First Day Jitters

Students shuffled into the class, some with confidence, taking a seat without any seemingly difficult decision making. Elizabeth is far from it. She hovers near the doorway, stepping aside to allow others into the room. Her eyes scan the room, starting at the back row, crossing it off her list of potential seats as it quickly fills up. She’s left to choose between the middle two, she doesn’t dare to choose the front, she’s already going to stand out enough as the oldest student, she doesn’t desire to be seen as a kiss up. A light tap on her shoulder draws her out of her thoughts, turning her head enough to see shining eyes and a bright painted pink smile, ones she could only imagine a freshman could muster at this early hour, probably fueled by sheer willpower, excitement, and maybe a newly found coffee addiction. “Hi, you must be Professor Tracey, my name is Lily-” she says, her words so rushed they’re barely understandable.

Elizabeth chuckles, plastering a large smile on her face, despite the nerves threatening to make her spill her breakfast in front of the entire room. “You’ve got great enthusiasm, but I’m not the teacher,” she says, the younger woman’s face dropping. “Elizabeth,” she offers along with her hand. Lily hesitantly accepts it, her embarrassment clearly written across her features, from her darting eyes to the hint of red pushing its way through her makeup. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re not gonna be the only one to think I’m a teacher, but I’m just a student like you, give or take a few years.”

Lily shuffles away, literally dragging her feet as she ascends the stairs, dropping into a seat in the middle of the third row. Elizabeth silently laughs to herself, completely understanding the younger woman’s embarrassment, a feeling she’s felt so many times in her life. Elizabeth shakes the thought from her head, moving further into the small lecture hall, selecting the empty seat at the end of the second row. She removes her glasses, setting the red frames on the desk attachment of the chair, the strong lens distorting the words on the paper beneath them.

Minutes start passing, the class increasingly growing louder with nerves and excitement, practically buzzing with whispers of going home early, all ending with a blur of movement and a slam of the heavy door. A man dark in every aspect, at least through Elizabeth’s poor eyesight, her glasses unceremoniously falling to the ground as she scrambles to grab them. She bends over at the waist, reaching blindly under the chair for the glasses, muttering a curse a moment before her fingers wrap around the frame. “Apologies for being late, Professor Tracey has had a family emergency so I will be taking over her classes for the time being,” the man at the front of the room says. Elizabeth tightens her grip on her glasses, raising up and placing them on her face, her eyes adjusting to being able to clearly see again. “You may call me Professor, holy shit,” he says, his face dropping at the sight of a face he hadn’t thought about in so many years, now sitting in a chair a few feet from him. Elizabeth does the same, blinking rapidly a few times, making sure she’s clear in what she sees. She forces herself to stop, allowing her eyes and brain to fully process the man at the front of the class, his face older than she could’ve ever imagined, but handsome in that distinguished sort of way that only tenured professors seem to have a lock on. The class hesitates, a single student in the back row barking out a laugh, suddenly choking on their own air. The professor stands up straighter, absentmindedly adjusting his patterned tie, his eyes scanning the room before jumping back to Elizabeth. “I’m sorry, bad joke, right letters, wrong words,” he says, plastering a smile on. “My name is Harold Stronger and you may call me any appropriate variation of it or simply professor. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Harold scans the room again, more thoroughly this time, his eyes still moving back to Elizabeth every few seconds, her eyes wide behind her glasses. Harold looks down at the desk, picking up the syllabus the office aid had promised would be waiting for him. “This is Modern Business 1, and as I mentioned, I will be stepping in for Professor Tracey. Why don’t we start with why all of you are here,” he says, setting the paper back down, knowing that no one is ever actually prepared for a lesson on the first class of the semester. No one raises their hand or stands, offering to go, he can’t blame them, in his freshman year, he wouldn’t have dared to be first either. “I’ll start, I have been teaching for thirty two years, anything from your basic math course to advanced mathematical physics, if it involves numbers, it’s my game,” he says, “back row, we’ll start with you, right corner.”

The student in the hot seat begrudgingly stands, sticking his hands into the pockets of his dangerously low jeans, more than just the waistband of his plaid boxers sticking out. He mumbles out an excuse of needing to fill a course requirement in order to graduate on time, sinking back into his seat to nurse on the energy drink he deems an adequate breakfast. After each passing students’ turns, Harold frustration grows increasingly at the lack of energy and motivation, most offering a similar answer to the first student, only one out of the twenty mentioning anything related to even being vaguely interested in running their own business one day. His eyes follow Elizabeth as she stands up, self consciously readjusting her glasses.

“I’ve had my own business for years, it started out as a hobby, something to do once my daughter started school, but I’m looking to expand into a retail front, a food truck specifically,” she states, her eyes avoiding his. As soon as the last syllable leaves her mouth, she’s back in her seat, her hands intertwined in her lap. The remainder of the class lists off vaguely similar reasons to their peers, shocking for people willing to sit in the front row. 

Harold circles around to the front of the desk, leaning back until the backs of his thighs press into the solid metal frame. “A lot of you stated that you’re here only because you have to be, which I understand, this is a freshman level course, a base requirement to move forward, but my main goal is that over the time we spend together this semester, every single one you will have learned one solid thing that you can apply to wherever life takes you,” he sighs, his spirit dropping at the tired and bored looks on most of the faces. After thirty two years he should be used to it, but it still kills a little piece of his soul every time a student seems they would rather be quite literally anywhere but in his class. “I think that’s all we’re going to get done today, so everyone’s free to leave, but don’t forget to take your syllabus with you, it might just save your grade for this course.” 

All the students at least have the respect to wait until he turns his back to start filing out. He sits down in the cush chair, looking at Elizabeth and raising his eyebrows in a silent request for her to stay behind. She nods, just slight enough for him to see. The remaining students trickle out as Elizabeth takes her time steadying her heart while packing up her stuff, a glance over her shoulder confirming that just the two of them remain.

“Beth,” he greets, standing up and moving around the table, wrapping his arms around her.

She tenses at his touch, then immediately softening, recognizing the warmth he offers despite all the years since she’d last been on the receiving end of it “Harold,” she murmurs, raising her arms to return the gesture.

He leans back, a large grin taking over the lower half of his face, the skin on the sides creasing, “Harold?”

“Yeah, that sounds weird, I hated how it felt coming out of my mouth,” she laughs, stepping back and allowing him to lean back against the table, putting them eye to eye. “I think I’m just gonna have to not call you anything,” she says. He inquisitively raises his eyebrows, a face she would later come to recognize from class anytime a student thought they’d be able to get away without explaining their answer. She teeters on her heels, a habit she thought she had long outgrown, a silly nervous habit from her younger days, but now a woman of more than fifty, she can’t blame it on being a school girl, because while she may be back in school, she’s far from a girl. “Professor is too formal and Harry is too…”

“Personal?” he questions, leaning forward, his smile, one that she could only compare to a predator cornering it’s prey, that only solidifies her answer.

“Dangerous,” she corrects, knowing their past relationship is surely a violation of a rule, whether a written one from the school’s handbook or an unspoken one from the universe itself.

Harold leans back, his lips growing into a smug smile. “What about sir?”

She barks out a laugh, his bold question shocking her. “Don’t go there,” she warns.