#prettyjared

Turns out, this class fucking sucks. There's so much weekly reading--from reading children's books, to books on those books, to articles on those books on those books. Not to mention they have weekly essays based on the central themes and three papers during the term.

Yep, this class is the fucking worst. Well, except the professor is kinda hot.

But he's an asshole too. 

Sam can tell that Professor Novak doesn't want him to pass easily. No, he definitely wants to make Sam's life a personal hell and drop his GPA. It makes his blood boil when he has to sit in class for two hours twice a week to listen to that gruff voice talk about how there's hundreds of different meanings in a simple book like Winnie-the-pooh.

He tries his fucking hardest to keep up, to learn everything that Professor Novak wants him to learn and more, but none of his work gets over a C during the term and every time he attempts to add to the classroom discussion, Professor Novak looks at him with a slightly disappointed look on his face.

After a few weeks and several C's and C+'s going down on his online grades later, Sam goes in for office hours on a Thursday, intending to do one of two things: get clarification of what he needs to do to pass or ask about extra credit.

"I do not give extra credit in my classes," Professor Novak says, peering over the edge of his glasses across the desk of his small office. "But you can do well on the final paper and still get a decent grade."

But that's just the thing, Sam needs something better than a 'decent' grade. He needs an A, preferably. Something that won't harm his GPA and scholarship opportunity.

At the rate he's going, even if he gets a low A--which, to be honest, is kind of like a far off fantasy at this point--it still won't bring his grade up to where he wants it. Realistically speaking, he'll get a C on the final paper and a C in the class, dropping his GPA several points.

He still spends an inordinate amount of time perfecting his final paper, putting every drop of effort into it and ensuring that it includes all of the concepts covered in class and references each and every book they've read at least once. It makes him want to tear his hair out, knowing that this class is an elective and that he didn't exactly need it in the first place.

This was his 'easy A' class, which is now cruel irony.

A week after classes end, Sam's sitting on Dean's couch in Lawrence, visiting home for winter break. His laptop lies open on his lap and he stares down at the screen.

"British Literature - B+"

The letter feels like a Congressional Medal of Honor, like the president awarded him the grade to Sam himself. His final paper must have been an absolute hit. Sam's mind drifts to his Professor, the nerdy Castiel Novak, and how he must have seen how much work he had put into it and perhaps gave him a little leniency in the grading process.

Now that he's assured a 'decent grade,' Sam takes the time to think about all he's learned over the past term. Professor Novak was one hard-ass of a teacher, rather dry in speech and tone but an interesting man nonetheless. Sam learned so much about British Literature, about classics for children--that ultimately should not have been for children in the first place. The course was interesting, engaging, challenging, and out of his usual scope of Political Science courses. Kind of refreshing, in a way.

Sam looks over the class registration list between the holidays, scrolling through hundreds of Stanford classes before slowing over the Literature department. His mouse hovers over looking through the course descriptions, wondering what Professor Novak might be teaching next quarter.

It's a dumb idea, Sam decides, shutting his laptop but keeping the Literature Department's page bookmarked on his web browser.

Fast forward two weeks, Sam sits at the front of the classroom, just off to the side. The class quiets down as the professor strides in, a familiar man in a sweatervest and khakis, messy dark hair and askew glasses.