Steinberg had offered a generous selection of scholarships that had muted even his harshest critics. After much consternation, gossip, threats, and an endless round of meetings, the politicians and the citizens of New York had agreed that the school would attract out-of-state dollars that would be beneficial to the city of New York as well as the state.
Syeesha sat in the second row of the classroom and savored the lightheaded, euphoric feeling that engulfed her every evening she was in Professor Asher’s class. Why couldn’t he be a normal college professor? she’d often wondered. Most of the faculty at SLS sported frizzy gray hair—if they had any hair at all. They wore faded and wrinkled Dockers and lectured in a dry staccato that reminded Syeesha of sitting in a hot church as a child while the preacher urged the congregants to pray for Sister So and So’s speedy recovery, his voice proving more effective at inducing sleep than a mother humming a sweet lullaby in a rocking chair.
Professor Asher had the physique of a basketball player— tall, muscular, and lean. He wore his shirt unbuttoned just enough to glimpse his smooth, well-defined chest. Once, before the weather turned cool, he had worn a Polo shirt to class with sleeves short enough for Syeesha to spy a tiny bit of a tattoo on his left arm. That was enough to keep her wondering about him for the next few weeks. Had he been a rebel in his youth? Or was his tattoo nothing more than a middle-aged man’s vain attempt at staying trendy and bucking corporate culture?
“Syeesha?”
Her eyes were already on him. Now she brought them into focus and was surprised to see that he was speaking directly to her.
“Y-yeah?” she stammered.
“That question was directed at you,” Professor Asher said. He pushed up his metal-rimmed glasses. Her heart beat faster.
“Um . . .”
Thirty pairs of eyes looked at her, waiting expectantly.
What was the question?
“Yes?” He folded his arms across his chest, then ran his hand over his head, smoothing the waves.
Probably a habit he developed when he was thirteen and discovered a mirror and girls . . .
“Hishon versus King and . . . Spalding?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
He didn’t belong there. He belonged in the latest issue of GQ . Yet, there he stood, as pleasing to the eyes as a wrapped Christmas present, asking her a question that would surely result in embarrassment and laughter.
“Ms. Green. Are you certain that was the case we were just discussing?”
She hesitated then nodded, afraid that if she spoke again a quiver in her voice would make her infatuation transparent.
“And what exactly was the final decision in the case? Please.” He sat on the edge of his desk and let one leg dangle while the other rested on the floor. Black socks peaked out between his dark blue jeans and shiny, black loafers. “Enlighten the class since you seem to have the luxury of daydreaming through this part of the lecture.”
She cursed herself for wishing long ago that those dark, laser-sharp eyes of his would someday home in on her alone.
“The court ruled”—she scooted up in her seat to better master her breathing—“in favor of Elizabeth Hishon. She claimed that young associates were baited like rabbits to join the firm and the promise of partnership was dangled in front of them like a carrot. . . .”
Jeez! Why do I sound like a bad writer instead of a lawyer?
She cleared her throat and continued in what she surmised was a lawyerly tone. “When she was not invited into the partnership within the time frame that had been represented to her upon joining the firm, she filed a lawsuit for gender discrimination.” She looked at the other students in the class for their reaction. A few of them looked surprised that she knew the details of the case. No one was more surprised that she.
“Based on what?” he pressed. “What was the decision?”
Feeling more confident now in this rare moment of
Syeesha sat in the second row of the classroom and savored the lightheaded, euphoric feeling that engulfed her every evening she was in Professor Asher’s class. Why couldn’t he be a normal college professor? she’d often wondered. Most of the faculty at SLS sported frizzy gray hair—if they had any hair at all. They wore faded and wrinkled Dockers and lectured in a dry staccato that reminded Syeesha of sitting in a hot church as a child while the preacher urged the congregants to pray for Sister So and So’s speedy recovery, his voice proving more effective at inducing sleep than a mother humming a sweet lullaby in a rocking chair.
Professor Asher had the physique of a basketball player— tall, muscular, and lean. He wore his shirt unbuttoned just enough to glimpse his smooth, well-defined chest. Once, before the weather turned cool, he had worn a Polo shirt to class with sleeves short enough for Syeesha to spy a tiny bit of a tattoo on his left arm. That was enough to keep her wondering about him for the next few weeks. Had he been a rebel in his youth? Or was his tattoo nothing more than a middle-aged man’s vain attempt at staying trendy and bucking corporate culture?
“Syeesha?”
Her eyes were already on him. Now she brought them into focus and was surprised to see that he was speaking directly to her.
“Y-yeah?” she stammered.
“That question was directed at you,” Professor Asher said. He pushed up his metal-rimmed glasses. Her heart beat faster.
“Um . . .”
Thirty pairs of eyes looked at her, waiting expectantly.
What was the question?
“Yes?” He folded his arms across his chest, then ran his hand over his head, smoothing the waves.
Probably a habit he developed when he was thirteen and discovered a mirror and girls . . .
“Hishon versus King and . . . Spalding?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
He didn’t belong there. He belonged in the latest issue of GQ . Yet, there he stood, as pleasing to the eyes as a wrapped Christmas present, asking her a question that would surely result in embarrassment and laughter.
“Ms. Green. Are you certain that was the case we were just discussing?”
She hesitated then nodded, afraid that if she spoke again a quiver in her voice would make her infatuation transparent.
“And what exactly was the final decision in the case? Please.” He sat on the edge of his desk and let one leg dangle while the other rested on the floor. Black socks peaked out between his dark blue jeans and shiny, black loafers. “Enlighten the class since you seem to have the luxury of daydreaming through this part of the lecture.”
She cursed herself for wishing long ago that those dark, laser-sharp eyes of his would someday home in on her alone.
“The court ruled”—she scooted up in her seat to better master her breathing—“in favor of Elizabeth Hishon. She claimed that young associates were baited like rabbits to join the firm and the promise of partnership was dangled in front of them like a carrot. . . .”
Jeez! Why do I sound like a bad writer instead of a lawyer?
She cleared her throat and continued in what she surmised was a lawyerly tone. “When she was not invited into the partnership within the time frame that had been represented to her upon joining the firm, she filed a lawsuit for gender discrimination.” She looked at the other students in the class for their reaction. A few of them looked surprised that she knew the details of the case. No one was more surprised that she.
“Based on what?” he pressed. “What was the decision?”
Feeling more confident now in this rare moment of
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