I’m going to fix this.
I have to fix this.
The next day,I receive an email from Cascadia University’s dean of students requesting that I schedule a meeting with him.
I feel my face flush as I select the earliest available meeting time. Might as well get this over with. It’s not going to get any better the longer I wait. At least I have a heads up.
I leave my class early. The anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach makes me nauseous, and I can’t focus on anything. It’s syllabus week, Iwon’t miss much.
I spend the few hours before what is sure to be a nightmare of a meeting, waiting in the campus coffee shop. I settle on drinking decaf herbal tea so that I’m not a jittery mess for my meeting.
Unfortunately, I am still a jittery mess when I knock on the door to the dean’s office, my hand shaking.
“Come in,” a muffled voice calls through the thick wooden door.
I take what I hope is one last steadying breath before entering the office. The office is bigger than my apartment, which somehow only makes it more daunting. Diplomas hang framed on the crimson-painted walls. And sitting in front of large bay windows is Dean Callahan. He sits in a big black leather chair, behind a huge cherry-wood desk. Besides some papers, the only things on his desk are his nameplate and an antique lamp.
He gestures toward a pair of small red armchairs in front of the desk. “Please, Ms. Nyx, take a seat.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, ducking my head and quickly taking a seat. I had foregone my usual attire and settled on dark gray high-waisted slacks with a light blue, long-sleeved button-up tucked into them. I am quickly regretting the long-sleeved shirt because I can feel myself sweating through the fabric. I fidget with the cuffs of the sleeves, not wanting to meet the dean’s eyes. I scuff my feet against the dark carpet; the black heels I slipped on this morning are just a little too small, andthey pinch my toes. I resist the urge to kick them off and settle on cursing myself for buying them at a garage sale when I visited my mom’s house a year ago.
Dean Callahan leans back in his chair, folding his hands on his belly. He’s someone who, under any other circumstance, would remind me of a friendly grandfather who plays Santa in December and lets the kids call him quirky names—like Pop-Pop. He has a thick gray mustache that matches the thinning gray hair atop his head. He wears a dress shirt with suspenders pulled up over the fabric, and fragile spectacles rest on the end of his red nose.
“Do you know why you’re here, Ms. Nyx?”
Is this a trick question? Like when a cop pulls you over for speeding?No officer, I have no idea how fast I was going.Or am I supposed to be honest?
What option won’t make this whole situation worse?
I open my mouth to respond, but promptly close it, second-guessing what I was going to say.
Yes or no? Yes or no?
He takes pity on me and leans forward. “It has come to our attention that you have been having an inappropriate relationship with one of the university’s professors.”
I nod. My eyes sting, and my throat feels tight as I try to fight back the urge to burst into tears. “Can I—” my voice cracks.I clear my throat before starting again. “Can I ask who brought this to your attention?”
His lips turn down at the corners, and a small part of me thinks he feels sorry for me. He slowly shakes his head. “No, Ms. Nyx, the photos were left anonymously.” He pulls a yellow folder from the top drawer of his desk. He tosses it onto his desk, and we both stare at it for a moment. I have a pretty good idea of what it is before he even says anything. “There is photographic evidence of your… indiscretions. Do you need to see them to confirm that there is proof of what has been going on?”
I think I’m going to puke.
“No, no, that’s okay,” I say quietly. Shame washes over my face, and I drop my gaze again in a lame attempt to hide my reddening cheeks. I wish I hadn’t pulled my hair into a slick ponytail this morning. I want something to hide behind. Maybe that would make this all easier.
He purses his lips, and sadness dulls his eyes. “So, do you admit to having an inappropriate relationship with Mr. Stirling?”
I want to say that there was nothing inappropriate about our relationship. We tried to stay away from each other, but we just couldn’t. I want to say I love him.
But I know none of that will matter. It’s not what the dean wants to hear.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He nods. “Were you coerced into this relationship by Mr. Stirling?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not.”
He takes a deep breath, the air whistling through his teeth as hereleases it. “Unfortunately, Ms. Nyx, you are under evaluation,” he says, clearing his throat, obviously uncomfortable.I wonder how many times he’s had to have a conversation like this. Has he ever had to before?“A differentprofessor will have to go over your assignments from Mr. Stirling’s class to see if the grades received were merited. You will not know which professor is looking over your work, but I can assure you they are qualified to do so. It may take a few weeks for that professor to go through all of your assignments and regrade them, but once they have, you will be notified via email of your new grade for Counseling Theories.”
“You think I was seeing him just to get a better grade?” I ask, my voice small even to my own ears.
