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"What are you doing out here?" I bent down to kiss her warmly.
"Just getting some fresh air. I needed to decompress..."
"Oh?" I sat beside her on a deck chair. "How come?"
"Your mother..."
My fists clenched. "What did she do?"
Alexa sighed. "She gave money to the International Relations program."
"What?"
Alexa nodded. "One of the admin people I know in the program called me to let me know she had been in to meet with the dean and had made a very generous donation to the school. It will no doubt predispose the dean to being extra receptive to her wants. Which, primarily, are to hurt me."
"He can't do anything to you," I said, taking her hand and rubbing her palm with my thumb. "You have nothing to worry about. She can give all the money to the school that she wants, but your paper is your paper. Your grades are your grades."
"I hope so, but the dean does make decisions about who is recommended for scholarships."
I shook my head. “Don’t worry. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. I’m sure the Dean isn’t going to sabotage your career because my mother gave the school some money.”
At least, I hoped not…
Chapter Twenty-One
Alexa
I waited with barely contained anxiety for my grades to be reported. They were supposed to be finalized by December 30th, and so I checked over and over for the posted grades, returning to the website each hour until finally, at four thirty in the afternoon, the grade arrived in an email.
B+
My heart sank as I saw the letter grade.
B+
My graduate career was over, if that grade stood. It was tantamount to a failure in the high-stakes world of the PhD program. You didn't get anything less than an A if you wanted to keep your standing in the program and keep your scholarship or get the plum teaching jobs after your coursework was finished.
My stomach almost turned, and tears sprang to my eyes. I knew I should have taken the incomplete...
Luke came into my office and I tried to hide my eyes from him. I didn't want him to see my crying and I certainly didn't want him to know my grade, but I couldn't keep it from him.
"What?" He bent down, taking my chin in his hand and turning me to face him. "What's the matter?"
"I got my grade," I said, my voice breaking. "B
+"
He made a face, for even he knew that was not good. Not good at all.
"I should have trusted my gut and taken the incomplete," I said, wiping my eyes. "Now, my career is over. It's over..."
"What?" He knelt beside my chair and took my face in his hands. "Of course it's not over. You can appeal it. You can ask for a rewrite."
"Oh, yeah, and that will look really good on my record. Student appeals grade. Student asks for rewrite. People will be dying to work with me. I should have listened to my gut and not handed it in."
I covered my eyes and cried into my hands. I felt so totally crushed, embarrassed, and despondent. If I appealed my grade, my paper would go to another faculty member for a review. If they agreed with the grade, it would stand. From what I knew of these cases, most faculty members were loath to contradict their colleague's assessment of a paper unless it was clearly mistaken or biased.
At most, my grade might go up to an A- but even if I appealed, it might stay at B+ and would alienate me from the faculty. From then on, I'd be considered a whiner.
