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Andy Sachs may have been the top of her class at Northwestern University, but that by no means meant that she never indulged herself in less-than-stellar behaviour.
And by college standards, throwing errant pebbles from the kerbside at the second story window of the liberal arts building hardly constituted the height of debauchery. Rather, she was simply intending to attract her boyfriend’s attention, being almost certain that it was Nate’s class going on in there.
Nate - she supposed she was relatively lucky to be in a relationship, but at the same time had become increasingly unable to shift a nagging suspicion that her fidelity might not be exactly replicated. He had seemed rather less interested in her physically as of late, and she doubted that any twenty-three year old man would be suffering from a total loss of libido.
This being the state of affairs which explained her subsequent actions.
After what must have been her fifth pebble which landed squarely in the middle of the upper pane with a light crack, she made out a shadow approaching the window. The day was sunny, and the mid-afternoon light bright, so she could have been forgiven for simply seeing a dark shirt (Nate had been wearing one that morning) and a silhouette with short hair and presuming the person who subsequently made to open the window was her boyfriend.
Such a presumption in mind underpinned her next move. If he wanted more risqué behaviour from her, or if that would reignite his interest in her, then that is what she would give him.
Hence why she had foregone a bra that day, and hence why she lifted up her shirt with both hands in one swift motion. Men liked flashing, didn’t they?
Whether or not men did, in fact, like flashing swiftly proved to be immaterial. For the individual gazing down at Andy - Andy, with thoroughly exposed breasts, squinting through the sunlight - in shock was not, in fact, that for whom such a sight was intended.
Nate Cooper it was not. No, it was quite possibly the worst possible candidate to be caught doing such a thing by.
The person looking down at her was none other than Professor Priestly.
***
It had only been her second day of her first year when she had first become aware of the existence of the woman nicknamed ‘The Dragon’. Or, alternatively, due to the Professor’s speciality in fashion and affinity for a particular brand of designer clothing, ‘The Devil In Prada.’ Either way, the ferocity and viciousness of the Dean was infamous. She taught a class with a 95% failure rate, seemed to deem it a failure if any less than five students (whether or not they were in her class) was reduced to tears on her account on any given day, and generally was the only member of staff known to send even the most hardened frat guys scrambling out of her way as she stalked down the corridor clad in furs and razor-sharp Louboutins.
Andy was terrified of her.
Andy also found herself for some undefined reason unable to look away whenever the woman came into view, something Doug had teased her mercilessly about for two years now, claiming hyperfixation with the Professor was the domain of men like him - “unless there’s something you’re not telling me about yourself, Andy?”
He had also taken to making infuriatingly frequent remarks about how he’d noticed the Dragon returning Andy’s stare - always behind her back, never to her face. Andy had roundly dismissed these comments as banter, as teasing, as nonsense.
***
But now, when Emily - Miranda’s irascible assistant, flame-haired and fiery- tempered - stormed across the lawn less than five minutes later, Andy wished and wished that Doug would turn out to be, in fact, wrong.
Because she was promptly notified that she was to report to the Dean’s office two hours later, not a minute late. And the stare she was no doubt to be subjected to would almost certainly be the least excruciating part of the imminent confrontation.
Andy wondered if she ought to start packing up her room.
***
It was a miracle she had not worn holes in the threadbare carpet, given the veritable miles she had spent the last hour pacing into it. This was both due to her impending doom, and because upon getting back to her room, she had discovered a pair of women’s underwear that was absolutely not her size under the mattress she shared with Nate.
As terrible as an idea it was sure to be, her discreetly-hidden tin of edibles languishing at the bottom of her sock drawer were calling her name. Surely just one wouldn’t hurt…
Hurt it did not, but instead had the desired calming effect. She decided to take a quick shower, brush her teeth, make maximum effort to look presentable ahead of the impending sure-to-be interrogation.
Unfortunately, unknown to her, she forgot to properly button her shirt.
***
Emily all but bared her teeth at her from her desk in the lobby outside Professor Priestly’s office.
“You’re for it. Get inside, then.”
With a trembling hand, Andy raised her hand to knock.
“Come in.”
That voice, low and icy. She shivered, and entered.
***
The office was exactly as she had expected it to be. All ornate wood panelling, large windows, meticulously curated furniture.
Yet Andy noticed none of this. Her focus was solely on the elegant silver-haired woman seated behind the beautiful oak desk, tapping one exquisitely manicured nail on the varnished wood.
“Your name?”
“Andy Sachs, Professor.”
“Incorrect.”
“I’m - I’m sorry?”
“You will address me as Miranda. And ‘Andy’ cannot possibly be your name.”
“Uh, it’s technically Andrea, Miranda. But no one calls me that.”
“They ought to. Now, Andrea. Take a seat.”
On wobbly, vaguely coltish legs, she obeyed, noticing with some discomfort that the seat placed her at a lower level than the imperious woman opposite.
“Explain.” It required no further elaboration. Andy squirmed, and bent forward to cross her arms across her ribs.
As she tried to think of words which would somehow absolve her of her actions, a slight intake of breath caught her attention. Glancing up, she realised the Professor’s - no, Miranda’s - eyes were no longer trained on her face.
Following the older woman’s stare, she gulped when she realised what had drawn her interest. The combination of her accidentally undone button and positioning of her forearms had placed an outright banquet of pale cleavage on display. And cleavage was charitable. It was more akin to half of her chest being out.
Just as she was about to frantically apologise and right herself, she noticed the very air itself seemed to have grown thicker. Slowly lifting her gaze to take in Miranda’s face, she noticed two intense spots of colour adorning the Professor’s cheekbones which had not been there before. And she didn’t think herself mistaken in observing the roughness with which Miranda swallowed, nor the notable dilation of her pupils.
Maybe it was the residual effects of the edible. Maybe it was the realisation that there was, in actuality, something about herself she had unconsciously known but not told Doug. Something that explained why her gaze had, for over two years now, been consistently drawn to the Professor who was now regarding her with an expression only describable as hungry.
Either way, she allowed the faintest hint of a smile to quirk up at the corner of her lip.
“It might,” she whispered, “be easier to explain by showing you instead.”
The swoop of silver titled to the side, those piercing blue eyes growing impossibly darker in scrutiny. When she spoke, her voice was at least twice as husky as it had been before.
“Acceptable.”
And Professor Priestly reached for the top button of her own shirt.
FIN