by Noir, Roxie
“It isn’t over,” I point out.
Even though I haven’t spoken to Thalia in forty-eight hours and she hasn’t called since I hung up on her, and not talking to her feels like slowly pulling my veins through my skin.
“Not the point,” my mom says.
“That’s very unlikely to work,” Oliver says. “The University takes this sort of thing pretty seriously these days.”
“I’m done,” I say.
The proclamation is greeted by a long, weighted silence.
Then, finally, Oliver speaks.
“Yes,” he says. “It does seem that way.”
I have the sudden sensation that the ground I was standing on has crumbled, and now I’m on a precipice, staring into a black hole with no earthly idea what’s down there.
“Okay,” I say, and sit up straight, try to pretend like the world isn’t tilting around me. “All right.”
“I wish I had better advice,” Oliver says, gently, but I just shake my head.
“I did it,” I tell them, something I’ve said to all of them individually already. “I knew it was wrong and I did it.”
There’s another silence.
“Well then,” says Seth.
“What about Thalia?” I ask, turning to Oliver.
“What about her?”
“She’s a Madison Scholar,” I explain, quietly, and his face changes.
Seth and my mom just look at each other.
“You really stepped in it, didn’t you?” Oliver asks.
“She could lose her scholarship and maybe get expelled,” I explain.
“An academic suspension at least,” Oliver adds. “And this is her last semester?”
I nod, and he just lets out a low whistle.
“This was my fuck up,” I say, my voice low. “It was on me. I was the teacher, I was the one who should have known better, I was the one with the responsibility…”
“You know, I’ve only talked to her on the phone, but I’ve got a strong feeling that Thalia’s also capable of making decisions and exercising judgement,” Seth says.
“Not my point,” I tell him, and he just shrugs.
I turn to Oliver.
“Is there anything?” I ask, dreading the answer.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead he leans forward slowly. He grabs a cookie. He sits back. He considers it for several long, long seconds, and then he takes a bite and swallows.
“There might be something you can do to help her,” he finally says. “But it’ll be ugly.”
* * *
The three of them stick around to help me with the first draft, everyone crowding around me on my couch.
I hate writing, and I hate writing this more than I’ve hated writing anything in my whole life. I hate twisting the truth, making something beautiful sound so ugly and salacious.
We take a break. I’m sweating, even though it’s a cold night. Seth goes into the kitchen, finds a beer, opens it, and hands it to me.
“I don’t want it,” I tell him, trying to hand it back.
“It’ll help you feel better about lying,” he says.
It’s cold and smooth in my hand, the Loveless Brewing logo on the label, and for one wild second I consider telling him what I know about that dark January night all those years ago, that one bad judgement call can last forever, that alcohol has proven fatal to at least one Loveless man.
But I’m not driving. I’m not even getting drunk. I’m here, and I’m safe, with friends and family. A letter isn’t a twisting mountain road.
And, for better or for worse, I forgave my father long ago, so I take a long drink from the beer that Seth offers me.
“Thanks,” I say.
* * *
Oliver leaves after the second draft. After the third, Seth reveals that he’s brought his work laptop and a few days’ worth of clothing, so my mom goes back to Sprucevale and it’s just the two of us and an awful, no good, very bad letter.
Finally, around three in the morning, we decide it’s finished.
“We could ask June to proofread it,” Seth says, his eyes on the screen as he reads it for the thirty thousandth time.
“I’m not showing her this,” I say, also reading. “She’d stab me in the throat.”
“Because it’s poorly written, or…”
“Because of what it says,” I say, and take another gulp of tea. One beer was more than enough, and I’ve switched back.
“Maybe,” he admits.
Finally, he hits save, and we close the window, then close the laptop.
“You’re sure?” he asks, just that one simple phrase.
I think of the first night I met Thalia, watching her face as she watched the light-up flowers. I think of her telling me she believed in magical, not magic.
And I think of the two of us alone on the boardwalk in Virginia Beach, two weeks ago, of how the lights of faraway ships looked like sea monsters coming up for air. Something I never would have thought before I met her, but something about Thalia bends reality in a way that only I can feel.
“I’m sure,” I say, and Seth nods once.
“Good,” he says. “I’ll be on the pull-out bed in your office.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Thalia
I lean toward the mirror, checking my teeth for lipstick. It’s a dusky rose color, not the bright red I tend to favor, but this isn’t a girls’ night out, or a frat party, or even the psych major mixer.
This is my ethics hearing, and the last thing I need to look like is some trashy slut who wears red lipstick and has affairs with her calculus professor.
Yesterday, Victoria drove me to the mall on the other side of town and I blew nearly my entire paycheck at Sephora. I bought primer, concealer, foundation. I bought eyeliner and mascara and blush and eyebrow gel and lipstick and I nearly bought false eyelashes, though I changed my mind at the last minute.
I already own most of those things, but I bought new ones because I needed something, anything, to hide behind. If I put on new eyeliner and new mascara, if I paint my nails I’m-so-innocent light pink, if I have on the suit I bought for graduate school interviews, maybe I can get through this.
It’s armor, and I know it. If I thought chain mail would help, I’d wear that, too, but the best armor I’ve got is looking like the kind of girl who’d never, ever do what they’re accusing me of.
Even though I did, and I think they know it.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. The only advice I’ve gotten has been to say Caleb coerced me, and frankly, fuck that.
I’m not above tears, mostly because I’m pretty positive I won’t be able to help it. I’m not above begging for forgiveness and swearing not to do it again. But I’m above throwing Caleb under the bus to save myself.
I take a deep breath. I fix a tiny smudge on my lipstick. I straighten the jacket of my suit, run my fingers through my hair, hope I look good enough to be believed.
Then I turn and leave the bathroom.
* * *
Smythe Hall feels like a labyrinth. It was one of the first buildings on campus, so it’s from before things like fire codes really existed. The corridors are smaller than other buildings, the ceilings lower, the floor oddly discontinuous because it was added onto and added onto again, which means you can only access parts of the second floor from the third floor, not the rest of the second floor.
When I find Room 233A, I’m three minutes late and I’m so nervous I’m shaking. I couldn’t eat this morning, and already I’m making a bad impression.
It’s a big, old, wooden door, the doorknob cold. I hold my breath and pray once and then push it open.
The room’s empty. It’s a meeting room, unexpected light pouring in from two big windows, with a big wooden oval table in the middle of the room surrounded by office chairs. Nice office chairs, the kind that cost hundreds of dollars each, maybe thousands.
I’m starting to feel like I’m in a Kafka book, but then something mov
es in the corner and I realize that Dr. Castellano has been there all along, a laptop open in front of her.
‘Thalia,” she says, taking off her reading glasses and holding them in one hand.
“I thought I had a hearing,” I say. “Am I early? Did I get the time wrong? I know it’s four past three already —”
“The honor case against you is pending dismissal,” she says, matter-of-factly.
I stand there, in the doorway, and stare at her. And stare.
“What?” I finally ask. “What does that even mean?”
She leans forward slightly, her elbows on the table, twirling her reading glasses by one stem.
“It means that, as of a few hours ago, the university is no longer interested in pursuing a case against you,” she says. “I apologize for not letting you know sooner, but I still wanted to speak with you.”
“So they dropped it,” I say, stepping into the room, letting the door slam shut behind me. “All that and they just dropped it?”
There’s a dangerous, bubbly feeling deep inside me, like I’m about to burst into laughter at any moment, like my insides are shaking and I’m so rattled and sleep-deprived that I might just start cackling with relief.
“They dropped your case,” she says. “Professor Loveless resigned this morning in a letter to the administration, effective immediately.”
I close my eyes, replay her words quickly in my head, just to make sure she said what I think she said.
When I open them, I’m smiling. I’m still trying not to laugh because that completely insane urge is still there, in the face of the unexpected, to just laugh like a maniac and maybe all this will go away.
“He did?” I ask.
He didn’t tell me. We haven’t even spoken since Monday, when he hung up on me. Even though I called. Even though I texted.
I just cost him everything.
She picks up a piece of paper and stands, walking toward me. I meet her in the middle of the room, and she hands it to me. It’s a copy, the fold lines clearly visible, and it’s on Caleb’s letterhead.
I can hear the blood rushing through my veins, the sound of my own heart so loud it could drown anything else out, and my eyes skip down the letter, taking in phrases piecemeal because I need to get to the end, I need to understand what he did and why he did it, but I can’t process anything.
To President Levenbaum
Resignation, effective immediately
With Miss Lopez, an undergraduate in my Honors Calculus section
Pursued relentlessly
Insinuated that she might receive a poor grade
“No, he didn’t,” I say out loud, jerking my head up, looking at Dr. Castellano. “That’s not true, he never insinuated anything —”
“Are you sure?” she asks, and I look back at the letter.
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Well aware of our relative positions
Improper abuse of authority
“That’s not what happened,” I tell her, and now my voice is shaking too. “This isn’t true. None of this is true, he never threatened to fail me, or give me a worse grade, or give me a better grade if I slept with him, or…”
I am, somehow, sitting in one of the expensive chairs, the copy of the letter still in my hand, Dr. Castellano sitting opposite me. I don’t remember sitting down but here I am, feeling like I’m in the center of a whirlpool.
I take a deep breath. I put the letter on the table, because I don’t think I can hold it any more. And then I make myself read it, from start to finish, both my hands over my mouth.
It’s simple. It’s a straightforward, brief, no-frills account of how Caleb took advantage of his relative power over me to convince me to start a relationship with him.
It’s also a complete lie, from top to bottom.
“This isn’t true at all,” I say, when I finally finish. My voice is a hoarse whisper, and I only realize I’m crying when a drop lands on the paper.
I swallow. I clear my throat, but before I can say anything else, Dr. Castellano speaks.
“Professor Loveless has already terminated his employment with the university, and anything you might say to me now won’t change that,” she says, slowly, looking me dead in the eye.
I clench my jaw, grit my teeth, will myself to stop crying.
“If you were particularly determined, you could request that your case be re-opened,” she goes on. “But I want to be absolutely clear that this —" she puts her finger on the letter, “—is already done and cannot be undone, no matter what you might say or do.”
I bite the inside of my lips together so hard I draw blood, then look down at the letter.
I hate every single word on that page. I hate every sentence, every paragraph, every punctuation mark. I hate it for being nothing but lies, and I hate it for being what the University administration wanted to hear.
“The only real question is whether you’d like to press charges,” she goes on.
“No,” I say, the word coming out half-sob. “No. Jesus, no.”
She just nods, and I don’t say anything else. I understand, with crystal clarity, what she’s telling me.
“Then I think we’re done here,” she says, softly, and takes the letter back. She walks, ramrod straight, back to her laptop, picks up her briefcase, puts the letter back into it.
Then she stands again, turns, looks out one window.
“The administration isn’t particularly concerned with true justice,” she says, after a long pause. “But they’re very concerned with the appearance of justice. If this ever comes to light, they want to be able to parade someone’s head on a stick, and now that they’ve got that, they’re happy. And forgive me, Thalia, but I don’t see a reason for you to suffer needlessly.”
I say nothing, but only because I have nothing to say. I’m cold, numb, and feel like any moment now I’m going to wake up from this stupid anxiety-induced nightmare.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asks, finally looking back at me.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I’m still crying and still trying not to, but it’s not working.
“He’s not a bad person,” I say, quietly. “He’s not the monster he makes himself sound like, I swear.”
“I suspected as much,” she says, slowly. “You’re a smart woman who chooses your associates well.”
“Who reported it?” I ask, the only other question I have. “It’s over. Tell me that.”
“I don’t know,” she says, but she walks toward me again, puts her briefcase down on a chair. “I sincerely don’t. We weren’t told that information.”
She pulls her laptop from her bag, and I can tell a but is coming.
“But this is the evidence they sent,” she says, opening it, tapping at her keys, pulling up her email, clicking a link.
A video opens. It’s shaky and slightly blurry, like it’s zoomed in too far and shot through a window, but it’s good enough.
On it, Caleb and I are sitting on the tailgate of my parents’ minivan. We chat for a few moments, his arm around me. Then we stand. Embrace. Kiss. The video ends, the window going black.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice strangely robotic.
“I hope it helps,” she says, already packing up the computer.
“It does,” I say, and my voice sounds faraway, like it belongs to another person.
Without another word, Dr. Castellano nods once, then leaves the bright, sunny room, leaving me alone.
I feel more wretched than I ever have in my life.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Thalia
In the end, I make a list. It takes me an hour, maybe two, though most of the work isn’t in writing the list. Most of the work is in pacing up and down the room, shoes off, angrily crying to myself while I try to sort through everything that just happened.
I’m a mess. I’m on overload, ten emotions at once, all of them ugly. I’m furious with the school for having this rule in the f
irst place, but that’s pointless and I know it, the rage just feels good.
I’m angry with myself, for not having one whit of self-control. I’m angry with stupid Margaret, just because she was such a bitch. I’m angry with Javier for overdosing, with my mom for putting up with my father, and with Bastien for no other reason than he’s irritating sometimes.
I’m angry as hell with Caleb for not answering my calls. For not consulting me in my own fate, for letting people think that he’s a monster and I’m some naïve, innocent victim.
And I’m furious with my father.
That what’s the list ends up saying: School, Me, Caleb, DAD. That’s all, but it’s enough.
I pull out my phone, find a number, and hit the call button before I can lose my nerve. It rings six times and then goes to voicemail: Thank you for calling Captain Lopez, United States…
I hang up and call again. And again. And again.
I call seven times before, finally, he answers.
“What happened?” he demands, short and curt and no-nonsense as always.
Suddenly, words escape me and I wonder what he said when he reported us. Did he call? Email?
I wonder what he said, exactly, to Javier the day he kicked him out, whether it was the same staccato rhythms I’m hearing now or something else.
“Thalia,” he says, the word a statement, not a question. “What is it?”
I look down at my list, and finally, I find my voice.
“Did you report me?” I ask, my voice oddly calm in my own ears.
He’s silent.
“To the university?” I go on, and though my heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my fingertips, I sound completely zen, like nothing could ever bother me. “Did you report Caleb and I?”
More silence. The sound of a door closing.
“I reported Professor Loveless for a clear violation of his contract,” he says, stiff and unyielding. “He should be ashamed of himself for taking advantage of you like that.”
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Ten thousand words fight to be the next ones out of my mouth.