Three things that I am dying to say to this absolute imbecile of a professor:

Number 1: Stop using stupid flowery words! To be fair, this is a literature class, but come on, how do you use ‘obsequious’ twelve times in one lecture? Side note: Who even says ‘obsequious’ anymore without being sarcastic?

Number 2: You’re not Eminem! I swear to god, if I see him grip his microphone to the side again like he’s pulling up with an Uzi, I’ll blow my own brains out.

Number 3: You can call on a girl to read for a change! I’m not sure you know this, but us woman folk are pretty comfortable speaking to an audience, thank you very much.

I stopped scribbling the list down on the paper and brought myself back into the auditorium. The professor was finishing up his speech on Shakespeare, ‘Othello’s hamartia lies in his belief that he is uncouth, old, and poorly spoken, and therefore worthy of Desdemona’s love.’

It would be fine if he wasn’t still holding that microphone to the side, as if he was about to drop the hottest rhyme this side of Sydney.

I heard a giggle and noticed the ginger haired girl next to me reading my paper. We smirked at each other. She mouthed the words, throw it at him.

‘No way!’ I hushed, shaking my head.

But before I could do anything, she scrunched up the paper and pegged it at him. Time slowed down. Everyone in the hall watched the paper heading straight for his head. 

I’ll be honest, it was a sight to see. The arc, the ball whistling through the air, everything about that throw was majestic — and magnetic. Because, yep, you guessed it; it hit him directly in the face.

I slumped into my chair, trying to conjure some magic of my own to disappear. I heard paper scrunching. Crap! He was definitely reading it.

‘Who wrote this?’ he called out.

The ginger haired girl burst into laughter. It echoed around the lecture hall. Everyone’s eyes were on us — suspicious much? 

‘Did you write this?’ the professor called out to her.

She shook her head and pointed at me.

I hoped the professor would turn that microphone into an actual Uzi and just kill me right then.

‘You bitch!’ I hissed at the girl.

‘Jenna? Did you write this?’ the professor called out to me.

There was no getting out of it. Mum didn’t raise no coward. I closed my eyes and nodded my head, hoping for a swift execution. 

It didn’t come. 

I looked out and met his eyes. He was smiling. Could you believe it?

He lifted the microphone to his mouth and cocked it to the side, gangsta style, ‘Yo Jenna, can you drop the next verse of Iago’s soliloquy for me, please?’

Before I could answer, he broke into a rap, ‘Sorry, I can’t contain my lyrical vocabulary. I hope that soliloquy’s not too flowery. You call me an imbecile, but pretty soon, you’ll be bringing me a dowry.’

Mic drop.