She’s new to Briar University, and she’s the kind of prof who wants you to make connections and “engage” with the material. Luckily (and yep, that’s total sarcasm) Pamela Tolbert stepped in to take over Lane’s class. I heard his cleaning lady found him on the bathroom floor-naked. The prof who used to teach it handed out brainless multiple choice tests and a final “exam” consisting of a personal essay that posed a moral dilemma and asked how you’d react to it.īut two weeks before the semester started, Professor Lane dropped dead from a heart attack.
Philosophical Ethics was supposed to be a breeze.
All I did was scribble down a never-ending stream of bullshit to try to fill up the booklet. And I’d be lying if I said the big red A! circled on top of my midterm hadn’t come as a complete shock. Surprise, surprise, seventy percent of the class got a C-plus or lower on the midterm. In the five years since the rape, my heart has pounded for only two guys.Īt the podium in the lecture hall, Professor Tolbert delivers what I’ve come to refer to as the Disappointment Speech. He’s wearing a baseball cap today, but I know what’s beneath it: thick dark hair, the kind that looks silky to the touch and makes you want to run your fingers through it.
Though I should probably come up with another adjective-my male friends insist that men don’t like being called beautiful.īut holy hell, there’s no other way to describe his rugged features and soulful brown eyes. For the millionth time in forty-five minutes, I sneak a peek in Justin Kohl’s direction, and he’s so beautiful it makes my throat close up.
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