one I’ll end up marrying. Besides, maybe when we see each other next week things will heat up again. After all, the sex was good at first.
Kind of.
“Doesn’t he want to get to know your family?” she presses. “If you two end up getting married...”
“Maybe he wants me to meet his family,” I say, just to be ornery.
She straightens and says sternly. “You should be with your family for the holidays.”
I smile and read Leo’s text again. I’ll reply later.
“Don’t you think this would be a great place for a wedding reception?” Mom asks. “I just love their ballroom.”
I roll my eyes. I see I have a notification for a new email and take advantage of the excuse to not answer my mother. I open the email; it’s from Dean Jennings. He wants me to come to his office ASAP. The first Tuesday of the semester, he asks?
Even though I have a good relationship with the Dean, I still get a nervous twinge being called to his office like this. I sounds important, but I can’t imagine what it’s about.
I vividly remember the very first time I was called to his office.
Sam had convinced me to report Justin Kirby to the Dean of Students, which I finally agreed to do. Much to everyone’s disappointment, things didn’t get very far. We had no hard evidence, only hearsay, and his frat brothers closed rank and denied any wrongdoing on his part. Since he hadn’t actually managed to rape me that long-ago night during my freshman year, that was as far as the dean had been able to take things.
He’d pulled me aside later and told me, confidentially, that he believed my story and to stay away from that particular frat house. (Aside from one little excursion there with my girls and a box of illegal fireworks, I’ve pretty much complied. One little revenge prank was more than fair, I thought, and we got ourselves a nickname out of the bargain.)
I’ve had a handful of interactions with the Dean since then, all for better reasons, thankfully. Once was for a dinner he and his wife hosted at their home last spring, in honor of the Claymore scholars, a semester-long fellowship for biology majors. There were just five of us.
I sometimes wonder if Dean Jennings doesn’t feel a little fatherly toward me after the way we first met. I sometimes hear students complaining he’s a hard ass (Sam included) but it’s usually after they’ve gotten in trouble for something legitimate (Sam included). As for myself, I like him.
I have to worry at the tone of his email though. I wonder what’s up.
“But... I tested out of English 101 freshman year,” I say.
I’m sitting in Dean Jennings’s office, across from his desk.
He nods his snowy white head. He’s not much older than my mother, but he once told me he turned white in his thirties, poor guy. “Yes,” he says, “but you didn’t get credit for the class. That just gave you permission to skip that requirement and take a humanities credit of your choice instead.”
I drop my head on my hand, looking at my schedule resting on his desktop. I can’t believe no one’s caught the oversight before now, but there it is. “Can’t you make an exception?”
“I’m afraid not. You need to decide which one of your classes you want to drop this year. If you want to, you can talk about this with your advisor first. Get her advice about which one to cut, maybe...”
I look again at my schedule, considering each class in turn. I can’t imagine giving up any of them. This is the year I’m supposed to be making myself as desirable as possible as a masters candidate.
“Dean Jennings, I need all these classes.”
“You can drop one and still have enough for your majors, but you have to have another humanities course, Isabella. I can’t change the graduation requirements. Not even for you.”
I frown at the paper.
“However,” he says slowly.
I look up hopefully.
“What I can do is give you permission to take an extra class.”
“Done!”
“Hold your
Kind of.
“Doesn’t he want to get to know your family?” she presses. “If you two end up getting married...”
“Maybe he wants me to meet his family,” I say, just to be ornery.
She straightens and says sternly. “You should be with your family for the holidays.”
I smile and read Leo’s text again. I’ll reply later.
“Don’t you think this would be a great place for a wedding reception?” Mom asks. “I just love their ballroom.”
I roll my eyes. I see I have a notification for a new email and take advantage of the excuse to not answer my mother. I open the email; it’s from Dean Jennings. He wants me to come to his office ASAP. The first Tuesday of the semester, he asks?
Even though I have a good relationship with the Dean, I still get a nervous twinge being called to his office like this. I sounds important, but I can’t imagine what it’s about.
I vividly remember the very first time I was called to his office.
Sam had convinced me to report Justin Kirby to the Dean of Students, which I finally agreed to do. Much to everyone’s disappointment, things didn’t get very far. We had no hard evidence, only hearsay, and his frat brothers closed rank and denied any wrongdoing on his part. Since he hadn’t actually managed to rape me that long-ago night during my freshman year, that was as far as the dean had been able to take things.
He’d pulled me aside later and told me, confidentially, that he believed my story and to stay away from that particular frat house. (Aside from one little excursion there with my girls and a box of illegal fireworks, I’ve pretty much complied. One little revenge prank was more than fair, I thought, and we got ourselves a nickname out of the bargain.)
I’ve had a handful of interactions with the Dean since then, all for better reasons, thankfully. Once was for a dinner he and his wife hosted at their home last spring, in honor of the Claymore scholars, a semester-long fellowship for biology majors. There were just five of us.
I sometimes wonder if Dean Jennings doesn’t feel a little fatherly toward me after the way we first met. I sometimes hear students complaining he’s a hard ass (Sam included) but it’s usually after they’ve gotten in trouble for something legitimate (Sam included). As for myself, I like him.
I have to worry at the tone of his email though. I wonder what’s up.
“But... I tested out of English 101 freshman year,” I say.
I’m sitting in Dean Jennings’s office, across from his desk.
He nods his snowy white head. He’s not much older than my mother, but he once told me he turned white in his thirties, poor guy. “Yes,” he says, “but you didn’t get credit for the class. That just gave you permission to skip that requirement and take a humanities credit of your choice instead.”
I drop my head on my hand, looking at my schedule resting on his desktop. I can’t believe no one’s caught the oversight before now, but there it is. “Can’t you make an exception?”
“I’m afraid not. You need to decide which one of your classes you want to drop this year. If you want to, you can talk about this with your advisor first. Get her advice about which one to cut, maybe...”
I look again at my schedule, considering each class in turn. I can’t imagine giving up any of them. This is the year I’m supposed to be making myself as desirable as possible as a masters candidate.
“Dean Jennings, I need all these classes.”
“You can drop one and still have enough for your majors, but you have to have another humanities course, Isabella. I can’t change the graduation requirements. Not even for you.”
I frown at the paper.
“However,” he says slowly.
I look up hopefully.
“What I can do is give you permission to take an extra class.”
“Done!”
“Hold your
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