4. Discipline, part 2
Part 2 of Discipline.
I'm feeling more than a little wary as I follow behind Ms Lacroix, our shoes making crunching noises through the snow as we cross the campus to where her office is in the Social Sciences building.
I've not had much great experiences when it comes to teachers or figures of authority and offices. Usually when I get called in, it's cause I've done something right round naughty that warrants a dressing down.
Have I done anything naughty lately? I try to recall as I press a finger to my chin. No, I don't reckon that I have.. unless… unless this is about how I'd dropped the clanger earlier.
My cheeks heat up at the recollection.
I wonder if it's possible Ms Lacroix had noticed my shameful ogling all through that last class (or worse, all through her previous classes). Maybe I hadn't been as discreet as I'd thought. Maybe she could jolly well tell I'd been fantasizing about her when those goddawful moans cracked through my lips, that's why she wants to see me now in private, to lecture me on how inappropriate my behavior is, how uncomfortable I make her feel—at this point, my brain does the usual thing where it goes into hyperdrive and I start getting buffeted left-right-centre by all sorts of anxiety, like how Ms Lacroix might go so far as to file a harassment complaint against me.
Buggery fuckery. If that does happen, there's a mighty good chance I'll drop out of uni entirely, probably change my last name from Oxton to Smith or some sort and scoot right round to Northern Ireland on a one-way plane. Ok, maybe that's a lil extreme, but I'll definitely be forced to drop her class and then after go bury my head in some secluded sandbox right where no one will ever find me…
"Ahem."
The sound of delicate throat clearing snaps me out of my haze. Startled, I look up to find that we are already inside the faculty wing of the SS building, with Ms Lacroix holding a door open in front of me.
She's got this odd pinch to her face as I stand there, blinking up at her for a full minute, before realizing she's actually holding the door open for me, waiting for me to enter her office.
Cripes!
I mumble a quick apology before scuttering past her into the room, my feet nearly tripping over themselves in the haste.
This is the first time I've actually been in here, and the first thing I notice is how bloody parky her room is. Which is odd, cause I can see she's got her windows drawn tight against the stiles and I can hear the low hum of her radiator working to churn out heat.
Ms Lacroix doesn't seem all that fazed by the cold—almost like she's adapted to it—but I'm legit standing there with my teeth chattering and my body shivering inside my bomber jacket wondering why the wonk it feels much toastier outdoors.
The office itself looks as cold as it feels. The space is distinctly devoid of warm tones and bright hues, and everything from the curtains to the couch to the carpet, to her artsy décor of miniature clay figurines twisted in elaborate dance poses (bloody hideous if you ask me) is of a structured grey-black-white coordination.
Not gonna lie, this place gives me a total bleakish vibe, and my level of dread only heightens when I spot the row of potted succulents sitting on Ms Lacroix's windowsill. All of them have droopy leaves that look so sun-starved, they are either already dead-brown or halfway in the midst of browning. I'm currently staring at them in confusion, trying to work out why they are even there at all and not someplace inside a bin.
"Oxton," Ms Lacroix addresses me and I instinctively click my heels together at the sound of her icy baritone. "Ma'am," I say, my hand flying up in a two-finger salute.
Luckily she's got her back towards me the whole time so she doesn't actually see this go down. "Take a seat by the table, please," she tells me over her shoulder as she closes the door with a click.
I'm about to comply, but my feet are all but nailed to the floor when I see her start to disrobe in front of me.
Ok. Really she's just taking off her winter coat, and I know there's not much erotic about that—but with the way Ms Lacroix is doing it? It manages to come across incredibly sensual.
My heartrate quickens by bout four paces as I watch Ms Lacroix slide one slender arm out from a coat sleeve. That same arm then starts to move up the side of her neck, caressing the length of it in this long, slow stroke up to her hair. Then, I watch as she starts rolling her head in this languid, circular manner, almost as if she's trying to stretch out all the kinks and knots of a really tiring day. After she's done all that stretching and caressing, her pale fingers glide over to her shoulder, rubbing along the edge of it before shrugging the other side of her coat off.
Her luscious frame, which I've spent the better part of class getting acquainted with, is fully exposed when the coat falls off—literally, the coat falls to the ground—the woolen fabric making a soft 'schloop' as it lands in a heap.
I've just… never seen anyone take off their coat like that before.
With both legs bent at the knees, Ms Lacroix's got one hand on the door and her back in a provocative arch as she slides down to the ground to pick her coat up by the collar. The fabric of her skirt all but strained against her hips as she stretches back up again, hanging her coat on the rack behind the door.
At this point my jaw is practically hanging off its hinges.
I'm still gaping at her when the woman spins around (because, what the hell was that earlier?!), and I ought to look away, but the first thing my treacherous eyes do is dip downwards.
It's only for the briefest moment—can't be too obvious with her facing me and all—but what I see in that instance nearly make my eyes pop.
Instead of two buttons shy of a downright inappropriate cleavage, Ms Lacroix's blouse is now just one button shy of it.
One!
I'm not messin'. I even low-key blinked back to her blouse again just to double check I'm not imagining things.
Nope. Two, four, six buttons. There used to be seven, and her cleavage is definitely more pronounced now. To the point where I can see the cups of her dark blue—lacy!—bra peeking out from underneath.
My brain just about explodes.
There's this unpleasant burn as my face turns sickly hot and a wet warmth starts making its way down my nostrils. Mortified, my hand flies up to touch it.
Not blood—I could faint from the relief. I don't think I've ever been this happy to see liquid snot before.
"Something the matter?"
My gaze snaps to Ms Lacroix's face. She's wearing her default half-scowl, so I suppose that can only mean everything's normal and she hasn't noticed me acting weird.
"Do you need a tissue?"
"No, no." I sniff, quickly wiping the snot away with the back of my hand.
Ms Lacroix sees this, her mouth pulls down in disgust, and I feel a bit of my heart chip away, as it is wont to do when beautiful women look at me like that.
"I'm fine. Just a small case of the winter sniffles is all." I say this with as much dignity as I can muster.
"I see," Ms Lacroix covers her own nose in a subtle movement, as if she's afraid she might contract whatever it is I'm afflicted with. Then with a click-clack of her heels, she walks over to her white, immaculate office table, settling down into her ergonomic chair before gesturing for me to do the same.
My feet obey this time and I sit.
"Now then," she says, steepling her perfectly manicured fingers before her—steepling them such that they now form a neat little triangle that frames her glaring cleavage with its popped off button and peeking bra. It's almost like she wants to draw attention to the fact and I literally have to bite down on my tongue just so I wouldn't do something stupid like point it out.
Is she doing this on purpose? A part of me can't help but wonder. But her face gives nothing away and all she's doing is just sitting there looking at me calmly.
So I tell myself I'm thinking too much. I'm thinking too much cause Ms Lacroix's got this rep of being a total professional, and my delusions must stem from some sick repressed fantasy of wanting her to toy with me.
Look, her button must have popped off by itself sometime during that short walk between the classroom and the faculty wing. These things happen, especially in wintertime when the cold makes everything contract and everything shrinks, and you have the fabric already straining tight from the exertion of holding together tw—
Shite! Don't go there, Lena!
I'm swallowing hard now, perspiration beading my forehead as I try to refocus my thoughts and my eyes at everything else but Ms Lacroix's cleavage.
Unblinkingly, I settle for staring up at the collection of books she's got lined up on the shelf behind her, going through the titles one by one. Then when my eyes inevitably start to water, I switch to glaring at one of the ugly, faceless figurines on her desk, one in the midst of executing a flawless pirouette.
"Oxton?—"
"—Oxton? Are you there?" Ms Lacroix's raised pitch comes through the flush.
"What's 'at?"
I've been so focused on tuning out Ms Lacroix's cleavage, it appears I've tuned her out altogether.
"I was talking about your term paper?"
"My term paper?" I repeat, slowly. "Why, is there something wrong with it?"
Then, more worriedly, I ask: "Is it cause I used comic sans instead of arial for the font? If it's about that, it was accidental and I'm super sorry. Also, I know I cited the biblio wrong at one point, is that what's the matter with it?"
Then: "Oh god, did I fail?"
Ms Lacroix raises a brow at the onslaught of questions.
"The paper, a comparison of regime-switching models, you wrote this, oui?"
"Yes. Yes, I did—wee wee." I don't know why I threw in the French, but it's too late to take it back, and now I've got my palms pressed atop my knees to keep my legs from shaking beneath the table.
Did Ms Lacroix just wince? It's really hard to tell.
"Right…" she draws out. "D'accord… as I was saying about your paper, I find your discussion on Markov switching versus logistic mixtures to be well-balanced. It's not often I get that with contrasts."
"What?"
"The econometrics analysis part you've included is also clear and insightful—which is what I like to see. All in all, I must say your paper is rather impressive. Above and beyond the standard I've set for class."
"What now?!" My eyes are about as wide as saucers.
"Why do you look so shocked?" Ms Lacroix asks, astute amber eyes narrowing as they bore into mine. "It's not plagiarized, is it?"
"No! Of course not!" I'm pretty affronted that she'll even insinuate. "I mean, it's just… I didn't think… y'know, I was just copping together whatever it was in my head at that time." Can't quite tell her I was buzzed on cider when I wrote it.
Ms Lacroix frowns, not looking too pleased with the careless answer.
"I apologize for asking," she says. "But I must admit, I found it curious how you were able to produce something of this caliber. For one, the models you've used are outside of second year material—"
"I do advanced reading for all my classes," I interject, my voice tinged with indignation. Lena Oxton is no cheater.
"I'm pleased to hear that. I like my students capable of independent study. But I was also going to say, you always look so lost and distracted in my class, I was beginning to wonder if any of my material was going in—"
I think Ms Lacroix would be scandalized if she knew just how much of her material had gone in.
"—you know, Oxton, I don't make it a habit of poking into my students' affairs, but from what I noticed earlier, if you can keep your boyfriend out of your head during class, I think your performance just might see a rise. Your paper is excellent, but there's room for improvement."
Boyfriend? My brows furrow. "I don't have one," I blurt. "No boyfriends, so it's nothin' like that. Nothin' like that at all—"
Is it my imagination or did a small smirk flash the corner of Ms Lacroix's lips?
"—it's just… it's food. I was thinkin' bout food. Earlier in class, with that y'know... that um, incident, I was just thinkin' back bout this food video I saw on youtube, of people making crumpets and such, how they drizzle in the honey on the pastry a golden brown—mmm so good, 'just like that', y'know?"
Ms Lacroix leans back in her chair. She's wearing this look on her face like she isn't even going to dignify my blabber with a response. She doesn't.
"In any case," she says, smoothing right on over. "It so happens, all top-performing students in my class get an offer to be my research assistant for the coming break. Do you think you would be interested in something like that?"
Whoa. I did not expect this, did Ms Lacroix just ask me to be her RA?
It's a great academic honor, not to mention the privilege of spending a solid few weeks by Ms Lacroix's side—I brighten instantly at the thought.
The thought of spending actual time with Ms Lacroix as I help her out with her research. I figure she'll probably ask me to help her with a bunch of menial tasks too, like making her coffee, filing out her paperwork, heck, I'll even be happy to water her plants! Or give her one of those little massages when she's got her neck aching from all those long hours—
"Yes!" I sigh, happily. "Yes! Sign me up!" Then, noticing the look she's giving me, I cough: "I mean sure, I'm interested."
"Really? You don't even want to hear the full range of duties this job entails?"
"It's a prestigious position," I say in what I hope is my most sincere voice. "I'm just always looking for opportunities to broaden my academic horizons."
"Very well then," Ms Lacroix says, finally letting a smile crack across her lips. It's the first time I've actually seen her smile proper. But why does it look so sinister?
"Here's the applicant form for you to look over. Sign it, pass it to me the next time we meet." She hands me a crisp white sheet of paper. "I look forward to your assistance, Oxton."
