"Look, I wouldn't have cheated if you were a little reasonable."
He sits back up and quirks a brow. "I'm unreasonable? Pray tell how that is? I gave you a bloody practice exam to study a good week before the actual test. What more could I do to help you? Is it because I didn't allow you extra credit?"
"That's part of it," I mumble, trying to shore up my defenses. He's right, though. No other teacher bothered to give their students any aid. And here I am, spitting in his face for it. Crumpling, I rest my forehead in my hands. "Look, I don't know. Okay? I was desperate."
"Why were you so desperate? If you paid at all attention to my class, this-"
Unable to help myself, I jump up from my chair, interrupting him. "I paid attention. I took copious notes. I did every single damned exercise you gave us. You saw my homework. A's and B's across the board. It's your tests that I somehow suck at. That and those god-awful pop quizzes. How in the world can I keep up when you hurl things at us and don't even give us a chance to breathe, much less study for other classes?"
"It's called discipline. Please, both of you, in my office now!"
Whirling around, I finally see the dean. This hard, firm set of his lips do nothing to reassure me. Fuck. Not only am I in trouble for cheating, but he also just caught me yelling at a professor. When will I learn to just keep my mouth shut?
Professor Richards gives me a Cheshire grin. "Did I say eight minutes? I must have miscalculated."
Dread fills me. He planned this. I don't know how or why, but he planned this. In my gut, I know it's true. Whether I can prove it or not, that's another matter entirely. I try to keep my spine straight as I make my way over to Dean Anderson’s office. What good will it do to cower like a little mouse? I’m sick of it. Sick of kowtowing to everyone. My parents, my professors, and where has it gotten me? Absolutely nowhere. I'm right back to where I started.
Professor Richards follows close behind. Too close. The heat of his body washes over me, along with his musky cologne. Dear God, I want to stand there and inhale it for the rest of my life. Perhaps it has pheromones in it. By why would a professor do that around a student?
The dean's office is massive. His large, oak desk takes up a large portion of the back wall. There's a section just down the center that appears to be cleared of everything. On either side is his computer, phone, files, and the like. Next to the desk is an armoire similar to Professor Richards’. In front of the desk are two plain but plush chairs, but off to the side are two very ornate chairs. The thick arms swoop down like scrolls. All chairs have plush, thick cushions covered with black leather. He must tend to these chairs often because that buttery, leathery smell permeates the entire space.
Dean Anderson eases his way around his desk and motions for Professor Richards and me to take the plain chairs in front of him. A lump forms in my throat as I sit down. Until this moment, I thought I had at least a small bit of hope, but as I take in the frown on the dean's face, that hope starts dwindling down to nothing. There's no more pleading my case. Even if they let me stay but take away my scholarship, it's like shooting at the moon. I'll never make enough to cover the tuition and boarding.
Student loans are out because I'm still my parents’ dependent, and they'll never agree to me getting loans. Even if they cosign for them. That was the deal. They were against college from the start and would be all too happy to have me back home. A sour taste fills my mouth. I know exactly what waits for me back there. More indoctrination about a "woman's place" and good, handsome prospects thrown at me until I finally decide to settle down and pop out 2.5 grandkids. This was my one shot at freedom, and I wasted it.
Professor Richards flops a folder down on his desk, and I watch as it skids across the smooth surface towards Dean Anderson. I'm guessing that's the same folder he pulled out on me when I came to his office. I’m not entirely sure what it would say that the dean didn't already know. Biting down on my lower lip, I watch him flip through the contents, frowning at some points and looking at Professor Richards at others. They seem engrossed in an entire conversation that I'm not at all privy to. It adds to the unease that's already curling through my body.
"Have you read the student handbook, Ms. Davenport?"
I look up at Dean Anderson, startled when he finally spoke. "Yes, Sir. I signed off on that."
He smirks and flips back to the first page. "So, you did. But did you actually read it? Many students tend to skim or glance over these documents, not really giving them the thorough look over that they require. Like with most things, the younger mind tends to want to get through the drudgery so they can move on to things that are more fun."
My brain goes into overdrive. I did read it. Right? Did I really, really read it? I try to recall the words specifically but keep coming up with blank sections. I read and signed so many things during orientation. How was I supposed to keep all of it straight?
"Just as I thought." He slides the folder over to me, tapping his pen on the page that said Academic Policies, specifically the section that said Cheating.
Heat blooms through my face as I skim back through it. It's all there in black and white. Cheating is grounds for dismissal. I probably skimmed over it the first time, thinking that I'd never be in that position. I wasn't a cheater. I just didn't cheat. Ever. The fact that it's what's put me in this chair makes me sick to my stomach. After a few moments, he flips through a few more pages then taps on the part where I signed my name. It's all there. It's not even a copy. I don't have to touch the paper to know that the dips where my pen pressed against it are there. And it's not a forgery. I'm stuck.
"I'm sorry," I breathe, my eyes never leaving my signature.
"It's a bit late for that, isn't it, Ms. Davenport? And based on your outburst to Professor Richards, you really don't have a defense. Unless you want to try it on me. But I warn you, you will remain civilized and calm, or I will not entertain your response."
Taking a deep breath, I fiddle with my hands for a moment before looking back up at him. "I guess I have no real defense. At least not one that would stand up against that paper. I cheated. I didn't want to, but I felt like I had to."
He casts a brief frown over to Professor Richards. "Explain."
"I'm out of my depth. I don't know where you keep your records, but if you looked at them, you'd know that I was a straight-A student. Valedictorian. Everything was easy for me. I got here on a scholarship and thought it would be fine. I was obviously bright enough to make it all the way here." Shrugging, I pause for a moment. "I guess I was wrong. Everything was harder than I expected.” Throwing a glance over at Professor Richards, I watch him while I continue. For some reason, I felt that I needed to convince him the most. Make him see that I wasn't just some typical miscreant. "I didn't party. Professor Richards thought I did. And yeah, maybe I did a little bit. I hung out with the freshmen, tried a toga party, but that's not me. I'm studious. I promise. I mostly stayed in the dorm while others partied."
I look down at my lap and grip the fabric of my shirt hard. I won't cry. I will not cry. No matter what happens, I won't let them see me break down. Civilized. He expects me to be civilized while my whole world crumbles before me. Does he think that I'm capable of not feeling? Of shoving everything aside and being logical and rational? Maybe if I could do that, I wouldn't be in this predicament.
"I tried. I promise I did." My voice is hoarse with unshed tears. "I was drowning. I came to Professor Richards for help, but there was none he could offer me. I don't blame him for that," I quickly amend, noting his raised eyebrow. "I mean, I guess it's not his fault that I can't seem to grasp the material."
Dean Anderson pulls over another folder and quickly flips through it. "You realize you have the lowest grade in the class, right?"
My ears burn, and I blink back more tears. "He said as much."
"And you wait until one week before the midterm to get help? He posts grades often enough that you should have had a pulse on how you were doing in that class."
Bile rises up in my throat. "I should have looked. I thought I was doing fine. I'm doing great in all my other classes.” Looking down, I wrack my brain for a moment. “I mean, I keep them up to a B at least. From where I’m sitting, it’s at least good enough for my scholarship.” There’s another pause as my heart cracks just a little more. “I guess I got overwhelmed." Is now the time for groveling? I look up at Dean Anderson, trying to ascertain what the best course of action is. He doesn't look angry, but he doesn't look forgiving, either. "Look, I don't have any options here. I will do whatever you ask. I'll never look at another party again. I-I..." I stop and look between both of them. I have no clue what else to offer. I've been doing everything I know how to do. An odd smile passes between the both of them. "I would offer to give up my scholarship, but I wouldn't have a way to pay. Perhaps there's a work-study program? I could work during the summer to pay off the previous semester. Please." I let a few of the tears shine in my eyes. My science teacher once joked that a woman’s tears were the strongest solvent in the world. Even though he was joking, could he possibly be right? At this point, I’d be stupid not to at least try. Squeezing my eyes shut, I force a few more tears to come to the surface before blinking up at them. "I'll do anything."
"Anything?" Professor Richards murmurs, running a finger along the arm of his chair. "Anything is a dangerous proposition."
Gulping, I look at Dean Anderson. His smile grows wider as he looks me up and down. A frisson of fear snakes its way down my spine. Just what am I offering here? The dean rises and slides his way around the desk, pausing to pick up a sheet of paper. Bringing the original folder over, he flips back to the cheating page of the handbook.