Gabrielle leans back in her seat as she thinks over what I’ve said. “So very different from what they said to me this morning. Interesting. Well, if you are sure…” Gabrielle extracts a large brown envelope from her laptop bag and pushes it across the table to me. “These are your transfer scripts. I’ve already signed. You can sign whenever you are ready, and we’ll make sure Mr Trainor signs today before we leave. Let’s get you back to learning and achieving as soon as possible.”
Oh my God, she still wants me.
“Thank you. I’m ever so…”
A loud clatter sounds as the glass door shoves all the way open and a dishevelled little man storms in, carrying a worn leather satchel and half a dozen presentation folders under his arm. I recognise them immediately. I completed those assignments. They’re in my folders and all from this year’s modules.
“Ah, here you both are. Wonderful, we can get started.” He slams the folders on the table and unravels a brown threadbare scarf from around his neck.
“Mr Trainor, I presume?” Gabrielle asks, tone crisp.
“Yes, yes. Nice to meet you, Miss Demetri.”
“Doctor Gabrielle Demetri,” she corrects, pleasantly. Mr Trainor stills, eyes her carefully and then nods as though accepting the reprimand.
“Um…would you both like a drink? Something to eat?” I offer, unable to tear my eyes away from the maelstrom unloading himself in front of me.
“No…no…It looks like I’m a little late to the party.”
He is. Ten minutes, to be exact. He’s a walking, talking example of exactly what I was trying to explain to Gabrielle. If I didn’t already know his face from around campus, I’d have no doubt he was the VCC rep.
“And I suppose you’ve started the hard sell already, Dr Dimitri, so I’ll dive in at the deep end and save us both some time.”
Both? There are three of us here. What is he playing at?
“Juliet Feelan is a Vale Community College student for good reason. I’m not entirely sure why this sudden change is even up for discussion when, to be quite frank, she’s not Harrison University material.”
What the ever-loving fuck is this?
In my panic, my gaze flies to Gabrielle’s face to see if she’s buying this shit. Only, she looks as surprised by the direction he’s steering us as I am.
He shuffles through folders as he speaks, barely looking at either of us. “Her qualifications were weak when she signed up with us and it was only because our numbers were down that we accepted—”
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else, Mr Trainor,” I warn, confusion fast becoming anger at this blatant lie.
“No, dear. I have your results right here, and I took the liberty of speaking to your professors and tutors. You’re barely scraping through. It’s only because of the sheer determination of your tutors that you handed in passable assignments.” He slides the folders across the desk to Gabrielle, who opens them and flicks through the pages. Even from across the table, I can see the swell of red ink that drowns the typed text. Huge sections circled and crossed out as though they’re incorrect. Paltry grades mark the edge of a page beside each title.
Mr Trainor doesn’t even look my way. He’s too intent on Gabrielle’s expression. When she actually hesitates to read some of what I’ve written, if they are even my assignments at all, Mr Trainor waves her onto the next folder and the next and the next.
All of which are vandalised with glaring red pen.
I stare at the ink, smudged in places and still glistening under the shop lights. It looks wet. Could it be? I run my eyes over the man now trying to ruin my chances with HU and sure enough there are red ink splodges across his fingertips. Two pens peek out of his tweed suit jacket. What’s the betting one of them is red?
Gabrielle’s eyes harden the longer this goes on. However, when she eventually looks up at me, there’s only confusion in her gaze, not accusations or disgust.
“Are these your assignments?” she asks.
“They are my folders, and the titles are mine. Without reading the body of the text, I can’t be sure,” I admit openly, subtly accusing him of falsifying whatever is in those assignments. Even if they are mine, those remarks are not those of my tutors.
Trainor scoffs. “Well, who else’s would they be? They haveyour name on them.”
“They do,” I admit calmly.
“There you go. She admits it. She’s not HU material, and it’s in her best interest to come back to VCC.”
I look over the man. His hair is thinning. His nose is bulbous and red. Just like Eric after a binge. His suit is well-worn and mocks the stereotype of a college professor with its light brown tweed and frayed silk lining. His shirt has sweat stains at the collar, and I’m not convinced he’s in particularly good health with how fast he’s breathing.
This man is a fake. He might be a real member of the VCC faculty, but everything about him screams liar. He’s pretending to be this person in front of us. The truth is, he lives alone, drinks too heavily, and doesn’t eat enough to fill out his own suit. Either money is tight, or he prioritises alcohol. I won’t let someone like him make decisions that could ruin my chances at a happy life.
