"Could you repeat the question?"
Icy fingers of dread prickled up my arms the moment the words left my lips and headed towards Professor Z. Here's the thing about Professor Z: He doesn't like repeating himself. After only two years at my small liberal arts college, he'd gained a reputation: Professor Z wouldn't repeat himself, didn't give third chances, and didn't honor office hours unless explicitly asked for help. Through the grapevine, I'd heard about him. He'd begrudgingly accepted this position as a favor to his sister, who fought a losing battle with lung cancer at our local hospital. Both siblings were only a minute apart in age but pursued the same passion: mathematics. But unlike his sister who chose to teach math at a small liberal arts college, Professor Z strived to only associate himself with the elite: Harvard undergrad, Oxford PhD, then worked at some fancy oil and gas firm in Switzerland until he found out his sister was ill. And all she wanted during her intense chemotherapy sessions was for her brother to cover her classes, so here he was.
After a few seconds of blankly staring at whoever dared ask that question (me), his gaze slid to the seat beside mine. "Mr. Chris, your answer?"
"Well, there are obviously alternative answers. The derivatives of inverse sine and inverse cosine are similar."
Without acknowledging his answer as correct or incorrect, he continued his lesson. That was another thing about Professor Z: he never offered feedback. He wanted students to come prepared or to bring questions. Showing up unprepared wasn't an option, and he never coddled his students. With any other professor so demanding and sometimes harsh, the normal reaction would be to drop the class or report his unorthodox teaching methods to the department. But for me, dropping his class was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted to fuck him with an intensity that distracted me throughout class.
