6. A Real Ball Buster

CHAPTER SIX

A Real Ball Buster

I slip into the lecture hall, the hushed whispers of past lectures still echoing in the air. The room is overly warm, ancient heaters not knowing when to stop, a stark contrast to the chill I've left behind outside. I choose a seat near the front, like usual.

I've never been the kind of girl to sit in the back row, to scroll on my phone during class, to flirt with boys instead of studying. Which makes the red whisker burn on my neck more embarrassing.

Why did I let him do that?

You didn't let him, Anne. You begged for him.

I wish I could blame the whiskey, but the truth is I feel the desire even now, stone-cold sober. Part of me wants to believe he's good. And he protected me, didn't he? I would feel far more regret if I'd slept with Grandpa.

My fingers trace the grooves on the desk surface, carved by years of students like me, all chasing dreams and dodging nightmares.

Students like William Stratford, once upon a time. The Shakespeare Society's shadow looms over him, a dark specter that whispers of danger and deceit. I can't shake the image of him, entangled in their web, the thought turning my stomach.

I pull out my notes, the pages filled with scribbles and highlights, a testament to my determination. Literature, my beacon in the storm, my escape from the lies and abuse back home, even if it means leaving Rusty behind. I won't be another statistic, another casualty of my parents' dysfunction.

Shakespeare's words are my solace, a reminder that there's beauty and truth in this world, even if it's hidden among thoughtless violence.

The hall begins to fill with the bustle of arriving students.

A familiar presence plops down next to me: Tyler, with his disheveled curly hair and energy drink sweatshirt that looks like it's survived a few too many late-night study sessions.

"Anne, my man," he greets, his voice a blend of enthusiasm and the subtle undercurrent of mischief. "Ready for a new semester of Shakespeare and keg parties?"

I can't help but smile back, his energy infectious. "Not so much with the parties, for me. I'm gonna focus on school this time."

He snorts. "This time? That's every time. Come on. You can't live in the books. Life's too short not to enjoy the footnotes."

"You have a gift for making things seem lighter."

Tyler's grin fades into a look of genuine concern, his dark eyes softening. "Did you have a rough winter break?"

Rough? Mmm, maybe. More like heartbreaking.

It's hard to pretend that my mom has cancer now that I know the truth. It's also hard to look the other way when they demand money for her treatment. The sad truth is she probably does need treatment. The mental kind. But none of the money I earned from the diner will go towards that.

"Family," I say, unable to explain.

"Yeah, I know the feeling."

"You do? It's hard to imagine anyone having a problem with you."

He nudges my arm. "Stop. I'm going to think you have a crush on me. "

I roll my eyes at his teasing. "Whatever."

" We didn't move to this country for you to read poems. " He mimics an accent and a high pitch. " Why don't you become a doctor like your cousin? He's going to be able to support his mother in her old age, not like you. "

I wince. "That sucks."

"That's why I like to have fun. To make up for the rest of it."

The lecture hall fills with the hum of conversation and the scraping of chair legs against the floor. Maybe, just maybe, I can manage to keep my head on straight this semester—between the pages of Shakespeare. And absolutely not in the allure of the Shakespeare Society's parties. Or the magnetic pull of one particular professor.

The fun thing may work for Tyler.

I've already proven I can't be trusted with it.

"If we're going to a tragedy," he says, "at least it's a real one this semester. Hamlet is gonna rock, but like in a super depressing, mentally unstable way."

I can't help but bristle at his words. "Seriously?"

"I know Professor Stratford tried to sell the whole female agency thing, but like, at the end of the day they're just two teenagers in love." When he sees my narrow eyes, he amends. "I mean, one teenager. We don't know Romeo's age."

"He's not the point." Lots of scholars dismiss Romeo and Juliet, seeing only reckless young love. "Women in Shakespeare's time didn't have many choices, but that makes the ones they made even more important."

Professor Stratford understood that.

At least I thought so.

I'm not supposed to be thinking of him either way.

"Right, right, right," Tyler says, clearly trying to placate the crazy feminist Shakespearean. "She was great. It's just… Hamlet's a heavier hitter, you know? The questions he grapples with—they're timeless."

Ugh. Saying that women's choices aren't timeless is freaking sexist. But I force myself to focus on Tyler's enthusiasm for Hamlet. After all, it is a masterpiece of its own. I can appreciate the complexity of its characterization, but part of me—a stubborn, defiant part—refuses to let go of Juliet's narrative.

"I'm not only excited about Hamlet," he says, a mischievous glint in his eye. "There's something else that's great about this semester."

"Oh?" I ask, bracing myself for whatever comes next. Tyler has a knack for surprises, though usually, they're harmless—like the time he convinced half the class to attend a play in Elizabethan attire.

"Professor Isolde Thorne," he says, as if revealing a grand secret.

"She's listed on the class schedule."

"Yeah, but did you know she's hot," he finishes, his eyebrows dancing suggestively. "Like really fuckable, especially for a professor."

The blood drains from my face at hearing the words fuckable and professor in the same sentence. Is it possible Tyler knows about Stratford and me?

No, of course not. I'm being paranoid.

Tyler continues, oblivious to my discomfort, his gaze busy fantasizing about whatever faculty picture he probably jerked off to. "She's got that sexy librarian vibe down."

"I dare you to say it to her face."

"Absolutely not," he says. "I hear she's a real ball buster."

I hide my sigh. Reducing an accomplished professor to her physical appearance. Calling a woman a ball buster when a man would get labeled tough but fair. It's a stark reminder of a world where my worth is often measured by my fuckability rather than the quality of my work .

Was that why Stratford had sex with me?

Was I just another conquest, a notch on his academic belt?

The thought stings, a sharp contrast to the fleeting warmth I felt in his arms.

Professor Stratford was a storm I willingly walked into, fully aware of the damage it could cause. I have to be smarter than the men who would see me as nothing more than an object of desire.

Dr. Isolde Thorne is a force to be reckoned with in the world of Shakespearean academia. Maybe she can be a role model for me.

She strides into the lecture hall. Conversations die down, chairs creak as students sit up a little straighter, and the air grows heavy with anticipation.

Her presence commands the room, though she's not much taller than me. She strides to the podium with a confident grace. She wears high black heels, a no-nonsense black pencil skirt, a loose-sleeved white button down. A wide black silk at her neck provides a blend of both seriousness and femininity. Her black hair is pulled back into a high bun.

I can't help but acknowledge the truth in Tyler's assessment. Yes, Professor Thorne is attractive, but it's so much more than that. She carries herself with authority. And she exudes a "don't fuck with me" attitude that I'm desperate to emulate.

As she sets her leather bag on the podium, her dark eyes scan the room, daring anyone to challenge her. The silence is deafening, a testament to the respect she inspires. Or is it fear? Her gaze lands on me for a brief moment, and I feel a jolt of adrenaline. It's like she can see right through me.

I sit up taller, meeting her gaze with a determined one of my own.

"Fulbright Fellow," she says, her tone matter-of-fact. "Recipient of the Early Career Researcher award. My work has been published in the most prestigious Shakespearean journals." She pauses, allowing the weight of her words to settle over the room. "The National Endowment for the Humanities funds my work. Why do I say this? Because I'm the best. You all are fortunate to learn from someone of my caliber."

Her gaze sweeps across the room, daring anyone to question her qualifications. I can't help but raise my eyebrows, duly impressed. This is not a woman who shyly accepts accolades; she wears them like battle armor, polished and proud .

"You will keep your phones off," she continues, her voice a lash of cold precision. "You will arrive on time and turn in your work when it's due. Fail to adhere to these simple rules, and you might as well remove yourself from my classroom. I don't care whether you like me. Or whether other professors like me. I'm here for the work. For the study. For Shakespeare."

Her words hang in the air, a stark warning that leaves no room for misunderstanding. I find myself sitting taller, a spark of admiration igniting within me.

"Holy shit," Tyler mutters beside me.

He doesn't sound mad. He sounds turned on.

That is the kind of power I aspire to—unapologetic, unwavering, and undeniably earned. Professor Thorne isn't just a teacher; she's a trailblazer, carving out a space for herself in a field dominated by men.

This is what I need to be.

Which means no more mooning over Professor Stratford.

She launches into the syllabus, outlining the expectations for the semester ahead. I'm struck by a sense of clarity. This is my chance to prove myself, to show that I'm more than just a girl from a shitty town with a troubled past. I am a scholar, a thinker, a contender in the world of Shakespearean literature.

Like her.

"In addition to your regular coursework this semester, each of you will have the opportunity to compete for the prestigious Tempest Prize." She pauses, letting her words sink in. "It's awarded to an exceptional student in the field of Shakespearean literature, someone who demonstrates a profound understanding of the Bard's work and contributes an original interpretation."

My breath catches in my throat. The Tempest Prize could be my ticket to a future where my intellect is recognized, where my analysis of Shakespeare's work might shine alongside that of other aspiring scholars.

"The prize includes a substantial cash prize, though the honor you receive as the recipient will help you far more in your academic career than any dollar amount."

Just how substantial is this cash prize? Enough that I can buy my own textbooks without needing to visit the Pinnacle, I'm guessing. That alone makes it worth winning. It's not something I would confess out loud, because it would seem mercenary. As if I didn't care about the art, which isn't true. I care a lot about the art, but it doesn't come cheaply.

Murmurs ripple over the classroom, but her voice cuts through.

"I will personally mentor one student," she says. "Together, we will craft an interpretation that has the potential to win you this esteemed award."

I exchange a glance with Tyler, who looks excited at the idea of spending alone time with Professor Thorne. Of course, everyone wants to win an exclusive mentorship. It would be a huge advantage. Her gaze lands on me for a fraction of a second longer, and I wonder if she sees the eagerness in my eyes.

"Your mentor relationship with me," she continues, "won't be based solely on your past academic achievements or your family name—no, I care about none of that." She smiles in a cool, feline way. "I am going to select my protégé based on merit, right here, right now. You'll have sixty seconds to impress me."

Energy surges through the classroom, through me.

Shakespearean study isn't an area known for its speed. No, we agonize over every single word. It takes years. Decades. Centuries, even.

Instead, we have a single minute .

"Give me your best analysis of Ophelia's madness." Sixty seconds to prove our worth in a frenzy of scribbled notes. Insane. She's daring us to rise to the occasion. "Ready?" she asks, her voice devoid of warmth. "Set. Go."

The lecture hall erupts into motion as students scramble for paper and pencils. My heart pounds as I weave together a few sentences that are insightful and representative of my work. Seconds tick by with breathtaking speed, each one increasing the pressure of this crucial chance to impress.

The scratch of pencils on paper.

The rhythmic tap of Professor Thorne's foot.

The tick, tick, tick of the clock.

Those are the only sounds in the lecture hall.

"Time's up," she says. "Pencils down."

Writing stops, the air heavy with anticipation.

"Let's find out what insights you've crafted for me," she says, gesturing for the girl in the bottom right. "Read them aloud."

Many of them sound like they could have been quoting CliffsNotes. Ophelia's insanity is due to the grief of her father's death. Pain over Hamlet's betrayal of her. Frustration in a cruel court. They're valid but also unoriginal, and Professor Thorne's cool gaze reflects her feelings about that.

Then we get to Matteo. The overhead lights catch the subtle highlights in his silky hair. His eyes, a deep, espresso brown, scan the room. Then he smiles at Professor Thorne, revealing a dimple.

His voice a rich baritone that fills the room. "Laertes is moved by her madness, making her lunacy not only a symptom of the darkness, but the precursor. A woman could not wield a sword, but her actions still led to avenge her father's death. Would Laertes even have murdered Hamlet, if not for her characterization?"

Damn. That's actually an interesting argument.

Bold. Fresh. New, but with enough text to draw a compelling case.

I recognize him from the Shakespeare Society party last semester, but I've never actually met him. Somehow our classes have never overlapped. It's clear he's not just a pretty face. He's a force to be reckoned with. And he could have won this little game with those two sentences.

"Very nice, Mr. Andini," she says, and he nods his head in acceptance of her praise, an academic prince accepting his due.

The readings continue, though my mind remains on Matteo's. It's an interesting phrase, but it also paints Ophelia as a victim of circumstance rather than an active player in her life. Then again, we can't ignore the real results of trauma. I'm torn on the subject, wanting to understand Ophelia's pain and yet also wanting her to mean more than that.

My pulse speeds up as we reach my row.

Tyler goes before me. He grins at the class. "Ophelia's lunacy parallels the chaos and cruelty of the Danish court…like Pinky's antics inside the cage of a science lab. Brain, of course, is Hamlet."

Laughter and snorts break out.

I can't help but smile at his audacity.

Professor Thorne's expression hardens. "Shakespeare is not a joke."

Chastened, Tyler sinks into his chair.

Shit. Shakespeare may be a cornerstone of English literature, but he loved comedy. Slapstick. Dirty jokes. Nothing was off-limits. He wove humor into his plays as deftly as he did tragedy. How can we appreciate the full spectrum of his genius if we don't acknowledge the comedic side?

I want to reassure Tyler, but I'm busy freaking out.

Because it's my turn.

Deep breath.

My hand trembles, so I press it flat against the desk.

"Ophelia's madness has been described as a rebellion against her harsh reality, but I would go a step further and say that it's a series of symptoms that can be directly tied to complex PTSD. In other words, it's a trauma response."

Professor Thorne's eyebrows raise. "Very nice."

It's only then that I realize that my argument is in direct opposition to Matteo's. He paints her as the prop used to motivate men aka the real characters.

I can't help adding: "She's more than a catalyst for men."

My breath hitches on a surge of pride at the small gesture. As the class finishes reading, I can only hope it's enough.

When the last student speaks, Professor Thorne's gaze sweeps over us. My heart beats wildly in my chest. The tension in the room creates a silent symphony. She's silent for a moment, her eyes lingering on each face, each hopeful expression. Say Anne, I think, focusing on her red lips. I wish I was like Matilda from the old Roald Dahl book, someone able to move things with her mind, able to change her world from the force of will alone .

"There was some thoughtful, fresh, insightful commentary. And some that barely scratched the surface. However, there is one that rose to the top. I'm pleased to announce that the student I'll be personally mentoring is…"

The blood rushes to my face, a mixture of anticipation and fear.

"…Matteo."

My heart sinks, a leaden weight in my chest. It's not that Matteo isn't deserving—his argument was compelling. Disappointment still stings.

Congratulations are offered to Matteo, his victory met with a mix of genuine admiration and thinly veiled envy. He has plenty of friends, though. There's an undeniable charm to the way he carries himself, a confident ease that draws attention without him even trying.

There's groaning from students, their disappointment a mirror of my own. We all wanted this.

Professor Thorne raises a hand, silencing the room with a single gesture. "Don't worry," she says. "You will all get mentors in the department, teaching assistants who will help you with your entries."

Her words are meant to be reassuring. But how can I hope to win a prize that spans the entire country if I couldn't even beat a single classroom?

The Tempest Prize feels impossibly out of reach.