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something that helps to improve people's lives. I've yet to be convinced that writing papers and books that are so out of touch with the mundane everyday ways of reality can do the same thing.
    My mother thinks it does, and so do my father and my sister. They dwell in theories and intellectual games without touching the world and people they write about. To me, that's just odd.
    Yet, I'm about to embark on the same route.
    I sigh and look down at my ring again turning it around my finger, as I always do when I'm lost deep in thought.
    In his introductory lecture, Mr. Portland loved to focus on everything that went wrong in his life. Failure. I’m not familiar with it. I've always been good at what I do. But I have this ring to remind me that I lack the passion for it.
    I never failed, because I never tried.
    His words hit a spot. It’s more than just the fact that I don’t respect him as a teacher that his speech agitated me. With just a few words and that piercing look, he opened a door I thought I had closed years ago. I've had this ring since junior high school and I've worn it almost every single day since then, but my thoughts hardly every traveled back to its original meaning anymore.
    Until now. Thanks to him.
    I'm not superstitious, but the way he looked at me was unsettling on so many levels. It was as if he stripped me naked with just his eyes - not even in a sexual sense. The intimacy is there, but it's not lust.
    Not just lust.
    I feel my cheeks and ears burning up again.
    Fuck, he's getting to me.
    I want to know more about him. I want to know who he is, I want to understand him. I want to understand why he unravels me the way he does. Why is he making me so fucking angry - and so confused.
    He'll continue to talk about himself throughout the semester, but I feel like whatever he is going to tell us won't be enough for me.
    I pull my legs up, hugging my knees as I pull them close to my chest, as if I could calm my racing heart down by doing so. I feel feverish, dizzy.
    "Idiot," I hiss to myself.
    I'm one of them. Blushing and swooning as my thoughts can't seem to let go of this man. This arrogant bastard. Why did he have to look at me like that? Is that what he does with challenges like me? He said he liked me, " students like me ". What does that even mean?
    I let out a groan of frustration and roll over to the side, curling up on my bed while my thoughts continue to linger around Mr. Portland.

CHAPTER FIVE
JACKSON
    T he faculty lounge is not my favorite place to be, but Professor Clark asked me to show up at least once a week for the informal staff meeting. He's the person who asked me to hold this lecture in the first place, and he's also the one who made sure that I'd be admitted with as much as freedom as possible when it comes to the content of my class.
    His request came as a surprise for me, and after I got over my initial irritation at this unexpected request, I actually found myself flattered.
    A school that never wanted me as a student now wants me as a teacher. Oh, the irony of it.
    "I'm not an educator," I told him. "I have no idea how to teach, let alone what to teach a bunch of spoiled little brats such as the kids I'd find at your school."
    To my surprise, he wasn't offended at these words, but laughed.
    "That is exactly why I think you'd be a refreshing change in our noble halls," he said. "Our students could need a little insight into the real world, something coming from a man of action like you are."
    It worked. His complimentary words made me realize that this would be a good platform for me to see whether it really was that simple. If the division between academics and the real world was really as sharp as I always felt it was. I want to see how these students react to my teaching, how they'd take in the idea of doing something different. For most of them, their path has been laid out early on, I'm sure. Maybe even before they started school altogether. You don't end up as a graduate