The gazes began to patter onto her face like soft April rain; one, and yet another, and there's another. They were warm and friendly; she did not mind - they seemed innocent. Then one boy let out a snicker, quietly and choked-off, sounding like stifled prurience. That annoyed her. The gazes continued, onto the Professor and the Priest; now they seemed to have turned cold, unseasonable. She spoke more with the Priest, appearing absent-minded; she was toying with her iPhone as she spoke.
Abruptly, she stood and told the Priest,
I must go and prepare for class.
In pasing the table, she stopped, and looked at the red-faced boy. He was smiling wickedly, as though holding a small and dirty secret behind his lips.
Mr. Tromblay, she said.
I see that you are preparing to come to class in a half-hour; refreshed, relaxed, and of course completely prepared.
He jerked up at the call of his name; his eyes widened. The class was a hundred people, not small; and this was only the second week. He was not clever enough to realize she was scanning for his photograph on the roster of the iPhone shortly before she visited. He thought; several thought she was witchy. She did not correct him. Witchy, indeed.
As she walked past, the table stirred in discomfort. A few steps further, they lit out like a frightened flock of pigeons chased by a terrier. Dirty little minds, she thought; dirty little minds. Ah, we're early on still in the coursework. She did not look back at the Priest.
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