Thread: English 2352 {DearestDarling & Dane Stalling}

Rosalie hadn't expected his response to be quite so biting, but rather than anger her, she found him intriguing. Professor Campbell was much younger than many of her professors, but his approach to teaching the class seemed much more rigid, unyielding... He had a script that he wanted to follow, and not deviate from, but she had pressed some sort of button that had made him do just that. Curious. She took his comments about roadkill and her backpack in stride and merely smirked at him, cat-like, as he awkwardly tried to get back. He had done nothing to dissuade her from speaking out in her usual manner. As he half-heartedly agreed to take a look at alternatives to the uninspired reading list, Rosalie immediately picked up a pen and her legal pad, jotting down what she thought she might suggest and hardly paying attention to the lecture. Why was it that so many professors refused to push boundaries in their classes? Why were the lessons always so basic, geared towards idiots like Jack Spalling instead of her? Her first year had been so dull that her grades had actually suffered a little for it, dropping her GPA down to 3.95, rather than her signature 4.0. This year she wouldn't allow that to happen, even if she had to spoon-fed her instructors what they should be teaching. She touched her small, pink tongue to the corner of her lips as she scribbled, her handwriting just as messy as her desk. Then he started in on examples of the theme of his lecture, and Rosalie couldn't help but exhale disappointedly at what he had chosen. The Matrix, really? Divergent? Was he trying to relate to his young audience, or could he really come up with nothing better? Was this Film Appreciation, or a proper English class? Her hand shot up, eager to share with him the first book on her list-- it would be perfect for this discussion-- but his eyes alighted on her and he shot her down, repeating that he would discuss it after class. After class? How would that benefit the dismal lecture he was giving now? Slowly, she lowered her hand again, her eyes narrowing as she snatched her pen up and began to write furiously, illegibly to anyone hoping to steal a peek at something more than just her cleavage. Time ticked by at a pace that had her tapping her heel against the floor, in hopes that it would make the seconds pass faster. As soon as he ended the lesson, nearly every other student poured out of the doors with the same eagerness that they might've if someone had pulled the fire alarm-- no one wanted to be present for whatever Rosalie had planned for after class, not when the tension between her and the professor had been thick enough to carve with a knife. Her pace was unhurried as she rose from her seat, pad of paper and pen in hand as she sauntered confidently against the room, closing the gap between them. Her tight black jeans hugged the swell of her hips as she walked, the front of them shredded so much that it was a wonder how they held together. With her heels, he had about a foot on her in height, but she was no less sure of herself for it. Luke... He hadn't seemed to mind the informal way she addressed him before. First, I want to apologize for the state of my backpack. I'm a scholarship student, but it doesn't cover everything... And the books for this class alone was enough to wipe out my budget. Her words were true, but her admission was geared more to rattle him, than as an actual apology. She looked down demurely at the floor as she let him absorb that, thick, mink lashes brushing her cheekbones. Now for my suggestions... I haven't read Fifty Shades of Grey I think most that are satisfied with their sex life wouldn't bother with it, as it's hardly erotic. No, I thought of something that should appeal to both of us. From what I've gathered, you like narratives about insecure men that blame all of their problems on the women in their lives, rather than admitting their own mediocrity. There was poison laced in her honeyed words, but if she was referencing her professor as well as Harry, she didn't let on. So let me suggest Lolita. Yes, Nabokov is technically Russian, and yes, he did get it published in France before he managed to in the United States, but he wrote it in English, and the whole novel is practically an ode to how much he loved America. As American as it could probably get. Her hands, delicate and fair, flowed as she talked. It would be a perfect novel to explore an unreliable narrator, the difference between his perception of Dolores and the actual girl herself, reality versus the twisted love story he thinks himself to be in... And it's much more intriguing a story than anything you've planned for us.