We stare at the closed door. Then we do what she said. I keep my eyes straight ahead as we walk up the staircase, heading to the back of the lecture hall, passing the eighty-something students who fill the seats.

I motion to a spot against the back wall and we head there, trying to make ourselves invisible. Only then do we turn and face the room.

Professor Cookman stands at the front, behind a small podium. In person, he looks to be about sixty and no taller than five foot five, even in those red cowboy boots, which seem to add an extra few inches.

Everyone’s eyes are on him. Everyone is focused. No one is whispering to his or her neighbor. No one is checking email. No one is sending texts.

As Professor Cookman turns to write something on the large blackboard, Bailey leans toward me.

“Nielon Simonson?” she whispers. “Did you make that up?”

“Are we standing here or not?” I say.

“We are.”

“So what does it matter?”

I think we are being quiet, but we are loud enough that someone in the back row turns and looks at us.

What is worse, Professor Cookman stops writing on the blackboard and turns too. He glares at us, the whole class following suit.

I feel myself flush and look down. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t turn away from us either. Not for a good minute. A minute that feels like it’s lasting far longer than that.

Thankfully, eventually, he turns back to the blackboard and continues his lecture.

We observe the rest of class silently and it’s easy to see why everyone is so focused on Professor Cookman. Despite his stature, he’s an impressive man. He runs the class like a show, captivating his students. And maybe, also, scaring them. He only calls on students who aren’t raising their hands. When they know the answer, Cookman looks away, no acknowledgment. When a student doesn’t know the answer, he keeps his eyes on the offender. He stares until it is uncomfortable, a little like he looked at us. Only then does he call on someone else.

After he writes a final equation on the board, he announces that the class is over and he dismisses everybody for the day. The class streams out and we head down the stairs to where he stands by his desk, packing his messenger bag.

It seems like he doesn’t see us, continuing to pack up his papers. But then he starts speaking.

“Do you make it a habit to interrupt lectures?” he says. “Or should I count myself as special?”

“Professor Cookman,” I say. “I’m sorry about that. We didn’t mean for you to hear us.”

“Do you think that makes it better or worse?” he says. “Who are you exactly? And why are you in my classroom?”

“I’m Hannah Hall. And this is Bailey Michaels,” I say.