“I…do, surprisingly.”
“Well, if you trust him, let him handle it. I’m sure he blames himself more than anyone else.”
“But I never should have acted on this with him. He might get fired—his reputation will be so screwed because of me.”
“Well, then he’ll have to own that. Look, Zara, life isn’t fair, okay? And unfortunately, someone is going to have to suffer consequences because of this.”
“I know.” I lowered my gaze.
She placed her hand on top of mine, and I met her eyes. She gave me a comforting smile and said, “Everything will be okay, Zara.”
“Yeah.” I gave her a weak smile. “I hope so.”
32
Zara
I wrung my fingers, sitting on the edge of my bed. I had English class in twenty minutes, and I hadn’t heard from Cole at all since the Alisha incident. I checked my phone for the umpteenth time, but there were no new messages.
Sighing, I shut off the screen and stood to collect my things for class. I walked across campus to get to Newman Hall, and my eyes lifted to find Cole’s classroom door as soon as I entered. He wasn’t standing there, and when I walked into the room, he wasn’t inside, which wasn’t like him. He was always inside waiting.
My heart pounded in my chest as I walked to my seat. Several minutes passed and Alisha’s friend, Becca, entered the classroom, but it was strange she wasn’t with her, which made me even more anxious.
The classroom filled up with other students who chatted amongst themselves, and I checked the time on my phone. It was ten minutes past class time.
As I lowered my phone, I saw someone enter the classroom. A woman in a knee-length black skirt and navy blue blazer with a white blouse beneath waltzed toward Cole’s desk. She had a folder in her hand and placed it on the desktop.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Professor Mann, and I will be filling in temporarily until there is a replacement for Professor Grant.”
My jaw dropped. Wait. What?
“What happened to Professor Grant?” one of the guys up front asked.
Becca looked over her shoulder at me and shook her head. I sat back in my seat, avoiding her eyes.
“He will no longer be teaching here,” Professor Mann said. “Not sure what happened, but that is none of our concern. Last I checked, you were all working on The Scarlett Letter, yes? Let’s take out your notes on those and discuss.”
There were a few murmurs and groans, but I couldn’t bring myself to do what she’d asked. Where was Cole? What the hell had happened?
I picked up my bag and rushed out of the classroom and out of Newman Hall, feeling like someone had wrapped their hands around my lungs and was squeezing them as hard as they could. As soon as I was outside, I turned a corner to get around the building and drew in several deep breaths. This couldn’t be happening. He had to still be here.
I fished around for my phone in my bag and called Cole; it went straight to his voicemail. I called again—no luck. Where was he? I pressed a palm to my head and walked to the nearest bench. When I sat, my phone chimed, and an email appeared.
* * *
Dear Zara Porter,
Dean Richardson has requested to see you in his office. Please report to him as soon as possible.
* * *
Regards,
* * *
Gladys Miller
Assistant to Dean Richardson
* * *
My heart was beating much faster now. The dean wanted to see me? Shit. This wasn’t good.
I walked into the building where the dean’s office was, moving past the statues of old white men on horses in the hallway until I approached the door to his assistant’s office. The woman was older, with graying hair and rectangular glasses on the bridge of her nose.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m, um…here to see the dean.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I received an email to come as soon as possible. Zara Porter.”
“Oh. Oh!” The woman stood up quickly, studying every feature of my face. “Yes. That email was from me. Follow me.” Gladys turned and led the way down a hallway to a dark-brown door with a gold plate on it with the dean’s name on it. The woman knocked, and a deep voice told her to come in.
“Mr. Richardson, I have Zara Porter here to see you.”
“Right. Send her in, please.”
Gladys held the door open for me, and I walked past her, forcing a smile. Mr. Richardson was sitting in a chair behind a large oak desk. Behind the desk was a window that revealed parts of campus and a fountain. Richardson was an older man who appeared to be in his sixties, with a thick white moustache and floppy gray hair. He had deep wrinkles in his face and around his eyes, but there was a kindness to them that didn’t make him seem all that intimidating.