#Hater (Hashtag #2)

by Cambria Hebert

  I glanced back down and flipped through the entire paper. There were no other comments or feedback. Many passages were underlined with red, but that was all.

  What in world was going on?

  I sat there in confusion until the last student left the room. The professor was at the front, sitting behind his desk. I flipped the pages closed and stood, clutching it in my hand.

  “Professor Monahan? Was there a problem with my work?”

  He looked up at me with an accusatory expression. I faltered and almost took a step back.

  “I really am quite disappointed,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” My heart started pounding beneath my ribcage and something in my stomach turned sour. I didn’t know what was going on here, but I knew it wasn’t good.

  “All this time I thought you were a conscientious student. I thought you were truly dedicated to your major.”

  Horror filled me. “I am!”

  How could he think anything less?

  He shook his head sadly and then looked at me like I was some sort of gunk on the bottom of his shoe.

  “Do you know how serious plagiarism is?”

  I looked up swiftly. “What?”

  “It’s a very serious offense, Miss Hudson.”

  “Yes, I can imagine it is,” I said, wary. “Why are you asking me about plagiarism?”

  “Oh, drop the wide-eyed, innocent act,” he snapped and pushed away from his desk. “We both know you’re guilty and the paper you attempted to pass off as your own is not yours at all.”

  “What!” I gasped. “Professor Monahan, I can assure you I wrote every single word of this paper and I did not plagiarize it.”

  “Do I look like a fool to you?” he asked, leaning over his desk and giving me a look probably meant to make me think he could see through me.

  It only made me angry.

  “Are you actually accusing me of plagiarism?”

  “Oh, I’m not accusing. I have proof.”

  I snorted. “You couldn’t possibly.”

  His laptop was open on his desk, and he hit a few keys and then turned the screen around so I could see. “The age of the internet has made plagiarizing papers rather simple. Students often assume we as professors are too stupid or old to realize such things exist.”

  I stared down at the screen, trying to figure out what I was looking at.

  “This, Miss Hudson, is a website that I and several other professors here on campus use to crosscheck papers turned in against papers that are for sale on various sites around the web.”

  I glanced away from the computer and up at the man accusing me of being a cheater.

  A cheater.

  If I wasn’t so freaked out right now, I’d laugh. “So you’re saying you checked my paper on this site”—I gestured to the laptop—“and it came up as a match?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Maybe a few sentences were very similar by coincidence. I mean, it is a well-documented topic.”

  “Yes. I might be inclined to believe that if it had only been one or two sentences, but this was about ninety percent of the paper. Far too much content to be a coincidence.”

  Suddenly, I felt lightheaded. The disbelief echoing through my body was profound. How was this even possible? I didn’t purchase this paper. I worked on it. For weeks.

  “I think I need to sit down,” I said, gripping the edge of his desk.

  I thought I saw a flash of something that might be construed as pity or doubt in his eyes, but then they hardened once more. “Yes. Well, you can sit down in the dean’s office.”

  “Excuse me?” My fingers tightened on the ledge of his desk.

  “I’ve alerted the dean. This is a very serious matter. Your very future at this university is at risk.”

  “What?” I stumbled a bit but caught myself. My book bag fell over my shoulder and down my arm.

  “Let’s go,” he said and picked up his briefcase and a set of keys. “I’m to escort you there.”

  In all my life, I’d never been treated like a criminal. I’d never felt the squirmy sickness of panic quite like this. My hands broke out in a clammy sweat as my heart continued to race. I followed him out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the building.

  The entire time I walked, I stared down at the paper, now marked in all red. It was my paper. I recognized the words on each page. I’d worked so long on it I could probably recite most of it in my sleep.

  “Professor Monahan,” I pleaded as we walked. “You have to believe me. This is some kind of mistake.”

  He looked back over his shoulder as we walked. “I don’t make mistakes. This was blatant plagiary.”

  I swallowed down the bile in my throat and tried to calm my shaking limbs. As we walked, the wind whipped about and snow started to fall more heavily and coat the grass and sidewalk. I wondered if Ivy would wonder where I was, if she would think something was wrong.

  I thought about texting her and telling her not to worry. But I couldn’t.

  Something was wrong.

  And I was worried.

  When we walked into the staff building where the dean’s office was located, we continued through halls that smelled like bleach and lemon. Phones rang constantly and the sound of high heels clicking on the floor felt like nails on a chalkboard.

  I took a steadying breath when we walked into the small entryway that led to the dean’s office. An older woman was sitting behind a desk, and when we walked in, she looked up and smiled.

  I couldn’t force myself to smile back.

  It took everything I had to not vomit.

  “Tell him Professor Monahan is here,” the professor said.

  The receptionist nodded and did as she was asked. When she hung up the phone, she nodded. “You can go in.”

  On my way past, she gave me an encouraging smile. Tears rushed to my eyes, and she frowned.

  “Hurry up, girl,” Professor Monahan said with his hand on the dean’s doorknob. Startled, I rushed forward and my foot caught the edge of an area rug beneath the receptionist’s workstation. I went flying forward. The paper I once thought of as my best work went soaring and skidded beneath a chair.

  “Oh my!” The woman gasped and rushed around to help me. “Are you all right, honey?”

  I sniffed. My knee stung and so did the palm of my hand. But I pulled myself up. “Oh yes, I’m fine.”

  “Trying to make yourself look pitiful will only make things worse on you in the end,” the professor intoned.

  The receptionist frowned and shot him a sour look. “Here, let me help you.” She went to retrieve my paper as I stood and straightened my coat.

  “Here you go,” she said, and I reached out to take it.

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely. Her kindness was welcome at that moment as my entire world was falling apart.

  The large door to the dean’s office sprang open and a man with broad shoulders filled the door. “I thought my appointment was—” he said but then stopped when he almost ran into the professor.

  “We were just coming in, Dean,” he said. “She was stalling.”

  “She fell! She could be hurt,” the receptionist scolded.

  The dean stepped around Professor Monahan and met my eyes. He recognized me immediately. I saw it flicker in his eyes. “Miss Hudson,” he said. Then he looked at the professor, who was suddenly very uncomfortable.

  “This is the girl you are accusing of plagiarism?” the dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Professor Monahan faltered and then straightened, his posture rigid. “Yes. And I have proof.”

  I blew out a shaky breath. The woman beside me patted my shoulder.

  I gave the dean a pleading look, but he only sighed and gestured toward this inside of his office. “Inside.”

  Professor Monahan was the first to go in. The dean stood and waited for me to pass. As I was slipping by him, he leaned down and whispered, “You need to make a call. Call him.”

>   My eyes flew up to his face. He gave me an imperceptible nod. I moved farther into the room, and the man accusing me gave me a hard stare.

  I turned away from him and toward the dean. “Sir, would it be okay if I made a phone call? I have a feeling I’m going to be here a while and I don’t want those waiting for me to worry.”

  He moved around his desk and gave me a displeased stare. “Quickly.”

  It was obvious he didn’t want Professor Monahan to know he told me to call backup. I clung to that little nugget of knowledge like it was the last crumb of food in a desolate world.

  Quickly, I dialed Romeo and prayed he answered. As it rang, I paced across the room, putting my back to the men.

  “Hey.” Romeo’s voice filled the line. It was so rich, warm, and welcoming that I whimpered. “Rimmel,” he said immediately, all the warmth in his voice replaced with alarm.

  “I think I might need you,” I squeaked into the line.

  “Who is that?” Professor Monahan said loudly from across the room. “Who are you calling?”

  There was a heartbeat of silence on the line, and then with cold calmness Romeo said, “Who was that?”

  “Son?” Romeo’s dad came through the other end of the line.

  “You’re with your dad?” I asked, gripping the phone as tight as I could.

  “Yes. At the house. What’s going on, Rimmel?”

  “I’m at the dean’s office on campus. Can you come? And bring your dad. I think I might need a lawyer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Romeo

  Something was wrong.

  The second I heard her whimper, everything inside me went on high alert. And the man yelling in the background, who the hell was that?

  I yanked the phone away from my ear and looked at my father.

  “Something’s wrong with Rimmel. We need to go. She said she might need a lawyer.”

  My father frowned and stood up immediately. As if sensing my urgency, he didn’t ask me any questions. He just grabbed his briefcase and suit jacket and followed me outside.

  The car roared to life as soon as I hit the door of the house, and I barely gave Dad time to close the passenger door before I went tearing down the driveway.

  “Careful now,” Dad said. “You won’t be any help to her if you’re wrecked on the side of the road.”

  I wasn’t going to wreck. And if I did, I’d get out and run the rest of the way to campus.

  “She’s at the dean’s office,” I said, not taking my eyes off the road.

  The little whimper she gave when she heard my voice pounded through my ears and haunted me.

  “I hope this isn’t about Zach.” Dad sighed.

  My knuckles went white. Was this his plan all along? Lay low for weeks, act like he was going to obey the restraining order, and not so much as speak a word about me or Rimmel to anyone…. and then bam! do something insane?

  If this was him, I was going to kill him.

  I was going to go to jail for the rest of my life for murder.

  I slid around the corner of the parking lot and stopped the car at the curb, not bothering with a space.

  “Son,” Dad said when I was getting out of the car. “Don’t go in there swinging. Be calm. Don’t act until we know the situation. Being a hothead might just make whatever is going on worse for her.”

  I heard his words but didn’t reply. I knew he was right, but the panic pumping through my bloodstream made it really hard to listen.

  The woman behind the receptionist desk jumped to her feet when I strode in.

  “I knew I recognized her,” she said immediately.

  “Excuse me?” I snapped.

  “You’re the football player, right? The one who jumped into the stands for his girlfriend.”

  “Yeah?” I said, impatient.

  “She’s in there,” she answered, pointing at the office door.

  “What’s going on? Can you tell us anything?” Dad said as I paced to the door.

  “I’m not really sure.” The woman hedged. “But the professor was very mad. He yelled at her. Poor thing was so scared she fell on the floor.”

  And that was all I needed to hear.

  I didn’t even knock. I flung open the door so hard it hit against the wall. Rimmel was sitting in a chair opposite the dean’s desk, looking frighteningly pale and worried. She jumped up when I stalked in, and her bag fell off her lap onto the floor.

  “This is a private meeting!” A man to her right gasped. I assumed this was the asswipe who made her fall.

  “Who the hell are you?” I growled and planted myself in front of Rimmel, facing the man.

  To his credit, the dean sat calmly at his desk and just watched the unfolding scene.

  The man I was itching to punch looked at the dean. “You’re going to allow him to just burst in here?”

  My father stepped into the room and calmly shut the door.

  “Ryan,” he said, calling the dean by his first name. “What’s going on?”

  The professor looked back and forth between the dean and my father.

  “Ryan” stood from his chair and held out his hand to shake with my father. “So sorry to have to call you down here like this, Anthony.”

  “You called him!” the professor yelled.

  I gave him a hard, dismissive look and he shut up.

  “Professor Monahan,” the dean said formally, “this is our school’s quarterback, Roman Anderson, and this is his father, lawyer Anthony Anderson.”

  The professor swallowed. “I didn’t recognize you Romeo,” he said.

  “Result’s still the same,” I growled.

  “Miss Hudson is dating Roman. Has been for a while now. She also tutors him, helps him keep up his grades so he is eligible to play on the team.”

  “She’s family,” I said. I didn’t like the way “dating” sounded. It just wasn’t good enough. Not for Rimmel.

  I felt her hand on the back of my shirt. I felt the way her fingers shook, and it pissed me off all over again.

  “Facts are facts,” Professor Monahan said.

  The dean sighed. “Yes. I understand that.”

  He flashed my father a quick regretful look.

  “What the hell is going on!” I burst out and shifted to wrap an arm around Rimmel. She sank into my side for a long moment but then pulled back and straightened.

  “I’ve been accused of plagiarism,” she announced.

  My father and I both laughed.

  She glanced at me with solemn eyes. “I’m serious. Apparently, ninety percent of the paper—my paper—that I turned in a few weeks ago is available for purchase on a website.”

  “Yes, and the other eight percent can be found on various other websites, the content word for word,” the professor added like he’d somehow delivered the nail in her coffin.

  “You have no idea how lucky you are that if I punched you right now it would only hurt her,” I said low.

  The professor paled.

  My father stepped forward. “What kind of evidence do you have to back up these allegations?”

  The dean handed him a stack of papers. He took several minutes to look them over and then glanced at me. His eyes didn’t hold much good news.

  “Are you charging her with something?”

  I stepped forward toward the dean, my eyes narrowed. He glanced at me with the same kind of look he gave me the night the cops came and searched my car for his nameplate. His hands were tied.

  “No.” He hedged. “Not as of today.”

  The professor gasped. “This is ridiculous. You have everything you need to strip that girl of her scholarship and toss her out of this school.”

  Rimmel sank in her chair like she couldn’t stand anymore. I was completely floored. This was that bad? They were going to kick her out of school?

  “Are you serious?” I exclaimed. “Her grades are perfect. She’s a model student. When she isn’t studying or tutoring, she’s volunteering at the damn animal
shelter, for Christ sakes!”

  “I have to agree, Ryan. Expulsion seems a little extreme at this time,” my father said.

  Ryan inclined his head. “Alpha University code of student conduct states that plagiarism of any kind will not be tolerated by this university and students will be asked to leave.”

  “Are you aware, Dean,” my father said, snapping into lawyer mode, “that Miss Hudson here has been repeatedly harassed and stalked by one of your students here at Alpha U?”

  He frowned. “Yes, of that I am acutely aware.”

  “And that a restraining order has been placed on that individual on behalf of Miss Hudson and for the safety of her person?”

  “Yes, I am also aware of that, Anthony,” the dean said.

  “Then you must find it to be not improbable that this is some kind of elaborate payback for the loss of that student’s status here on campus.”

  “You cannot deny the facts.” The professor spoke up. “That paper is on the internet for sale. It has been for sale since before she turned it in.”

  I glanced at Rimmel and she nodded miserably.

  “What reason would a student with a four-point average have to plagiarize?” my father asked.

  Professor Monahan was ready for the question. “Maybe the pressure of maintaining that average became too much. As you already pointed out, she tutors and volunteers in addition to her heavy course load. Perhaps with all of that in addition to dating a very popular man on campus, she has become too overwhelmed to perform in class.”

  I fisted my hands at my sides. “That is bullshit.”

  “Roman,” my father admonished.

  “I think it best if we take a little time to process this. I’ll go over the documentation, consult with a few colleagues, and then ascertain what the best recourse would be.”

  “Are you serious?” the professor intoned.

  The dean gave him a withering look. “Careful, Harold, you’re sounding like a teacher with an axe to grind. Is this personal?”

  He flushed.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you will respect my decision.” He turned toward my father. “Out of professional respect for your family and on behalf of the MVP player here at Alpha U, I also extend this as a courtesy to you. Anthony, I will provide my full cooperation in this matter, as I assume you will be representing Miss Hudson.”