Professor Richard Hartwell’s voice cracked through the lecture hall so hard it felt like somebody had slapped the room.
Chairs stopped creaking.
Pens stopped moving.
Forty heads turned at once.
I stood up slowly because I had learned, a long time ago, that sudden movement around people like Hartwell only made them hungrier.
He squinted at me over his glasses like he had found something dirty in a clean sink.
“Look at this,” he said, sweeping one arm toward me. “A Black face in advanced number theory. Whitmore really will admit anybody if the paperwork sounds sympathetic enough.”
A few students looked down.
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