Grand Avenue by Joy Fielding Page B

of his head. “Class dismissed.”
    There was some laughter along with some embarrassed tittering as the students gathered their belongings together and exited the room. Only Susan remained in her seat, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe.
    “Problems, Mrs. Norman?” Professor Currier asked.
    Susan shook her head, her gaze rooted to the floor. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, as if she’d been slapped. What was the matter with her? Why didn’t she just get up and leave?
    “Is something the matter?” Ian Currier pressed.
    Slowly Susan lifted her eyes from her feet, floating them toward the professor’s general vicinity, although she was careful not to look at him directly. If she looked at him, she might say something she’d regret. And he was her professor after all, the man who decided whether or not she passed her course, achieved her much coveted degree.
    “Susan?”
    So now her name was a question in itself, Susan thought, wanting to run away and hide, as she had that afternoon on the beach when confronted by her brother’s cruel taunts. Avoidance—her first reaction to any kind of unpleasantry. Followed by the conciliatory gesture. Anger was a tremendous waste of energy. Most problems could be solved with a few soft, well-chosen words. Besides, what exactly was she so upset about anyway? An innocent remark, obviously intended as a joke, that no one took seriously, that no one else in the class seemed the least offended by. She was making a mountain out of the proverbial molehill, probably because she was still smarting from Professor Currier’s earlier comment about her weight, although she’d undoubtedly misinterpreted that one as well. She was being much too sensitive. Probably because she was so tired. She really needed to catch up on her sleep.
    Susan heard movement, looked toward the podium only to find it abandoned, and Professor Currier walking toward the door. Leave well enough alone, she thought. “Professor Currier,” she said.
    Ian Currier stopped at the sound of his name and swiveled toward Susan, so that by the time she reached his side, he was facing her head-on. “I thought there might be something on your mind,” he said, waiting.
    He’s not that much older than I am, Susan realized, pushing her hair behind her ears, trying to decide what she wanted to say. “I thought that was a rather inappropriate comment,” she began, thinking,
Damn, too general, way too vague
.
    “Which one was that?” he asked, as she’d known he would. He was smiling, his dark eyes challenging hers.
    “What you said about women.”
    “Women?”
    “Women with large breasts.”
    “Ah, yes, women with large breasts,” he repeated, his lips twitching in obvious amusement at her discomfort.
    “I didn’t think it was appropriate.”
    “You don’t think women with large breasts are appropriate?”
    He’s playing with me, Susan thought, growing bolder, refusing to back down. “I didn’t think your comment about automatically giving passing grades to women with large breasts was appropriate.”
    He nodded, his gaze lowering to the front of her white turtleneck sweater. “I don’t see where you have anything to worry about, Mrs. Norman. Your chest appears more than ample to secure a passing grade.”His smile tugged at his cheeks, widening, showing teeth.
    Like a snarling dog, Susan thought. Instinctively, she took a step back.
    “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said.
    “I won’t excuse you.” The words were out of Susan’s mouth before she had time to consider them.
    “What?”
    “I won’t excuse you. I think your comments are out of line. I think you owe the class—and me—an apology.”
    “I think you’re the one who’s out of line here, Mrs. Norman,” he said quickly, biting off her name and spitting it into the space between them. “Now I know it’s the eighties, and women’s lib has seized control of common sense, but really, Susan, have you no sense of humor?”
    “I