At Least He Slept Well (Patreon)

"How… how the hell… how is that even possible?!" — Maria Jimenez, a 19-year-old exchange student, was almost wailing, trying to remember at least something from Shakespeare, but only ridiculous fragments flashed in her head: “¡Ay dios mío… enchiladas… tequila sunrise…”

She was sitting sideways at her desk, hiding her face in her hands. Long strands of hair slipped from her ponytail, fell onto her cheeks, caught on her lips — making it all even more humiliating. The tight green T-shirt clung unpleasantly to her too-noticeable breasts, making it hard even to lean on the table. Her jeans dug into her waist, as if to remind her on purpose: “now you’re a girl, small and defenseless.”

Before her eyes flickered those same English Composition posters that he — Professor Richard Huntington — had once dissected with his students, leaving them no chance for mistakes, famous among them as one of the strictest teachers, whose exam was considered one of the hardest in college. But now he… she was sitting here, among the same confused teenagers, realizing that all the knowledge of literature had simply vanished from her head.

— Maria? — came a cautious voice nearby. It was Jake Miller, a tall classmate in a baseball cap, the eternal joker. He leaned closer and looked into her face. — You coming to Brandy’s party tonight?

Maria looked up at Jake, and her heart gave a painful thump. A party? She — Professor Huntington — who despised all those noisy gatherings where people discussed cheap booze and pointless gossip instead of books?

— Uh… — slipped out instead of the sharp answer she intended, because something inside just stopped her.

Maria felt Jake waiting for a reply, his smirk already almost victorious. She wanted to put him in his place — habitually, professor-style — but her tongue stumbled, her thoughts scattered, as if she suddenly got nervous, which wasn’t far from the truth. For some reason, whenever this Jake talked to her, she started acting like that. It wasn’t the first time, and it was already starting to piss her off. However, now, instead of a confident tirade about the emptiness of such “gatherings” and telling Jake to back off, she only mumbled:

— Uh… well… I… — she lowered her gaze, taking a deep breath, feeling her heart pounding for no clear reason, and finally exhaled softly, — yeah.

Jake chuckled in satisfaction, as if that “yeah” was exactly what he’d been waiting for, and slapped his palm on the desk:

— Perfect! Then eight o’clock at Brandy’s. Don’t be late, chica.

He had already turned to his friend, while Maria sat motionless, her legs feeling like cotton. Everything inside her twisted — not only because he’d called her “chica” again and she hadn’t even corrected him, but also from shame: ‘How could I? I’m Professor Huntington! I should’ve shut that smug bastard up with his damn smirk, but… why did I even say yes?!’

Her breasts rose noticeably with her quickened breathing, the T-shirt stretched so tightly it felt like everyone around was staring right at them. She pressed her hands to her face, exactly like she had that morning — the first morning she woke up in that strange little room. The creaky bed, the colorful blanket, the poster on the wall reading Bienvenidos, Maria! When Richard got up and sat, his hair fell heavily onto his shoulders, tickling his neck along with the new, strange weight on his chest. He wanted to clear his throat out of habit, to put on his glasses, but his hand found nothing. Instead, there was a sharp ringing in his head — ¡Ay dios mío! — and his thin hands, with polished nails, desperately grabbed the fabric over his breasts.

Under his fingers there was an unfamiliar, unnecessary fullness — far too soft and sensitive where it shouldn’t be — that moved with every breath.

‘What the… wh-what kind of sick joke…’ he snapped then, but his voice broke into a hysterical whisper.

— Wh… what… is this… — the rasp tore from her throat.

She jumped up, ran barefoot across the cold linoleum, and rushed to the mirror by the wardrobe. A stranger looked back at her: dark, messy hair from sleep reaching past her shoulders, pierced ears, big eyes, and a woman’s body — dressed in tight little floral pajamas. The fabric pressed against her hips and outlined curves that hadn’t existed yesterday. It was a slim nineteen-year-old Mexican girl, tan skin, dark eyes, lips trembling on her face.

— N-no… no-no-no! — she gasped, backing away from the mirror.

At that moment, the door creaked open. A sturdy woman in her forties with a serious look stood on the threshold — Mrs. Johnson, the “host mom.”

— Maria, breakfast’s getting cold. Come on, hurry up. You’ve got classes today. — She shut the door without even a second glance.

Maria sank down onto the bed. Maria? The name felt both foreign and painfully familiar. She sat there, pressing into the mattress, hugging her knees, trying to catch her breath.

‘Maria… who the hell is Maria? Why do I react to that name? Why, when that woman said it, didn’t I even argue?’

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. Everything inside her screamed in protest: ‘I’m Professor Richard Huntington, 54 years old, lecturer in English literature. I should be in my office, surrounded by books — not in this cramped, flowery hell.’ But the longer she repeated it, the clearer another voice whispered somewhere deep inside: ‘You are Maria Jimenez. Nineteen. Guadalajara. Exchange student.’

She suddenly stood up and rushed to the desk. Notebooks lay scattered across it, filled with messy English notes, every other line crossed out. On top of them was a small leather wallet. With trembling fingers, Maria opened it.

Inside was a plastic student ID card with her photo on it. Signature: Maria Jimenez. Date of birth: 2005.

Maria froze for a second. Then she pulled a passport out from under a stack of textbooks. It was clearly Mexican — red cover, coat of arms. She flipped it open quickly. The same face stared back from the photo — the one she had just seen in the mirror: dark eyes, long hair, tanned skin. Name: María Fernanda Jimenez López.

— N-no… no… — she whispered, flipping through the pages. Her gut screamed that something irreversible had happened.

With trembling hands she grabbed the laptop. Turned it on. Googled Professor Richard Huntington, Texas College. Nothing. No articles, no photos, no mentions in the news. She typed the name and the university separately, checked the staff list. Zero. Even the archived pages were gone.

But as soon as she typed Maria Jimenez Texas College, a profile popped up instantly: First-year student, Exchange Program. A photo from the official presentation — her, in a green T-shirt, smiling shyly, standing among other students.

Maria dropped the laptop onto the bed and covered her face with her hands. A flash of memory came — like an answer to her desperate “why?!”

She — or rather, Professor Richard Huntington as he still existed yesterday — was scolding, loudly and spitefully scolding, a girl just like that one, an exchange student, right in the middle of a lecture. He stood by the lectern, towering over the room, looking down with disdain as she stammered something about Romeo and Juliet. Her voice trembled, her accent was sharp, even though she tried, but the words tangled up.

— This is disgraceful, — he had said sharply, and the room went silent. — With that accent, you have no right to touch the classics. Byron, Shakespeare, Dickens — all of that is far above your level. You even say to be or not to be in a way that makes me want to close the book.

The students’ laughter rolled through the lecture hall. The girl dropped her head, covered her face with her hands, and ran out in tears. The hall fell into heavy silence, but Huntington only snorted, adjusted his glasses, and turned back to the board to start writing something. It was at that exact moment that there was a faint snap — and a soft chuckle. So quiet, like someone had just snapped their fingers. He even turned around, looking into the hall: everyone sat still as stone. No one confessed. No one smiled. But the strange feeling — as if the air had grown thicker — didn’t leave him for the rest of that day, even though the professor fell asleep faster than usual and slept soundly through the night.