“What?” I ask, my voice shocked, my mind spinning as I look up at my art history professor. “But…but I thought…I thought you said that I was…”

“Miss McKibbons, I’m sorry, I over estimated the amount of space we had on the dig. We really don’t need four graduate students.”

My face shows shock and confusion. He hasn’t called me Miss McKibbons since my freshman year. He looks down at me, a glint of satisfaction in his eye and I know this has nothing to do with available space, and everything to do with me not sucking his dick in his office last week.

“There’ll be other trips,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder and I want to slap it away.

“But sir,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “This is a Grecian ruin. You of all people know how seldom the government lets you-”

“Yes Skylar, I know,” he replies impatiently. “But it cannot be helped. You’re young still, well over a year ahead of other graduates your age.”

I scowl, looking at the ground. Never once did I think my ambition and drive would hinder me in college. Then again I never thought I’d have to spurn my mentor’s advances either.

“But Greek art is my concentration,” I say, a little less than pleadingly. “You know this. Why not one of the other graduate students?” I ask, but I already know the answer. I just want to hear him say it…or at least watch him uncomfortably skate around it.

“As I said, you are young and there will be other digs,” he says with a finality that suggests our discussion is over. “However, I know how important it was to you to get your internship out of the way this summer, so I took the liberty of securing you a position as a tutor.”

“A tutor?” I scoff. “Sir, you know education isn’t-”

“I’ve been asked by a former student of mine,” he says over me and I stop speaking with a sigh, “to teach a young musician who’s touring all summer. Obviously I can’t go because I have this dig.” I scoff again. “But I promised her I would send my best graduate student. Sky,” he says and I look up at him, “you’re my best graduate student.”

I purse my lips. Damn straight I’m his best graduate student. I grade his fucking papers. I draw up some of his undergraduate quizzes. I am his best graduate student, which is the reason I should be going on this fucking dig.

“Sir,” I whine a little and look away. I fucking hate teaching. I’m not very good at it, despite my love for the subject, and I despise kids.

“It’s good money, more than you’d make on the dig and you’ll be traveling the country. It will also give you ample time to work on your thesis...”

“How old is this kid?” I ask and he smiles.

“Seventeen, I believe,” he says and I roll my eyes. “You’d be doing me a huge favor here, Sky.”

Sure, now we’re back to first names. I curse inwardly and I know I’m going to give in. Even after the stunt he pulled last week I still seek his approval. I’ve affectionately called him my yoda since my first quarter at school, him having guided me in choosing my major and then ultimately my concentration. I still want to please him, to make him proud of me.

“It will be good for you,” he says and I look at him again. “You’ll have time to work on that thesis.”

I sigh. “Fine, I’ll do it.” 

 ***************

Upon entering the National Car Rental Center in Fort Lauderdale, Florida I’m immediately taken aback by the grandeur of it all. The hustle and bustle of various carts and rigging being zoomed back and forth across the large empty floor of the arena, the booming sounds of instruments being checked, all of it so big.

I scowl. It’s still not Greece. It’s not Mycenaean ruins. It’s not history at my finger tips. What it is, is a boy band. A boy band on tour. It’s me teaching some whiney, pampered brat the bare minimum about sculpture and painting. It’s condensing roughly twenty-six thousand years of art and architecture and six years of my college education into three months. It’s fucking torture.

A large, dark man approaches me and gives me lip about not being allowed to be here. I show him my backstage pass and explain to him miserably that I’m here to teach Justin Timberlake art history. He lightens up considerably and offers to show me back to the dressing rooms.

I follow him, looking around still a little stunned by it all but am ultimately unimpressed. I should be digging in the dirt right now. I should be uncovering the mysteries of ancient civilizations. I’m jarred out of my thoughts by the large man stopping abruptly in front of a door marked “Nsync Toy Room.” The door opens and an explosion of laughter and chatter greets me, the room obscured by the large form of the bodyguard.

“Justin, your tutor is here,” he says and then steps out of the way, allowing me entrance to the room.

I step inside and all conversation stops. Five guys are lying across couches, a television blaring MTV in the background. I’ve seen them before, each of their faces plastered on the front of the magazines I surveyed when I was waiting in line at the gas station or desperately searching for the latest issue of the American Journal of Archeology. They just stare at me and I give them a tight lipped smile. Nice welcome. A woman emerges from the side of the room, reaching out to shake my hand.

“Hello, I’m Lynn Harless, Justin’s mother,” she says with the slightest hint of a southern drawl, smiling warmly.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I reply. “Skylar McKibbons.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Skylar,” she says, and turns her head to the guys on the couches. “Justin, come over here and introduce yourself.”

The boy on the end of the couch closest to me sighs and pulls himself up, trudging over. He’s tall, taller than me with a boyish face and platinum blonde curls. He really is kind of adorable in a sullen, bratty way. He gives me a tight lipped smile, standing obediently next to his mother, looking very bored. Oh, this is going to be just fucking great.

“I’m sorry Skylar, this is my son Justin,” Lynn says, pinching his arm as she says his name and he scowls at her before turning to me.

“Hi,” he replies curtly, before turning away to go back to his seat.

“Justin Randall Timberlake, get your butt back over here!” the woman exclaims and I watch him cringe as the men still on the couches snigger quietly. “I’m so sorry,” she says to me again and I shake my head, smiling tightly. Justin is standing next to her again, looking weary and forlorn. She grips his ear and he winces. “You are going into the other room and you are going to listen to this nice young woman and you are going to pass this do you understand me?”

“Yes, Momma,” he grits, leaning down to relieve the pressure on his ear. I try not to laugh. This is priceless.

“Good,” Lynn says, releasing him. “Now gimme a kiss,” she adds, turning her cheek to him and he gives her a light peck before looking at me scowling.

“Let’s go into the dressing room,” he mutters, and we both move to walk through the door at the same time. I pause and he rolls his eyes, walking ahead of me. Oh yeah…this is gonna be a real pleasure.

He takes me a few doors down and falls into a swivel chair next to a large rack of clothing. He glances in the mirror next to him, and then does a double take, squinting his eyes at his reflection as he picks at his hair, moving a curl over a little before turning to look at me. This cannot be happening to me. I sigh, slipping my book bag from my shoulder, unzipping the main compartment. Might as well get down to business.

“Okay, so I figured we’d start with-”

“Look, let’s get something straight,” he says and I stop all movement, my hands buried deep in my bag, “The only reason you’re here is because my mother is pissed that I was more interested in the European club scene than all the museums and architecture and shit.” He gives a wave of his hand and my jaw drops. Did he just call the Lourve, the Pantheon, the Zwinger Palace shit? “I already have a 4.0 with my other tutor that’s teaching me the important stuff, so if you could just-”

“Just what?” I say, and he looks at me astonished, like he’s never been interrupted before. “Just float you by? I’m sorry but I can’t do that. Well, I guess I could, but I’m not.”

His brow furrows and he swivels a little in his chair, his long legs jittering slightly against the floor. Then a slow smile creeps over his face. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and tilts his head to the side. Jesus Christ…he’s trying to charm me.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he says smoothly and I roll my eyes, laughing a little as I pull a textbook out of my bag.

“Yes I think we did,” I say, dropping the heavy manual on the table next to him. He eyes it.

“That is my textbook?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at me. “That? It’s fucking huge.”

“It’s not that bad. It’s a lot of images,” I say, pulling out a folder.

“Jesus, it’s heavy,” he says, picking it up and flipping through. “And it has tiny print…nice.”

I roll my eyes, fighting the scathing comment that is bubbling in my throat. I pull out a syllabus and hold it out to him. He takes it, surveying it and pursing his lips.

“You’re to have the first reading done by tomorrow and we’ll discuss these works and terms,” I say, giving him a hand out with a list of art pieces and vocabulary words. “It’s pretty straight forward.”

“You want me to have the first chapter read by tomorrow?” he asks, his eyebrows raised and I grit my teeth nodding. “That’s like thirty pages!” he exclaims flipping through, “Look, I don’t know if you realize, but this tour is kicking off in two days and-”

“You’ll read it and you’ll know it,” I say with a sigh and he scowls at me again. “You’ll make time for it.”

“You’ve obviously never been on tour before,” he grumbles, looking down at the book in his lap and I just can’t take it anymore.

“Look!” I say harshly and his head snaps up. I take a deep breath, calming myself. “Let’s just try and get through this as painlessly as possible okay? You don’t have to have anything memorized, just read the chapter.”

“Wait, I’m going to have to memorize stuff?” he questions suspiciously and it takes all of my will power not to roll my eyes.

“Yes, the sheet that I gave you for chapter one, on Prehistoric and Neolithic Art and Architecture, you’ll need to be able to identify all of the images and give their location and date range for your test.”

“I have to remember dates!” he whines, falling back in his chair and scowling and I want to slap him.

“Yes, Justin,” I say, gritting my teeth. “This is Art History. You need to know when stuff happened. It won’t be so bad, though. Most of the dates are circa in this chapter so if you’re close you’ll still get credit.”

“This is so bogus,” he mutters after a moment, tucking his papers inside before closing the book. “Can I go now?”

“Yes,” I say, rubbing my temples. “Please.”

He makes his way out of the room and I sigh falling into the chair he had just occupied. It’s going to be a long ass three months.