I was failing his class, and he waited until the room was empty to say it like a favor.
“Miss Hart. Stay.”
The others filed out. Laptops. Laughter. Somebody’s perfume still hanging in the doorway. I stayed because the grade was already a wound and walking out would not close it. Professor Hale stacked the quizzes, slow, and did not look at me until the door had shut. Then he crossed and turned the lock.
The sound was small. My cunt heard it anyway.
“Fifty-eight,” he said. “Again. You need a seventy to keep the scholarship. I have already written the number I am willing to put in the book.” He held up the page. Pencil. An A, light, not inked. “It is not a gift. You can take the F and leave. Or you can bend over the desk and earn what I wrote. Dress stays on. You don’t clean up after. If
