Professor Rothman is extremely handsome. He’s almost six feet tall and has sandy-blond hair. And he’s in his mid-thirties, tops.

      Who knew professors could look like this?

      For the first time, all the women in the class are sitting in the front two rows.

      Rothman lifts his muscled arm and writes GDP = C+I+ (X-M)+G on the blackboard. I copy the new equation.

      “Does anyone know what the letters represent?” he asks.

      I raise my hand. “The C signifies consumer goods. The I signifies investment goods. The…” Think! Think! I know this! “The X-M signifies exports minus imports and the G signifies government spending.”

      “Well done,” he says, and smiles. Wow. That’s what I want. A gorgeous, intelligent man. A man who knows his numbers. I look away and continue taking notes. He’s talking too fast to stop. I’ve already written eleven pages, and my hand is starting to hurt. I can’t believe he’s teaching so much in the first class.

      The bell rings, and I finish the sentence. I insert my notes into the second section of my Tuesday/Thursday binder, then hole-punch and add the sheets he handed out at the beginning of class. I hope I didn’t miss anything.

      “Professor Rothman?” I ask, waving my hand toward him, and a smile lights up his face.

      “You can call me Jon,” he says, and then looks at the nameplate that’s still on my desk. “Miss Roth.”

      “I’m Layla,” I reply. He’s so approachable! “Will videotapes of your lectures be available at the library?”

      “Yes, the videotapes will be available.” He rubs the back of his arm against his chin. “And I would also like to tell you that your contribution today was excellent.”

      Yes! “Thanks, sir. I mean, Jon. I’ve always enjoyed working with unknown variables.”

      “I’m looking forward to having you in my class this year.” He continues to hold my gaze. All right. Time to look away. Why isn’t he looking away? I smile, look down, close my binder, zip up the rolling bag I bought so I wouldn’t strain my back and roll it down the hall.

      What was up with that? Why is the professor flirting with me? That is so inappropriate.

      Integrative Communications is the only class I have that’s not in room 103. IC is in room 207, and I’m looking forward to the change of scenery.

      I walk around the podium, sit myself down in the front row and arrange a new area in my binder. The class slowly fills up behind me. A few minutes later, a woman with frizzy red hair and a big smile walks in clapping her hands.

      “Hello, everyone, hello,” she says as people bustle to their seats. She cups her ear with her hand. “Sorry? I didn’t hear you.” No one speaks. “That’s your cue to say hello back.”

      “Hello,” we mumble.

      “Shy ones, are you? This is no place for shyness! One of the most vital aspects to speaking in public is confidence. Let me hear that confidence!”

      “Hello!” we say. My hello is especially loud.

      “Excellent! I can see I am going to have a wonderful time with you!” She smiles down at me and I smile back.

      “My name is Cindy Swiley,” she says, and presses a button on her laptop. The title, Professor Cindy Swiley, flashes in red across the screen. “But you can all call me Cindy.” Professor and Swiley fade away, leaving a gradually expanding Cindy. “I’ll be teaching you Integrative Communications for the next six weeks.” New slide appears. “In this class, you will learn how to present. How to handle questions. How to speak without notes. You will be giving two presentations, one halfway through the class and one as your final exam. Your midterm will be videotaped, and then reviewed and critiqued by me. But I’m sure you’ll all do fantastic!”

      I can’t wait! At twenty past four the bell rings. I pile my belongings together, then return to the computer terminal to check my e-mail.

      Dear Ms. Roth,

      Congratulations! You have been accepted to the Carry the Torch Committee. Please be in room 302 on the third floor of the Katz building on Friday at 9:00 a.m. for an informational briefing.

      Yes! I would pat myself on the back, but I still haven’t purchased more of those antibacterial wipes.

      4:30 p.m.

      kimmy buys her books

      I am wasting my day in a bookstore line. And it’s not even a fun bookstore. Where are the cappuccinos, the magazines, the scones?

      The LWBS bookstore is one long, windowless room, filled with textbooks, course-packs, and nebbish royal-blue sweatshirts that say LWBS in block red letters. As if I’d ever buy one. Maybe a baby tee, but that’s as much school spirit as I’ve got.

      There are seven people ahead of me. To add insult to injury, the line next to me is moving exponentially faster. Look at me, throwing around words like exponentially. What do I think I am, an MBA student?

      This place is busier than a gym at six o’clock. Not that I have a choice. I have cases to read by tomorrow. My heart pounds at the thought of the never-ending treadmill of homework. My fingers are about to break off from lugging these hundred-pound books. I’m holding one course-pack per class, plus an extra one for Strategy. Even IC has one, which I don’t understand. Why do I need photocopied case studies to help me learn to speak in public? I’m also lugging to the cash register the must-have B-school eighty-five-dollar calculator and seven textbooks. SEVEN. All hardcover. All in the region of a hundred dollars. Each. And they don’t even sell used copies so I can’t skimp on last year’s editions. What bookstore doesn’t sell used copies? What a waste. I won’t even be able to resell them next semester.

      True, my dad paid my tuition, but I’m using the money I’ve saved up over the last few years of working to pay for my books and living expenses. And my dad isn’t thrilled about his contribution. He wrote the check with a heavy hand and asked me repeatedly if I was sure this was what I wanted.

      I told him yes, even though I have no idea.

      I drop the books onto the floor to alleviate the cramp in my fingers and scan the room for Russ. Where is he? I hoped he’d be buying his books now, too. Not that I want to see him. I’m a tiny bit mortified that I’ve been throwing myself at him all week and he already has a girlfriend. He must think I’m a freak. Obviously a guy as gorgeous as him has a girlfriend.

      I avoided making eye contact with him for the remainder of the movie. In the car home, I decided that dodging the subject made me look like I cared, and obviously that wasn’t going to help my cause. So I acted like I loved Sharon. Hurray for Sharon. Maybe Sharon and I can be best buds. We’ll bake cookies and braid each other’s hair. “So when do we get to meet Sharon?” I asked from the front seat of Jamie’s ten-year-old Hyundai Excel, putting on my best girly voice, all high-pitched and full of fake cheer.

      “I don’t know,” Russ answered. “She lives in Toronto.”

      Toronto? Does it count if they’re not in the same country?

      I avoided him all day. I walked straight into Strategy and sat right in the front. Big mistake, since Professor Martin is psycho. Thinks he’s still in Vietnam. I tried the front row again for Economics and IC. Barely saw Russ until