He'd Seen That
The thing about trying out new things was that it made you nervous and uncomfortable sometimes, and Yaren knew that very well. She tugged at the hem of her skirt for the tenth time that morning, te plaid fabric stopped mid-thigh, ending well above where she was used to, and though the black leggings underneath offered modest coverage, she still felt as though every step made the skirt ride higher.
A part of her knew she looked good, better than she'd ever looked actually; she'd pulled her hair back into a high ponytail just like Jasmine had thought her, and her glasses, though out of place, only made the outfit look better. But she felt weird really, she was attracting too much attention and she just wanted to hide.
“You look like you,” Jasmine had said that morning, “but a leveled-up version. Just wait, you’ll see.”
However, now that she was out walking across campus, she felt anything but leveled up. The morning sun seemed brighter and hotter today, and it made her hyperaware of her legs and her swishing skirt, and every passing glance made her want to retreat back to her baggy jeans and oversized sweaters.
Still, she forced herself to stand taller, even when her hands itched to pull the hem lower. Confidence, she reminded herself, was the point of this change. Besides, she'd seen people roasting supermodels for touching the hems of their dresses or whatever, she knew it only made her look like she was uncomfortable and fiddling with her skirt.
As she crossed the quad, a burst of laughter behind her made her stiffen. She wasn't sure if the laughter was directed at her or not, she wasn't sure if they were laughing at her or something else, but when the guys began speaking, she knew it was definitely her.
“Damn, who’s that? Never seen her look like that before.” one of them said.
“She’s in Sinclair’s lecture, right? The nerdy one with glasses?” Another one said.
Now more than ever, she wanted to tug on her skirt, her hands literally itched to do it but she forced herself to remain composed.
“She's giving hot nerd vibes now; look at those legs, man, shapely as hell.”
The voices were low, but not low enough apparently. Heat flooded her face immediately, she was mortified at this point; they were looking at her legs and they thought they were shapely. Only heavens knew what thoughts were going through their minds. She didn’t wait to hear more, she quickened her steps and her shoes tapped hurriedly against the pavement as she headed straight for her next class.
This was proving to be harder than she'd expected.
Their words had stuck with her all day, not just those particular guys, she'd heard others whispering as well and she hated how they talked about her legs and how hot she was. Most comments weren't even said in a cruel way, but she just didn't like them.
By the time the final lecture of the day ended, she was drained completely drained. She gathered her notes, stuffed them into her bag, and slipped out before anyone could stop her; she'd heard a couple of guys saying they'd talk to her after class and she wasn't up for it, plus, she'd seen Petrov at the other end of the lecture hall but she was in no mood to hang out.
It was time to head to the professor's office.
The entire way to the faculty building, she reminded herself to be confident. How was she supposed to truly look good in an outfit if she kept on being so skittish about it? Besides, how the professor take her seriously is she kept tugging on her skirt or her legs kept wobbling and tangling with each other?
But when she reached the professor’s office door, her resolve completely wavered. It was like all the practice and self-reassurance had been for nothing at all.
Her hand hovered over the door as she prepared to knock, but her nerves were literally bubbling. Now that she thought of it, what if she wasn’t dressed appropriately? What if he thought she looked unprofessional? Or indecent? But she wasn't the only one dressed like this after all.
And besides, the professor was strict about appearances in subtle ways; never sloppy himself, always neatly pressed, he was a man who carried the air of precision everywhere he went. Would he think she was trying too hard? Or worse, would he think she was frivolous, shallow, not the serious student he thought she was?
She'd only just gotten a job and she was already dressing expensively, maybe extravagantly, what if he thought she had lied to him about her mother?
Finally, with a deep breath, she knocked.
“Come in,” his voice called from inside, and her heart did a double summersault. She was so nervous she felt nauseous and faint.
She forced herself to open the door and step inside slowly. The professor was at his desk as always, his glasses was perched low on his nose, pen in hand as he worked through a neat stack of papers. The sight was familiar and perhaps grounding; he was busy, that meant he was distracted and wouldn't notice what she was wearing. She clung to that steadiness as she closed the door behind her.
A part of her was glad and relieved, yet the other part was kind of disappointed, the little part that had wanted him to notice, the little part that had made her do all this in the first place.
“Good evening, Professor.” She greeted quietly.
He glanced up, his eyes settled on her briefly before he gestured for her to take a seat.
“Good evening, Ms. Kaya. How was your day?” he replied in his usual professional tone.
She sat down, smoothing the skirt under her, trying not to fidget. “It was fine, thank you.”
“And your mother?” His tone softened ever so slightly.
“She’s the same, but… I think things will be easier now.” she replied.
He nodded once, approval flickering across his expression before his focus returned to the papers on his desk.
“Good. Stability is important. I’m glad to hear it.” he said as he inked the paper here and there before setting the pen down and folding his hands. “I do have something for you today, it's almost like the previous task. The department’s archive has been neglected for months, and we’re beginning work on a small publication that requires several of the older cross-referenced sources. I’d like you to help organize some of the documents; sort them, catalogue them properly. Can you manage that?”
“Yes, of course.” Yaren replied quickly. The relief in her voice was almost palpable, she was grateful just to be given something to do, something that meant she could stay in this room longer.
"Good." He led her to the back of the office, where a tall cabinet stood partially open. Inside, folders leaned precariously against one another, there were papers threatening to spill. “These need to be sorted chronologically, then logged into the database. I’ve marked what’s most urgent.”
She nodded, already pulling on the neat efficiency she relied on when nervous. Sorting, organizing, it was simple. And for the next hour, the only sounds were the shuffle of papers, the quiet scratch of his pen every now and then, and then clicking of his keyboard.
Yaren worked methodically; stacking and labelling. She had forgotten all about her skirt, and even the comments from earlier. She was completely focused on the task at hand, plus, she needed to finish up before it was late so she could head back to her dorms.
She stopped to glance at her wristwatch briefly and somehow caused a folder to slip from her hands, it sent papers scattering across the tiles. Her eyes widened in panic and she didn't care glance at the professor to see if he'd noticed, she bent quickly to gather them causing the hem of her skirt to bunch higher, tugged by the angle of her posture.
And it was at that moment that Professor Whitefield looked up to check what had happened, his gaze found her before he could stop himself, and for the briefest moment, he noticed the curve of her figure framed by the cardigan and skirt; the way the outfit sharpened what had always been understated.
She looked different, he'd only just noticed.
He cleared his throat quietly, snapping his gaze back to the page in front of him. But the image stubbornly lingered, it almost irritated him. He wanted to blame it on her outfit but it was a usual outfit for the students here, and there was nothing wrong with it, just that she has a figure which was very profound when she bent over like that.
Yaren, oblivous to what had happened, gathered the papers and rose, tucking them back into the folder. She smoothed her skirt down once again and returned to her chair, determined to finish the task without any more clumsiness.
It was only then that her gaze flickered to the professor and she found his forehead creased in a slight frown. He'd definitely seen that.