3. Theron

3

THERON

DARK RED - STEVE LACEY

Twenty sets of slow-blinking eyes stare at me, about as witless and empty-headed as cows put out to pasture. Their hands itch to reach for their phones. Their thoughts already a mile away from where we are in my classroom. Nothing to offer the world but memes and redundant catchphrases about pop culture.

I stick both hands in the pockets of my trousers and scowl back at them. "Welcome to Criminal Law One. I am your professor, Theron Adler. You will refer to me as Professor Adler. Just Professor Adler. Inside and outside of the classroom. Over the next five months, you will be gaining a foundational understanding of criminal law. You will be required to provide intelligent and thoughtful insight to theories and case studies that are examined.

"If you fail to be a productive, contributive member of this ongoing discussion, I will gladly fail you. If you are caught plagiarizing or cheating in any capacity—to include the use of artificial intelligence—I will gladly fail you," I continue, peering at each face in the room. Two to three seconds on each student before I move on to intimidate the next. "If you do not participate in the required reading or assignments that will be given, I will gladly fail you. If you do not prove to think on the critical level which is needed at this point in your graduate education, guess what?"

The class murmurs along, "I will gladly fail you."

A rare grin slashes onto my face. I push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. "You catch on fast. Let's hope that's a good sign. I am not an easy professor. I am not a kind one. I am certainly not the cool one you'll want to friend on Facebook or whatever asinine social media platform you use these days. I am simply here to evaluate your understanding of criminal law. Who can tell me the difference between criminal and civil law?"

The girl with vomit green hair and a nose ring sitting in the front row raises a hesitant hand. "It's, um, isn't civil between two people off the street?"

"I don't know, Miss Fochte. You tell me. Is it?" I ask in return. When she blinks at me a couple more times like a deer in headlights, I look around at the rest of the class. "Someone else. Someone with confidence ."

"It's all part of the system. Criminal is, like, what kind of harm is done to society," says a blonde from the back row. I recognize her at once—another trust fund baby being funneled through Castlebury. Heather Driscoll twirls a lock of strawberry blonde hair around her finger like she's wholly unconcerned by what I think of her. She's more preoccupied with her spa appointment that comes after.

"Is that the best you can do?" I say. "At the graduate level? Really? So my already low expectations will be sinking even lower?"

Heather Driscoll openly rolls her eyes. But the girl seated next to her does the opposite—she raises her hand in the air with a confidence vomit-green-haired girl hadn't and with a politeness that's not in Heather's vocabulary.

I recognized her from the moment she set foot inside the classroom this morning.

Nyssa Oliver.

She's on Heather's left as though part of the posse, which includes the other two seated directly in front of them, Katelyn Wicker and Macey Eurwen. She's patient and attentive in a way they're not, sitting up with shoulders poised and deep-set brown eyes brightened by curiosity.

The next heartbeat in my chest skips.

A second-long malfunction that leaves me stuck.

Then the second ends and the thump returns.

I blink out of the momentary glitch and rasp out her name. "Yes, Miss Oliver?"

"Criminal law is a body of law defining offenses against society at large. It takes into consideration the harm committed and how these offenses are investigated, charged, tried, and sentenced in a court of law," she explains succinctly. "Some examples would be murder or assault. In the past, it was often called penal law."

My eyes narrow behind the lens of my glasses. "I see someone knows the basics. Not all hope is lost. But can you tell me the two fundamental elements of crime?"

She doesn't pause before answering. " Mens rea , which is Latin for guilty mind. The other would be Actus reus . Latin for action. As in the physical action a crime involves."

Every other student in the room bounces their attention between us. One glance at Miss Oliver and then a glance back at me once she replies. Their two dozen gazes fall on me in interest for what I'll have to say to her answer.

I let the moment linger on longer than I probably should .

The two of us are locked into a stare that every other student sits on the outside of.

They're spectators as I stand mildly surprised at how accurate and succinct she's been. Finally, I accept that she's risen to the challenge—and she knows she has.

A small little smirk has bloomed onto Nyssa Oliver's face. It's subtle and slow, curling her bottom lip and lighting up her eyes.

Confidence that's not easily shaken.

The awareness that she's correct. The hint of teasing that she is.

No one else in the room catches it. No one else in the room is privy, despite being present.

Clearing my throat, I force myself to cut the moment short. I gesture to the blackboard. "Reading. Open your textbooks to page four-hundred and sixty-two. You have fifteen minutes to read the chapter, absorb the material, and tell me the significance of crime classification."

It's an emergency escape hatch.

A distraction for myself as they practically groan and begin flipping to the assigned reading page. I turn my back on the class and go to my desk feeling like I've just had warm coffee spilled all over me a second time.

For the second time by Miss Oliver and Miss Oliver alone.

My afternoon is devoted to grading the essay question I gave today's class after their required reading. I'd spent my lunch hour on the phone with the surveillance company that's installing a camera system on my property .

Should Veronica ever have the guts to return, I'll have everything on camera.

Tangible proof she keyed my car.

For the next hour, I'm engrossed in grading the essay questions. It comes as no surprise that most of the papers sound like they've been written by some AI generator. When I encounter the sixth paper that sounds like a regurgitation from ChatGPT, I sigh and drop my pen.

Castlebury University is allegedly a prestigious institution of higher learning, yet the students that come through are routinely below standard. If they're not glued to their personal devices, they're lazing around smoking weed and sleeping in 'til noon.

A sullen expression bleeds onto my face at the bitter thoughts.

Was I ever this unintellectual? Was I ever lacking so much depth?

Sure, I had my moments, as many young adults do. I dabbled in my share of frat parties and keggers. Occasionally, I skipped class and cut corners on coursework.

But I was never this useless. This content with being mediocre. Less than mediocre… painfully below standard.

I mark down the next essay question with an aggressive swipe of my pen. The red ink is inexorably satisfying on the page.

Jason Hendricks will learn the hard way his staying up late gaming then nodding off during class will not pay off. He'll be one of many failures.

I come to the next student's paper, reading the name scrawled up top in neat, swoopy letters:

Nyssa Olive r

Ah, yes.

The girl that met my challenge today in class. The girl who spilled coffee on me yesterday. I have plenty of red ink for her…

"Ahem. Professor?"

I look up, almost feral from excitement, a wavy lock of hair falling over my brow, and find myself staring across the desk at the girl.

None other than Nyssa Oliver herself, like she's materialized out of thin air.

She's unassuming compared to earlier, where she'd challenged me and smirked .

Right now, she's all cropped cashmere sweater and headful of curls, clutching what looks like a large coffee from the student union. The lighting in the room emphasizes the exact cinnamon shade of her wide, deep-set eyes.

Eyes that couldn't be more earnest if they tried.

A sliver of guilt stabs at me until I clear my throat and sift fingers through my hair, trying to appear more dignified and professional. She must've wandered into my classroom at the height of my irritation, as I slashed away at the papers.

"Miss Oliver," I say, forcing an even tone, "to what do I owe a visit after classroom hours?"

"I wanted to apologize for yesterday. You know, what happened with the coffee."

"Oh." I blink a couple times, unsure how else to respond. "You already apologized when it happened."

"I know. They say not to cry over spilled milk—or in this case, coffee—but I wanted to make it up to you. So, here. A large peppermint mocha with almond milk. I asked the barista at the student union what you typically ordered, and luckily she knew. "

Nyssa sets the large paperboard cup down next to my stack of bleeding papers. The subtle quirk of her brows hint at her shock to see so much red.

For a moment that easily lasts five, maybe six, seconds, neither of us say a word. As the pause grows, Nyssa seems to second-guess her gesture. She frowns, then takes a step back, her slender fingers finding the strap of her leather bookbag.

"Sorry," she says. "This was dumb of me, right? And I interrupted your work. Why would you need me to replace the coffee? I didn't mean to make things awkward?—"

"No," I answer hastily, "it's alright. Err… thank you. It's a, err, nice gesture. It is appreciated."

"It is?"

"Now I have no excuse to penalize you when I grade your paper."

Surprise flits across her features, her brows rising higher, her lips parting just slightly. She's regretting her decision to come by.

This olive branch that she's extended me.

I take pity on the girl. Even after the flub from yesterday and the challenge from earlier today.

Peering at her over the rim of my glasses, a vague grin quirking at the corners of my mouth, I say, "That was a joke, Miss Oliver. I'm usually not very good at making them, but most students take pity on me and laugh anyway."

That earns a smile out of her—a big, relieved one that lights up her face. It's the kind of smile the men her age would probably work desperately for. The kind of smile that comes alive before your eyes. That blooms like a flower would in spring.

And this hypothetical man expressing interest in her would feel his temperature rise and his nerves grow. He'd likely realize he was somehow even more hopelessly into her.

He would be coming under her spell, unable to help himself. He couldn't do a damn thing, nor would he want to…

"Um, Professor?"

"Hmmm, yes?" I snap out of my rambling thoughts.

Nyssa's puzzled, blinking at me. "I asked if you were interested in attending the downtown art festival this Sunday? All the school faculty is invited."

"Right," I murmur, suddenly mindful of how warm it is in the room. Of the funny knot in my stomach. "I don't attend those types of gatherings. My time is my time."

"Oh," she says, then nibbles at her bottom lip almost to the point of distraction. She hesitates a second longer, hugging her book to her chest, and then digs around in her bag for something. A flyer that she slides onto my desk. "Well, just in case you change your mind. Here's one of the flyers we've been putting up around campus. Over fifty students will be showcasing their work. Um, including me. But I understand if you can't make it."

I glance at the flyer that's covered in flowery graphic art design worthy of Canva and produce a hum from my throat.

The door on the opposite side of the room suddenly opens.

Both of us look up like we're in the middle of committing a heinous crime.

The big, meaty oaf I recognize as Samson Wicker stands in the doorway. He's clutching that damn rugby ball and wearing the letterman jacket he's so proud of .

"Hey, babe, there you are. Looked everywhere for you. Thought you wanted to meet up after class?"

Nyssa seems caught between finishing our exchange and addressing Wicker. Her gaze pans from me to the large oaf, her face alight with surprise before she decides.

"Enjoy the coffee, Professor," she murmurs. "Hope to see you at the art festival."

Then she's hitching her bookbag higher onto her shoulder and rushing toward the door. Wicker grins proudly when she meets him where he is and he gets to curl a possessive arm around her waist.

Never mind that twenty-four hours ago he was loudly boasting in the student union about bedding her…

I watch unblinkingly, wordlessly, almost fixed into a trance.

I'm staring so long that the door thuds shut. So long that I don't realize my red pen has veered off the page… and begun to mark up the wooden surface of my desk.

Damn it.

I toss my pen away and clench the art flyer Miss Oliver has left behind. Taking aim to hurl it at my trashcan, I have a last second change of heart. The crumpled piece of paper gets straightened out as best as it can, then goes in my satchel.

Maybe…