Free When You're Ready by Britni Danielle

laughed! —with the person on the line. I tried not to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but become increasingly pissed as she droned on about heading up to Napa to go wine tasting like I wasn’t sitting right in front of her waiting to be seen.
    I knew Professor St. James was arrogant, but as I waited to talk to her about my paper I realized she was also an egomaniac who got off on instilling fear in her students, cutting down the stupid ones who dared to question her point of view. I’d made that mistake once. It was the second week of class and we were discussing the role of women in rap music. Professor St. James, an admitted jazz buff, argued that hip-hop was a hostile space for women because rappers despised them. I naïvely suggested her position wasn’t quite true, citing women like Nicki Minaj, Lauryn Hill, Iggy Azalea, and Queen Latifah as evidence. But Professor St. James disregarded my argument as “petty” and “narrow-minded” and advised me to consult her book before opening my mouth again. Lesson learned.
    I checked the clock that hung on the wall above her head and my stomach tightened; five minutes had already gone by. And there was no telling how long she would be on the phone, or how long our conversation would last. One thing was clear, however; I had about 20 minutes before I needed to dash out of her office and meet Scout if I had any chance of getting to work on time.
    The more Professor St. James talked, and laughed , the more incensed I became. I had already explained that I had to be at work at six p.m., so she knew she was wasting my time, but obviously she didn’t care.
    I stared at Professor St. James trying to bore a hole in her head that would either kill her or dismantle the bitchy part of her brain. I sucked my teeth and wondered what world she lived in where getting to work on time was a whim, and a phone call with a friend was not.
    More minutes ticked by and I’d had just about enough of Professor St. James’ foolishness. I needed to know what was wrong with my essay so I could fix it, but she was pushing it. If she didn’t get off the phone within the next few minutes, I’d be forced to leave. Losing my scholarship would be freaking heartbreaking, but being unemployed and homeless was out of the question.
    I watched the hand on the clock slide to five-fifteen and decided to gather whatever gumption I had and walk out the door. I stood to leave, but was by stopped Professor St. James’ trademark sneer.
    “Where do you think you’re going Ms. Chambers?” she asked, her face contorting into a disgusted mask. Apparently, she’d missed the last 15 minutes I’d spent waiting for her to wrap up her personal call. I guess she was too caught up in her weekend plans to care.
    “I was hoping we could discuss my essay, but I have to head out. I have to be at work soon.”
    “Sit,” Professor St. James commanded, and I returned to the seat.
    “Perhaps we can schedule another time to meet? I have to be at work at six, and if I don’t leave soon I won’t make it on time.”
    She seemed to consider my words, but quickly dismissed them. “We make time for what’s important, Ms. Chambers. Is passing my class important to you?”
    “Yes, of course. It’s just that if I don’t get to work on time my boss—“
    Professor St. James held up her palm, halting me like a crossing guard. “Your paper was unfocused, underdeveloped, and wholly disappointing. I had such high hopes for you, but it seems like you’re not cut out for this caliber of work.”
    I inhaled sharply at the venom she hurled at me. “I...I don’t know what to say, Professor St. James. I spent weeks on that paper and I thought it was pretty good.”
    She let out a harsh, throaty chuckle. “Good? You thought this…this…amateur attempt at scholarship was good?”
    Professor St. James tossed my paper in the trash as her entire body rocked with laughter. I wanted to slap her, or throw up, or cry. I could feel the