattering even, but all I could picture was how someone else might view his acts of kindness toward me. Wyatt already had suspicions, and lord knows who else. Perhaps the girls already listing a tracklist of the things I'd ruined since being here also had a motive against me. With Racheal as their friend, the thought isn't as far-fetched as I hoped. I hadn't forgotten what Chris mentioned regarding what people around campus thought, and I didn't want Professor jeopardizing his career to help me. Nevertheless, I give him another nod with nothing to say in response.

"Now, for the real reason, I asked you to my office," he says, rising from the comfort of his swivel chair to reach for his satchel. He pulls out a plastic bag and then walks the remaining distance between us to sit beside me on the sofa. "I have no problem wrapping it for showers, but changing the bandages is another story. I tried this morning, but the pain was so unbearable I shed a tear. I have to stop putting off going to the hospital. Do you mind?" He asked.

Inside the bag contains articles needed to treat the burn on his arm. Before there's even a moment to contemplate my decision, I've already reached inside the bag to lay everything on the sofa. Before I begin, he thoroughly explains the process of adequately treating his wounds, then lays himself against the back of the sofa. Though I grab ahold of his bandages as delicate as possible, he still winces and laches his eyes shut in despair.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, continuing to strip his arm of the bandage. Beneath the previous shade of white cloth is bloodsoaked. The smell of char still lingered from his skin, and it took every shred of decency within me to keep myself from gagging at the sight of his damaged arm. It was a miracle he avoided surgery, though avoiding the hospital was no longer an option. "You should get this examined. I don't know much about the medical field, but I'm certain this charred flesh should be scraped off. It can't wait much longer, or it will become infected."

He doesn't respond, which I attribute to the pain, but at least he had no other choice than to hear my concerns.

After I've completely stripped him of the old bandages, I sanitize my hands, remove a popsicle stick from the sofa then apply a dollop of antibiotic ointment to his skin. Luckily his face relaxes as the translucent thickness casts a thin blanket over his injuries. It's enough for him to unclench his eyes and find mine as I switch out my stick for the bandage cloth—which wraps around his forearm with ease but causes a trembling in my hands. His eyes remain locked on me before he uses his free hand to steady my shaky ones, which he quickly finds out doesn't help in the slightest bit. 

His touch only added to the anticipation festering in my belly, and for a brief moment, I tugged away to play it off as an excuse to scratch a nonexistent itch above my eyebrow. He doesn't question it, which I'm thankful for, but as I reach to continue the wrapping, his hands find my arm again.

"You know I appreciate you, right?" he questions, never breaking eye contact, which burns the apples of my cheeks—something I'm sure he'd been able to tell as his eyes roamed every crevice and pore on my face. Yet I nod and continue to wrap the remainder of his arm, hoping it would alleviate the sensation in my tummy, eager to get the best of me. "Can I make it up to you with dinner at my place tonight? It's the least I can do to repay you for your time and kindness, not the mention as a congratulation for winning the program," he ends with another smile that nearly defeats me.

I'm half tempted to say no as my mind races with thoughts on how the remainder of this night could go if I lingered in his presence any longer, though yes is what slips from my tongue, and Trevor smiles. Once I've finished wrapping, we quickly exit from his office and the lecture hall. The ride to his place is how I suspected it might be, silent which I don't mind. At least saying nothing would prevent me from making an absolute fool of myself. We make it inside his house, where he instructs me into the living room and then excuses himself to change into something "less restrictive."

After he's out of sight, I pull my phone from my pocket to text Taylor a heads up about my late arrival home, but she's already sent me one explaining a spontaneous date she'd be having with Leonardo. 

There's a message from Wyatt as well: Chessie dragged you out in such a hurry that I didn't get the chance to ask you if I could take you out tonight for your win.  Castillo, that competition is a big thing!! I googled it. 

Wow. That's too generous of you!! Though I will take you up on that offer another night. She wanted to get an early start on rehearing for the play, and since my roommate is out on a date tonight, I didn't want to be alone all night. Sorry :(

He reads the message almost instantaneously, and a message bubble anticipates his complete text, but it vanishes without a response. Thankfully he refrains from mentioning how I had forcibly unlatched our hands. While I wait for his reply, I find my fingers speeding to the phone application to inform someone else on the news about my win, but as it hovers over his contact, the recollection of his disposition hits me like a ton of bricks. I couldn't talk to my dad even If I needed to.