“It wasn’t a female TA,” Babbs Tran said. “It was a boy. Another student. I remember seeing them together.” She glanced at Rawlins, apologetic, and shrugged.
Lennox sighed. “This is all wildly unnecessary speculation. I’d ask that we remain focused on the items of today’s meeting.” And then she paused. “But please, obviously, try to keep relationships with all of your students supportive and professional.”
From the corners of her eyes, Lennox allowed her gaze to flicker to Rawlins before quickly looking away.Hehad never indulged in anunprofessionalrelationship with a student in his entire career. Not while one wasstilla student, at least.
But he knew that was not what Lennox was thinking. He knew exactly what was on her mind and resented her for it bitterly.
When Rawlins was fourteen yearsold, he had shown up for his first day at Middlewaite Preparatory Academy without a blazer, unaware that it was required by the school’s dress code. His family lived nearly an hour from the campus, so it was rare for them to cross paths with students from the prep school. When they did, it was always after hours, when the students invariably removed their jackets as they gathered in diners and clustered outside the movie theater. It was thus an innocent mistake that led Rawlins’s mother to assume that a blazer was optional, and as such, to skip out on purchasing one, aiming to save up enough money to get one before the winter.
Thus Rawlins found himself, on his first day, compelled to wear an oversized blazer provided by the school emblazoned with its logo. For another freshman who had come to Middlewaite from one of its feederschools and already had a group of friends, this might not have been a social death sentence. But for Rawlins, who knew exactly no one, and was desperate to hide the fact that he was there on scholarship, they might as well have stamped his forehead with the wordsPoor Kid.
All day long, he watched people clock the jacket, knowing exactly what it meant. His cheeks burned with shame. At lunchtime, he retreated behind the dumpsters to eat his sandwich like a stray dog.
After that, Rawlins vowed to never let himself be viewed with such pity again. He convinced his mother to lend him her credit card and scoured every secondhand store the bus could take him to, searching out clothes that were up to the standards of his wealthy peers.
His transformation didn’t stop there. He made a habit of studying accents, seeking to drop his raised-in-the-hollers twang and instead match the posh tones of the kids who grew up in the city. He forced himself to learn all the country-club sports. And he showed up foreveryschool event dressed at the upper end of what might be considered appropriate.
Gradually, aided by newfound income, he developed his own sense of taste, opting for a color palette that complemented his dark hair and light eyes. He became well acquainted with designer suits and vintage watches, and built a relationship with a tailor.
It was not so much that he took aesthetic joy in the intricacies of fashion; rather, he viewed social life as an endless battle, and clothes were his armor, insurance that he would never be subjected to the pity that had spoiled his first day of high school.
Thus it was that he arrived at the opening dinner of the Denton Colloquium wearing a perfectly pressed black tuxedo. He patted his breast pocket, making sure he had the note cards for his speech before his Uber drove off, leaving him in the heart of the Newlyn Civic Center. The colloquium’s scholarly functions would mainly be hosted on campus, but the opening-night gala was held in the grand ballroom of the Newlyn Country Club, which sat across the way from the town’s city hall.
Rawlins took a breath, steeling himself to join the throng of scholars and donors striding up toward the entrance of the building, when he was interrupted by a familiar voice. “Professor Rawlins!”
He turned, and the sight of Ellsbeth walking up the sidewalktoward him felt surreal; she had been on his mind so much lately, it was as though his thoughts had summoned her. “Ms. Storer. Fancy running into you here.”
“You’re thefancyone,” she said, indicating his tux. “What are you all dressed up for? Wedding? Funeral?”
“A tuxedo at a funeral would be in exceptionally poor taste,” he said dryly. “But this should be about as much fun as one. It’s the opening dinner for the colloquium.”
“Ohhh, very glamorous,” she said, her gaze turning toward the academics heading inside, looking for a face she might recognize. “So this is what I have to look forward to when I make it big as a scholar?”
“Exactly. Four-hour dinners sucking up to donors is about as glamorous as it gets. The trick is to get yourself something nice to wear that you can wear for years to come.”
“They don’t make it that easy for women,” Ellsbeth replied. “Styles change, and recycled dresses get noticed. Very unfair; a terrible double standard. I bet you’ve been wearing this tux for…what, a decade?”
“Nearly two, and it still fits like a glove,” he said, surprising himself by the playful tone in his voice.
“Hmmm,” Ellsbeth said, flicking her finger across his lapel. “I think this double-breasted situation is a little out of vogue.” Her finger lingered there a moment longer than necessary, sliding against the fabric, and Rawlins felt himself subtly incline himself forward, leaning into her touch.
“Classic never goes out of style,” he replied.
His eyes met hers, and her hand retreated from his chest. “Well, I hope you have a fun night. Or as fun as these things can go. I bet wine helps.”
“And the same to you,” he said. “A fun night.” And then he looked around at the downtown square, far from campus. “Where are you off to, anyway?” He tried to make his voice sound casual, as if he didn’t actually care.
“Oh, I’m actually going to a party tonight, too,” Ellsbeth said. “Fraternizing with my fellow students, if you can believe it. I’m sure the wine won’t be as good.”
“Glad you’re making friends,” he said, then checked his watch. “Though things must have changed since my day, when student parties did not typically start before dinnertime.”
“Oh, yeah, of course that’s later,” she said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Right now I’m just…passing through this area, doing…an errand. Just…there’s a place I have to go. To do something…” Her vague non-explanation fizzled out with an awkward shrug.
“Yes, I suppose that is the definition of an errand,” he said lightly.
She twisted her mouth into something like a half smile. “Nice running into you, Professor.”
“And you as well, Ms. Storer,” he said.
