either. My purpose is to show up, learn some shit, and rush out to my next class. Not make small talk with the other students, or even so much as fucking eye contact with one in particular. Because Carl is the type to make friends with everyone, and the last thing I want is to add yet more mutual friends to the already practically incestuous group we have back home.
I linger in front of the building, not heading inside until there are just under two minutes left before class, and everyone is already seated when I saunter in like I don’t have a care in the world.
“Mr. Green, take a seat. We’re just about to begin,” Zayne says, and I do. I don’t even glance Carl’s way.
Zayne begins his lecture and I mostly manage to keep my focus, taking notes when necessary.
He talks about old-school marketing —he actually uses this term in a blatant attempt to resonate with us undergrads—versus newer campaigns.
He lectures on and on, and I continue to take notes, even trying to participate once or twice. I’m sorely aware that at least part of my grade depends on it, and as arrogant and pretentious as I still find the guy, I know I need to do better than my one-word answers if I want credit for participation.
I do notice the dark-haired girl next to Carl staring at me, and it’s a little off-putting. The lacrosse team is practically worshipped at this school, and I expected to get a certain amount of attention as a starter, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. Our regular season doesn’t start until mid-winter, and while it’s true we’re also supposedly famous for our parties at the house, the first one isn’t even until this weekend.
I catch the brunette staring again, and she blushes and returns her attention to Zayne, who’s still talking. But he only seems to make her blush deepen. I want to roll my eyes. Instead I fix them on my iPad, and try to keep my interest in the lecture. I can participate next week.
“…and the question a lot of these companies grapple with is the farthest reach versus the fastest reach.”
“What’s the difference?” some guy asks.
“Indeed,” Zayne says. “What is the difference? Does it pay to reach a greater audience more slowly, or a smaller, perhaps more targeted audience, more quickly?”
And then I hear her soft, familiar voice. “More targeted,” Carl murmurs, and all eyes turn to her.
“Elaborate…” Zayne encourages her, and she shrugs.
“Well, mediums like television and billboards are expensive and broad, right? You’re spending a ton of money, much of which is reaching people who will never buy your product. But things like social media campaigns can be really cheap. And you can reach people just based on friends liking or sharing, or whatever. I’m more likely to buy something my friend bought than someone random, right?”
“Well said, Carleigh,” Zayne praises, and smiles, and it makes my stomach roll. I’m Mr. Green, but she’s Carleigh .
He continues on about viral campaigns and how they don’t even need to feature an actual product to be effective, but I can’t stop thinking about the way he smiled at Carl. Suddenly I stop thinking of him as a professor trying to relate to his students, and I see him as something else. As a twenty-three-year-old good-looking guy whose eyes stray way too often to a hot-as-fuck eighteen-year-old girl. And the fact that she’s smart—that she continues to participate and make what he describes as keen observations —surely isn’t making her any less appealing to him.
This time I don’t rush out when Zayne dismisses us. Instead, I stay seated, watching intently as he looks at Carl just a second too long as she heads out the door.
* * *
Tonight we’re throwing the first party of the year at the lacrosse house, and I’m supposed to help set up, but I’m distracted as fuck. I keep picturing the way Zayne watched Carl’s ass as she left class yesterday; and whether it’s jealousy or
I linger in front of the building, not heading inside until there are just under two minutes left before class, and everyone is already seated when I saunter in like I don’t have a care in the world.
“Mr. Green, take a seat. We’re just about to begin,” Zayne says, and I do. I don’t even glance Carl’s way.
Zayne begins his lecture and I mostly manage to keep my focus, taking notes when necessary.
He talks about old-school marketing —he actually uses this term in a blatant attempt to resonate with us undergrads—versus newer campaigns.
He lectures on and on, and I continue to take notes, even trying to participate once or twice. I’m sorely aware that at least part of my grade depends on it, and as arrogant and pretentious as I still find the guy, I know I need to do better than my one-word answers if I want credit for participation.
I do notice the dark-haired girl next to Carl staring at me, and it’s a little off-putting. The lacrosse team is practically worshipped at this school, and I expected to get a certain amount of attention as a starter, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. Our regular season doesn’t start until mid-winter, and while it’s true we’re also supposedly famous for our parties at the house, the first one isn’t even until this weekend.
I catch the brunette staring again, and she blushes and returns her attention to Zayne, who’s still talking. But he only seems to make her blush deepen. I want to roll my eyes. Instead I fix them on my iPad, and try to keep my interest in the lecture. I can participate next week.
“…and the question a lot of these companies grapple with is the farthest reach versus the fastest reach.”
“What’s the difference?” some guy asks.
“Indeed,” Zayne says. “What is the difference? Does it pay to reach a greater audience more slowly, or a smaller, perhaps more targeted audience, more quickly?”
And then I hear her soft, familiar voice. “More targeted,” Carl murmurs, and all eyes turn to her.
“Elaborate…” Zayne encourages her, and she shrugs.
“Well, mediums like television and billboards are expensive and broad, right? You’re spending a ton of money, much of which is reaching people who will never buy your product. But things like social media campaigns can be really cheap. And you can reach people just based on friends liking or sharing, or whatever. I’m more likely to buy something my friend bought than someone random, right?”
“Well said, Carleigh,” Zayne praises, and smiles, and it makes my stomach roll. I’m Mr. Green, but she’s Carleigh .
He continues on about viral campaigns and how they don’t even need to feature an actual product to be effective, but I can’t stop thinking about the way he smiled at Carl. Suddenly I stop thinking of him as a professor trying to relate to his students, and I see him as something else. As a twenty-three-year-old good-looking guy whose eyes stray way too often to a hot-as-fuck eighteen-year-old girl. And the fact that she’s smart—that she continues to participate and make what he describes as keen observations —surely isn’t making her any less appealing to him.
This time I don’t rush out when Zayne dismisses us. Instead, I stay seated, watching intently as he looks at Carl just a second too long as she heads out the door.
* * *
Tonight we’re throwing the first party of the year at the lacrosse house, and I’m supposed to help set up, but I’m distracted as fuck. I keep picturing the way Zayne watched Carl’s ass as she left class yesterday; and whether it’s jealousy or
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