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  He’s not in the classroom yet when I slither inside.

  I have a cap on and strategically sit in the farthest seats. This isn’t the kind of crowd I usually teach to; the room is smaller. Somewhat more… intimate.

  The students don’t really pay attention to me at first, but they eventually notice my presence. They exchange curious glances, ask silent questions.

  I lift my hand, showing my palm. “Pretend I’m not here.”

  After a few seconds of initial shock from my request, they laugh and settle into their seats.

  I know what I said. I know I had mentally sworn I would never set foot in one of his classes. But the urge to see for myself what the fuss was all about and the little conversation with Jesse were stronger than my pride. Which is really unsettling.

  Although my best friend’s advice was to have a discussion. To exchange words, stories, and valuable lessons. Some would say that that’s an excellent idea. That Jesse is right and that Andrew could actually provide interesting suggestions on how to become a researcher, but to those, I would answer: no.

  There’s a limit between attending one of his classes undercover (barely concealed) and having a whole adult colloquy with the man who’s basically living the dream I’ve promised myself when I turned eleven.

  In academia, whether coming from art, science, physics, medicine, or sports, it’s only about opportunities. Openings. The right encounter at the right time. The friend of a friend of a friend who knows a position is cleared.

  The problem with that is: I need to socialize. Worse even, ask for help.

  But here’s the thing. I am physically incapable of exchanging more than five thousand words in an entire day. Out of sixteen thousand on average.

  The clock is ticking, and Andrew isn’t coming. The people whisper. Only a dozen of them decided to take the course, but it’s already a pretty decent amount. Usually, they have enough classes, too many even, and enrolling in another, moreover completely optional, won’t attract the masses. Plus, this is for the ones excited about the prospect of new knowledge.

  He’s fifteen minutes late. My brain remembers our late arrival at the meeting, too, and I conclude that being late is a habit of his.

  I don’t understand these people. What about setting an alarm even earlier than needed?

  “Sorry, students!” he exclaims as he finally walks through the door, twenty minutes after the start of his class. He deposits his belongings on the desk and immediately watches every single one of us while the weight of his body is resting on his fingers splayed over the wood. He sighs loudly first. “This isn’t the kind of image I want to show on our first session together. Because punctuality is a quality, right?” Everyone nods. I stay suspiciously still. “What are your thoughts about me, right now?”

  What is this? The dean said he professed before. He should know that is not how college works. Does he think students come, sit on their chairs with their notebooks and pens, and also participate actively in class? “Come on, people, synergology isn’t happening if we are not communicating.”

  I swallow a snort. This isn’t the time to get his attention. I already have to slump my shoulders so that my head doesn’t tower over the rest of the students. If I don’t keep it together, I’m just self-sabotaging.

  Finally, someone talks before he can designate. “Being late means either being unorganized or uninterested. It’s a lack of respect.”

  Andrew nods and focuses on the student for a second. He agrees, asks her name, and repeats it, as to imprint it on his brain. “Alright, Melody, that is usually what we say about someone late. But what do you think happened to me? Am I uninterested in doing my own lecture?”

  That is surely my way of teaching my own classes. The kids look at each other and deliberate for a minute. Andrew smiles. His eyes sparkle. He’s enjoying himself. “There could be many reasons to be late,” one student (Mark?) interrupts. He’s one of mine. Why would he enroll in this? “We shouldn’t be judging people that easily. You could have helped after witnessing an accident. Or have an emergency with your family. Or be living with a complicated condition that requires you to be meticulous and rigorous.”

  Even Andrew stops and gazes at him with pure pride. He’s impressed. His lips are partially open, and his smile stretches once again after a while. “Absolutely. You can’t simply know unless I tell you what happened. And for that reason, we shouldn’t project our own opinions on the lives of others; that is completely true. What we can do is: search for signs.”

  He turns around and starts writing on the board. I could leave. Right now. While he’s not watching. I could ultimately be sincere to what I’ve sworn to myself and quit before I can’t. Yet, something just blocks me in my chair. I want to see how he does it. I want to see how he’ll sell his beliefs. His pretended science.

  “We always share signs,” he continues. “Without even realizing it. We emit certain vibes. Some are more likely to reach for them, to read them. Some are indifferent.”

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  On the board is written: Synergology and how to read the signs. He drops the chalk and sits on the desk, his hands folded on his thigh. I only now realize how he’s dressed. On his way inside, he stripped out of a knitted cream-colored sweater to reveal a well-fitted white shirt. His trousers are between brown and black and look like they’re coming from a three-piece costume. Not slim, not oversized. Adjusted to his physique, although now that he’s seated, his muscles stretch the fabric.

  “Signs can be easy to remark but harder to interpret.” He points at the board. “There are no right answers. Only possibilities. I’ve studied art and how to express ourselves through non-verbal gestures. Synergology isn’t a science, per se. It isn’t recognized as such, so I have to put on a disclaimer here. Everything that we will see during my classes is to be taken cautiously. Interpretation means subjectivity.”

  He swipes his eyes around, and he stops on mine just a second too long. If it was intentional, I can’t tell. If he recognized me, I can’t tell either. He bends over to grab something in his brown leather briefcase. When he talks again, thick black glasses cover his nose. “Let’s start with the basics. Where can we search for signs?”

  His hands are encouraging, stretched towards the students. He’s higher now, on his desk. Hiding behind my cap isn’t going to last very long. One girl at the front lifts her hand, being the first one to actually wait before speaking. She would be thanked in my class. “Posture?” she says after Andrew interrogates her.

  “Posture, yes.” He gets up to write it on the board. “Posture is a great sign.” His handwriting is scholarly. Fluid. Polished. “Usually, the front row is composed of involved, straight-A students. Their backs are stretched, sometimes resting on the backrest. They have their pen in their hands, either books or laptops in front of them. They are actively present. Their attitude and posture transpire interest, enthusiasm, sincerity.”

  He lets his word sink in among his class. My eyes roam over them. Some take notes, some have their attention focused on Andrew. “And then we have that one student at the back of the room, arms crossed, nothing on the table. Either a cap or a hood on. A student who makes both himself and the professor wonder what purpose he has, being here.”

  My blood leaves my face.

  He’s talking about me, and I know it. He knows I know it. Everyone knows it because everyone stares. And I have two possibilities.

  I continue pretending I’m a student and dive full force into denying both my identity and my reasons for being here. Or I take the cap off and reveal myself to Andrew. But what would that tell him? What would he decipher from my presence? What bullshit will he tell his students?

  “It seems we have two Professor Millers in the room,” one of them tells, and the rest laugh, giggle, with a little bit of restraint because they know who I am and they know how I work. My famous reputation.

  I guess there’s only one thing to do now.

  I take the cap off, and my other hand dives into my hair. It automatically falls back like a curtain over my sides, reaching for my ears. My gaze meets Andrew’s, and he’s just smiling. His annoying and friendly smile. “You decided to come, after all.” He tells me like he’s not in the middle of a session. Like he’s not having only fifty-five minutes (well, more like twenty-five) today with them. He’s watching from his pedestal, and I offer him one of my smug rictuses too.

  “Just here to make sure none of them join your cult,” I answer. The students are amused by our exchange. Andrew doesn’t lose his composure, nor does he feel disturbed. He enjoys the moment. Like I’m his new plaything.

  He talks to his students, yet I can still feel his focus on me. “Crossing arms. How would you interpret that posture?”

  They answer quickly now. He’s caught their attention. They are invested. “He’s pensive. Reflecting.”

  “That’s interesting,” Andrew exclaims, pointing at the guy who talked. “We wouldn’t say that usually, what would we say?”

  “He’s angry,” another one suggests.

  Andrew nods. “Crossing arms means shutting ourselves off to the world.” He gestures to prove his point. “Our heart is locked. The outside is unwelcome.”

  “It’s just a comfortable position,” I shrug. Some students smile.

  “You made it comfortable, because you use it so much,” he articulates like I’m a six-year-old. Cocking his head to the side. With a condescending yet compassionate grin.

  I lean forward on my elbow. “Maybe I had to make it comfortable because it was easier to use it.” This inner and relentless urge to justify myself from his prying makes me use more words than usual.

  “Maybe. Many reasons could force someone to shut themselves out from the world.”

  “No, not going there.” I immediately tell him off. We hold each other’s gaze with much intensity; students wince in their chairs, making the wood groan. He dreams of knowing. He looks at me like I’m a problem to solve. Like I’m the greatest mystery of all time. I won’t give him the pleasure to learn about my insecurities and traumas. It would give him too much leverage.

  His head turns, and he watches somewhere close to the door, but my own eyes are glued on him. He lets the weight of the silence fill the room before he speaks.

  “Synergology isn’t psychology. We are not giving solutions, we are watchers. It’s all about being attentive to the hints that beg to be seen. I think Doctor Mlynár here is actually curious about the field, but doesn’t want people to make a big deal out of it. I think he’s full of resentment, and that resentment needs to be channeled somewhere. I could go deeper, longer about Alexej, but I’m not going to because this is none of our business. My point is,” he takes an inhale here, and my heart starts beating way too fast. “I can teach you to see the signs, and I can teach their subjective meanings. What I won’t teach you is pretending I have omniscient knowledge. I don’t. I’m making guesses. I used the words “think” and not “know” because I could be wrong, and being wrong is great. The more experience you have, the fewer mistakes you’ll commit. What I want to implement in you is the wonderful world of curiosity and consideration for the details.”

  He gives me a few seconds to breathe. Or he’s just letting the students write, I don’t know, because I’m not focused anymore.

  Should I linger on the way he pronounced my first name or my last name? Should I concentrate on the stress churning my stomach when I imagined anger taking its place?

  “For the next classes, we will continue on the non-verbal and slowly drift into the medical field. Most of you are also attending Doctor Mlynár’s classes, and I want to show you how both our passions can overlap. Thank you all for today.”

  The bell rings two seconds later, and this was the fastest twenty-five minutes of my life. The students close their books and laptops, pack away their stuff, but not in the hurry they usually leave a room with. They talk to themselves, exchange about what they’ve learned. Andrew stays, and I stay too, still over my chair, like my legs have decided to stop functioning.

  All of the others wait at the threshold when Melody speaks again. “So, why were you late this afternoon, Professor? Did you purposefully set this plan up to prove your point?”

  She throws her bag over her head to hang on her shoulder while Andrew swipes the chalkboard. He answers with a large smile. “Oh, no. I just napped for too long.”