Teacher's Pet

"Except the truth always comes with a price, and I'm not sure you understand that yet. I hate to sound cliché, but it's a lot like pulling the thread on a sweater. Everything can come unraveled," Ford said. "So, let's just slow down for a moment."

He turned and went into his small, galley kitchen, and I had a moment to take in my surroundings. Ford's apartment was a lot like his office. Spartan furnishings were simple and undecorated. The shelves held very little except a few odd knick-knacks and a framed photograph of him and a similarly dark-haired young woman.

"That's my sister," Ford said. He came back to the living room and offered me a soda. In his other hand, he held a beer.

"What if I wanted the beer?" I asked.

Ford shook his head. "Clarity, I don't know what information you think I gleaned from Brian Tailor, but it isn't enough to clear your father."

I set the soda down with a sharp crack. Then I put my hands on my hips and glared at Ford. "You want to know what happened with that plagiarism case?"

Ford sighed and slumped down on his sagging sofa.

The screeching of the sofa springs distracted me. "Can't you afford a better place?" I asked.

Ford crinkled his nose and looked around. "I didn't think it was that bad. I've got everything I need. I spend my money in other ways."

"Like burying stories?" I asked.

It was the wrong question. I knew it as soon as the words left my lips, and it hung over the room.

"Tell me what you think happened," Ford bit out. He took a long swig of his beer and fixed his stormy eyes on me.

"I think Michael Tailor had it planned all along. He knew his nephew, Brian, was smart. Much smarter than his own son. So, when it was time to start considering colleges for Junior, Michael Tailor brought him for a visit here. While he was here, he switched Brian's paper. Brian didn't notice until the plagiarism case, but his football coach warned him to stay quiet or he wouldn't play. My father noticed the discrepancy between Brian's other papers, his abilities, and the essay in question. He dismissed the case in favor of the student." I finished and pinned my gaze on Ford, though it hurt to look at him.

In his apartment

in jeans and a tee-shirt and slumped on a saggy sofa, Ford looked like any other man. Gone was the stigma of professorship, and I felt closer to him than I had ever been before. Except for the solid wall of distrust between us.

I wanted to scream at him about my broken heart. Bruised heart, I revised in my own head. Ford had bruised my heart, but, then again, that was my fault too. This was all my fault.

"I'm sorry, Clarity," Ford said. "None of it can be proved."

"What?" It took a moment to bring my head back around to the story. "But you interviewed Brian Tailor. You know he didn't plagiarize a paper. He's too smart. And he admitted to me that he admitted to you about how the paper must have been switched during football practice. Maybe if we talk to his coach—"

"We?" Ford asked. He sat up and shot me a dangerous look. "There is no ‘we’ unless you want to make this whole thing worse."

I fought the urge to stamp my foot. "But it's the truth, I know it!"

Ford stood up and walked to his apartment door. There he turned around and fixed me with a sorrowful look. "Sorry, Clarity, but it's not going to help. All of that is circumstantial at best, hearsay at worst."

I tossed my hair. "Hearsay, rumor, gossip. Apparently public opinion is the only thing that matters at all at Landsman College."

"Public opinion makes a difference everywhere, Clarity. It's one of the hard lessons of the real world that they haven't figured out how to teach in college. Congrats on learning it before you graduate."

He turned to open the door and I stopped him cold. "When was I supposed to learn it? At my internship? Is that how you learned? I know Wire Communications fired you. You were discredited. Is that public opinion or the truth?" I asked.

Ford shook his head, and his voice was hard, though his shoulders slumped. "You wanted real world experience all wrapped up in a prestigious internship, and you got it. Don't let your father's mistake be in vain. Take that internship. Just keep your eyes open at Wire."

His hand was on the door handle again. I longed to tell him that I had already decided to turn down the internship. I decided as soon as I discovered that working at Wire had cost him his career. I didn't know the details, but, more importantly, Ford's silent opinion was enough for me.

It hurt, but I couldn't let him open the door, so I used the only leverage I had left. "You're going to help me write an article that exposes Michael Tailor's corrupt workings at Landsman, or I will tell the Honor Council all about your affair with Libby Blackwell."

Ford shut the door, but when he turned to face me, his expression surprised me. Relief. It was written all over his face, from the relaxed furrow in his brow to the loosened pinch at the corners of his mouth. He took a deep breath and let it out, as if he'd been holding it for ages.

"I'm sorry, Ford," I whispered, "but sometimes leverage is all journalists can use to get at the truth."

"Don't apologize, Clarity. Never apologize to me." Ford strode across the room and caught both my hands in his fingers. He lifted my knuckles to his lips, then caught himself and dropped our contact. "What do you think I've been trying to tell you since we kissed?" he asked. His voice was rough with unreadable emotion.