Graham Robert Scott
And now, with gestures fierce and possibly rehearsed, and with dabbed wetness at the corners of her eyes, the student protests that her adjunct professor hates her unaccountably, even though or perhaps because she
is an honest student,
is an A student,
has the most integrity of anyone that Rothinger (writing-program director, current audience) has ever met,
all of which Rothinger listens to with weathered placidity, without nods, without taking notes, because, when he isn’t running the program, he’s a deception researcher—evolved into one after a decade of this kind of thing—and so in his head he’s coding her remarks as oaths, self-testimony, the kind of fact-free tactic that people rely on when they know the evidence isn’t on their side, and he keeps with this until she changes tack and asks,
why would she cheat,
why would she plagiarize,
why would she do something so obviously stupid,
all of which is another tell, questions similarly requiring no evidence, particularly the classic why why why, so Rothinger quietly codes this new strategem until the student, pivoting again, contends that her professor
has unrealistic expectations for assignments,
had a grammatical error in an overhead slide,
dresses unprofessionally for her weight (has he noticed?),
all of which are red-herring counter-accusations, which again Rothinger silently codes, the targeting of each incoming claim reminding him of times in the 80s when he hung out in the corner arcade, trackball under his palm, sniping warheads in Missile Command as they came on like rain, which reverie lasts until the student interrupts with a third pivot, asking why her prof doesn’t judge her on
her other assignments (obviously honest, she says, for no one found anything wrong with them),
her grades in other classes (clear signs of a good student, she says, nodding at her own claim),
her university academic integrity record (spotless, she says, as though this is unusual),
and now building momentum, voice rising so that Rothinger puts a hand to one ear, the student protests that it’s unfair that her prof is focusing on this one assignment with a little mistake that anyone could make, which is kind of an admission, but since the student doesn’t think it is, and is still dissembling, Rothinger concludes the whole thing is probably worse than it looks,
and now finally Rothinger interrupts, still rubbing his ear, and says, Well, this is above my paygrade, so let’s send it onto judicial affairs, even though he suspects the lawsuit-wary, poorly trained staff will let her off the hook, but the student, taking his decision as a threat, begs him to keep this horrible and false accusation from ruining her life, from undoing all of her hard work, from destroying her dreams, in which vein she continues as he completes the requisite paperwork, at which point, taking his quiet for indifference, she stomps out, vowing to complain,
and now Rothinger sighs a long sigh, and, seeing by the clock that he’s late to meet his friend, he tugs on his old Army trench coat, steps through the door, turns after locking it to discover a huddle of whispering grad students by the elevator, who shoot him an unexpected new look, wary and judgmental, so he slips out through the stairwell and makes his way to the corner bar on University Avenue, where he finds Dan in the usual corner with a beer barely touched,
and now Rothinger describes the weird looks from the grad students, and in reply, Dan, eyes avoidant and expression glum, admits this may have to do with him, as everyone knows they’re pals and he’s in a spot of trouble—surely you’ve heard, but no, Rothinger assures Dan, he hasn’t heard a thing—whereupon Dan leans forward and, voice low, says a doctoral student with an ax to grind, total sour grapes thing, made some cruel accusations, which Dan, thumping his mug on the table, is stunned the chair is taking seriously, and Rothinger, chewing a lip, asks if this is a Title IX thing, a sexual treatment thing, and when Dan says isn’t it always these days, Rothinger reminds his colleague that the chair is required to take Title IX seriously, and Dan replies that yes, of course, he understands that, everyone understands that, but the chair’s looking at him differently now, after all these years, and dammit, he
is a good professor,
is a good husband,
is the least predatorial guy you’ve ever met,
and now Rothinger goes still, face placid once more, the eye of his mind seeing warheads all over again, as Dan asks
why would he throw away his career,
why would he throw away a marriage,
why would a guy as sharp as him do something so obviously stupid,
and now the server approaches the table and Rothinger, palm sweating from the trackball he could swear he feels under his hand, says just a water, please, which draws a puzzled look from her for this isn’t his usual order, and as the server leaves, Dan rumbles into a proper rant about how this girl’s stunt could ruin his life, all for the trivial mistake of sharing a hotel room, all platonic, just to help her save money at the conference, and how she wasn’t even that good a grad student anyway and she’d be better off sticking with the sex work she’s been doing on the side,
and now Rothinger isn’t nodding, isn’t leaning forward, but instead slides his phone from his pocket and opens an app and messages a master’s student he recommended to Dan as a research assistant, tapping out a question with thumb and forefinger as his gut gnaws with worry, at which point Dan notices his longtime friend is quiet and maybe not paying attention, and he says what the hell, dude, why won’t you say anything,
and then dots appear on the phone in Rothinger’s hand, signifying an incoming reply.
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Graham Robert Scott grew up in California, resides in north Texas, owns neither surfboard nor cowboy hat. His stories have appeared in HAD, Barrelhouse Online, Pulp Literature, and others. His irregularly maintained blog, hemicyon.wordpress.com, is named for the prehistoric bear-dog, a toothy hunter that (like the platypus) couldn’t make up its mind what it was. Graham, professor by day, identifies.