Compliments

by Mari K. Cicero

  The ache begins to ease. “Oh, that! Prof. Seymour sent me a copy of his first draft more than a year ago. He decided to hold off publishing until he had some additional data to back up his findings. But don’t worry, I gave him a quick call to make sure it was okay I cited it. Besides, he told me that it’s been accepted now and will appear in print in March.”

  If I expected the suspicion etched into his features to ease, I’m severely disappointed. “I’ve met Silas Seymour. Not the most approachable man in the world.”

  “He was a friend of a … friend.”

  Which sounds a lot more respectable than the truth. Not that it’s a lie, but it’s a better response than, My boyfriend-slash-professor, Matthias Gnomon, that is. Who? Matthias Gnomon. Yeah, you might not know him because he’s a pretty young faculty, but he’s brilliant and really good in bed. FYI: I was screwing him for four months in secret, all while I was a teacher’s assistant for his class. Yeah, turns out he and Si went to Princeton together and were kind of roommates and all. Then one weekend when Matthias and I were, you know, together, Si dropped in unexpectedly. Kept our secret, though. Stand up guy.

  Prof. Harrison only unwinds one notch. “If I gave Silas Seymour a call, he’d back you up on that?”

  “Yes, sir.” My words come out a little sharper than I meant them to, but I almost feel like he’s trying to force me in to a defensive position. Luckily, there’s also enough confidence in my reassurance that Prof. Harrison accepts it. I watch his stress deflate as he melts into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “Thank goodness, for a moment there I thought history was repeating itself.”

  “Sir?”

  Prof. Harrison leans forward and takes my notes in his hand from where they sit on his desk. “Nothing, Robin. Just, you did a really good job. That Seymour reference is ideal. It supports my theory in perfect harmony. Of course, I won’t mention the paper in public, but it’s just good to know this research line is well-substantiated.”

  “Happy to help, Professor. If there’s nothing else …” I rise to leave, but he motions for me to remain seated.

  “No, wait. I wanted to let you know, I’ve spoken to Lamertus about you. Told him that you’ve shown a strong foundation and he’d be wise to offer you a place in his group.”

  My smile feels too big for my face. “Prof. Harrison, thank you. I—”

  “But,” he holds up his hands and my gratitude, “he does have one concern about you.”

  Just as quickly as I inflated with joy, I fizzle with frustration. “What’s that?”

  “You’ve never had a professional credit,” he says. “You’ve gotten a few awards, and your recommendation letters from your faculty at Colorado were some of the greatest we received last year. However, they were just strong enough to make up for the fact that you barely passed any of your courses during your last year of undergraduate work. He wants to see work you’ve contributed to, accepted work in a journal or at a conference to prove you’re on track and can perform at a level he expects of his researchers.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” I ask. “It’s not like I can write, vet, and publish a paper by the end of the term, and that’s assuming it was even accepted. It takes months for that process to run its course.”

  “True.” Harrison folds his hands into his lap. “What if you were given a contributor credit in the proceedings of a conference? Say, if you were listed as coauthor in the print version of a keynote address?”

  The idea seems so ludicrous that for a moment I can’t imagine what he’s talking about. Then I remember that each major conference produces an archival record of all the talks presented at it for posterity. The volumes, called proceedings, are published just like a journal or book would be. Appearing in one, then, counts as a publishing credit.

  When clarity hits and I realize what he’s suggesting, I find myself coughing a laugh.

  “I hardly contributed to your keynote, Professor. I just proofed it and did a little vetting.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly, Miss Lewis. I’ve made several modifications based on your suggestions, some of them more than minor.”

  “Yeah, but what you’re suggesting …” I search for an excuse. “Besides, it takes a few months for the proceedings to be published. By then, it would be too late for me to be able to show him anything to prove such a credit.”

  Harrison spreads his fingers over his chest, mocking indignation. “You don’t think he’d take a colleague’s word for it?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. For some reason, I always see the faculty as an island unto themselves, forgetting that they’re colleagues, and some of them even friends.

  “I wouldn’t feel right about it. There’s other students that work much harder than me, students in your own group …” As I trail off, I sense that Harrison picks up on the softening in my voice suggesting my resolve on the matter is weakening.

  “I want you to understand, I can’t guarantee the plan will work,” he says, “but I do think there’s a way we can make it almost foolproof. Prof. Lamertus will be at the conference, as I’ve mentioned before. If you were to come and be seen there, I could even intervene to get you two talking at some point. It would be up to you to pour on the charm and win him over.”

  “The conference is this weekend.”

  When I’m supposed to be with Hawk. At his house. Doing anything but math.

  Well, maybe cross-multiplication …

  Harrison considers this latest retort with only a moment of sincerity. “It’s short notice, but I’ll have the departmental secretary handle the particulars. We’ll reimburse your travel expenses. The department provides me a small budget each year to fund student travel such as this. Robin,” he slows the tempo of his conversation, “you’re under no obligation to come. I only thought this would be too good of an opportunity for you to pass up. However, if you want to take the chance that Prof. Lamertus will overlook what he sees as your one major shortcoming, then—”

  “No!” I blurt out my reply so loudly, Harrison winces. “I mean, yes. I would love to come. Thank you. Thank you, Professor.”

  Half of me hopes my call goes through to voicemail. As I hear the electronic trill on the other side of the phone line, I feel the lurch in my stomach shift and grow. On the third tone, I breathe out a sigh of relief that Hawk’s not going to answer, but then a click comes across the line and I hear his velvet voice.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  “Hey.” I swallow, both my fear, and literally. “So, about this weekend …”

  I hear a stack of papers in the background as he shuffles them. “I still haven’t given you my address, have I? I’ll text it over in a few minutes, or if you want me to email—”

  “I can’t come.”

  There’s a silence that slices my guilt into bite-sized pieces and arranges them on a serving tray. There’s a moment of torment before he finally speaks. “What?”

  “I can’t come,” I repeat, and then feel my mouth go out of control. “This thing about finding an advisor is so stressful, and I’m running out of time. Most of the other people admitted to the department this term have already found placements. I’m running out of time and … I’m really, really sorry. I feel terrible about it, but I promise I’ll …”

  “Robin, it’s okay,” he assures me, but I can still hear the disappointment in his voice. “Remember, I’m a student, too. I know how things go. If you can’t come, we can just do it the next weekend. I mean, as long as you haven’t changed your mind about spending the weekend with me. You know you wouldn’t need to come up with an excuse, if that’s the case, right? As much as I want you, I don’t want to rush you. If you need more time before we do … that …”

  I’m so relieved to hear his compassion and understanding that I let the whole tr
uth out before I realize. “Don’t be silly, I haven’t changed my mind about you. It’s just, at the last minute Harrison invited me to come to a conference this weekend where Lamertus is also going to be. This way, I can impress him when Harrison thanks me in his speech for all of the fact checking and vetting I did the last few weeks. I really did want to spend the weekend with you, and yes, we can do next weekend, right?”

  Hawk boils down everything I’ve just said into one strained response. “Harrison?”

  I gulp, remembering the history between them, and suddenly feel like somehow I’ve betrayed his trust. Which, I remind myself, I haven’t. Unlike Harrison himself, Hawk has never entrusted anything to me about the run-in the two of them had. I feel myself bristle and my voice takes on an edge of vigor. “Yes, Prof. Harrison. Is there a problem with that?”

  “Yes there’s a problem with that. The guy’s a bastard and I don’t want you anywhere near him. I know you have to take his class, so I can’t expect you to stay completely away from him, but I … Wait, did you just say you’ve been working for him?”

  “When I tried to pay him back for getting my car out of hock, he offered to let me pay him back by editing and vetting the points of his keynote address for a conference in Miller’s Valley.”

  “Oh, I see.” I can’t ignore the venom in Hawk’s tone. “So you’ve been keeping this from me. And just where was this work going on? Please tell me that you haven’t been alone with him.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. Several times, in his office.” I find myself returning his poisoned pitch tit for tat. “What are you getting at? Do you think I’m doing something inappropriate, like trying to grab an advisor with my body?”

  “What? No! I don’t think that at—”

  “Or are you angry because your run in with him is the reason you’re suspended, and now he’s taking a shine to me?”

  I only see the last statement for the ‘waving the red flag in front of the bull’ idiocy it is in hindsight. When Hawk speaks again, I can practically see him gnashing his teeth in my mind’s eye.

  “You have no idea what really happened. Don’t talk out your ass, Lewis.”

  “Tell me what really happened then,” I dare him. “You’ve been dancing around what your problem is with Harrison every time I mention his name. Is it true you hit him?”

  “Yes, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I will do it again, if it comes down to it. Robin, listen to me, I forbid you to go to that conference with him. You hear me? You’re not allowed.”

  Red flashes behind my eyelids as I try not to hit the wall. I don’t understand how this boy … this man who I’ve been growing close to and who has shown me nothing except respect for weeks, can turn on a dime like this and become some caveman, dominating pig.

  “Excuse me? What makes you think you have any right to tell me with whom I’m allowed to do anything?”

  “I’m a person who cares about you and doesn’t want you put in a dangerous situation.”

  “And, pray tell, what danger is he to me? Look, Hawk, the guy went out of his way to drive me into a dangerous part of town and make sure I got my car back. He even paid for it. Then he respected me enough to let me work back that money so I could keep my pride. Yeah, he sounds like a real jerk.”

  “He … Oh, God, will you please just trust me on this.”

  “Not unless you can tell me definitively what happened. Tell me, Hawk. Tell me what in the Hell is so terrible about Harrison.”

  Every silent moment is a condemnation not of the professor, but of the man I’ve been dating. I hear Hawk exhale his frustration, and in my mind’s eye I can see the tightness of his jaw, the steeliness of his eyes. “I wish to hell I could, but I can’t risk getting permanently expelled for something as flimsy as a technicality.” His voice shifts and becomes pleading. “Robin, please … I know this is a great opportunity for you to impress Lamertus, but don’t go. There’s got to be another way.”

  The desperation in his voice almost cracks my resolve, but I refuse to take myself to this place again. I will not defer to another man who “knows best what’s good for me” and manipulates me into playing along with secrets. I barely got through Colorado after the scandal; I won’t screw up my future by doing it again.

  “I’m sorry, Hawk. I really am, but I’m going.”

  “Then all I can say is good luck.”

  With that, I hear the other side of the phone line click, and my heart break.

  28(½)

  “Over here is Dr. Alexander Baker.”

  I plaster on another tissue box smile and extend my hand. I almost feel like a political wife or a celebrity the way Harrison’s paraded me through the room for the last twenty minutes. At least a handful of the attendees I know from my old university.

  The conference starts proper at noon on Saturday. Harrison shows me to a seat at the back of the auditorium and excuses himself, saying he and the other speakers slated for this session will be seated on the stage. I glance down and open my program, noting that his keynote address is last on the agenda, scheduled for three o’clock, and that there’s a reception dinner at six. There are four talks before that. For not the first time of the day, I regret taking up Prof. Harrison’s offer to drive me. If I had my own car, I could leave right after dinner, instead of waiting around.

  To my surprise, I find the first talks engaging, even though this area of mathematics doesn’t parallel with what I’m researching. The next two, however, bore me to tears, and I find myself pulling out my phone to check and see if there’s any message from Hawk. I feel the muscles in my face droop when I see there’s nothing from him.

  I feel both terrible and still insanely ticked off. He’s right, I don’t know the full story from his perspective, but whose fault is that? I don’t care what he says about not being able to tell me. I assume Harrison signed the same confidentiality agreement Hawk did, and he was just fine with bringing me up to speed. I might have found Hawk’s disappointment more acceptable if he hadn’t gone all caveman on me. The number one way to get me to do something is to tell me I’m not allowed to. Obviously Hawk has never had to deal with a woman like me.

  Finally, Harrison takes the stage, and the room decrescendos from applause to scattered whispers. He gives the customary nod to the organizers and appreciation of the audience, and I find myself beaming, knowing he’s about to give me my shout out. Out of the corner of my eye, I find Prof. Lamertus seated across the aisle, to the right of me. I straighten my back, making my profile a little more detectable against the backdrop of the audience. As though that’s really necessary. In a room where perhaps two or three hundred people sit, I’m one of only a few dozen women. Blending in isn’t as easy as one might think.

  I feel my stomach drop out as Prof. Harrison cuts off his acknowledgements and launches into the introduction to his talk. At first I think maybe I was distracted and missed him thanking me, but as I see confusion cloud Prof. Lamertus’s eyes, I know that isn’t the case. He clearly has no idea why I, an advisor-less first year master’s student, am seated in this room and starring at him. And the reason he has no idea is because Prof. Harrison didn’t deliver on his promise.

  A snickering voice in my head with an uncanny similarity to Hawk’s asks if I’m happy now and have I yet begun to believe he may be right? Is this what he was talking about? But it doesn’t make sense. Why would Prof. Harrison drag me all the way here just to show me up? As his talk continues, several points of which I note with gnashing teeth I was responsible for verifying or amending, my fingernails make the flesh at the heel of my hand raw. Concluding remarks drip from his serpent’s tongue; biting the tip of my own tongue’s all I can do to keep from leaping up and smacking his cheekbones into his throat.

  “And finally,” Prof. Harrison says, removing his glasses as his last slide lingers on the
overhead projector, “I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to acknowledge Miss Robin Lewis, who assisted me immensely in preparing my talk today. Robin is not only one of the most promising graduate students to enroll at Manderson this fall, she’s also a Morgan Prize winner and an asset to our department. I’d just like to take a moment to acknowledge her contribution and ask you to do the same.”

  Picasso couldn’t have painted the way I go to pieces and glow. As Prof. Harrison points to me, where of course I stand like a stupefied cactus, all eyes turn. My cheeks go red with pride. I also have to admit that so much attention, far more than I bargained for, has me a little on edge. However, when I catch the smile on Prof. Lamertus’s eyes and notice the way he seems to be evaluating me as if it’s the first time I’ve ever appeared before him, I decide to own the moment. Straightening, I turn toward the front and nod; Prof. Harrison returns the gesture in kind. All at once, it feels like everything is set right, and I wonder how I could have doubted him, and more importantly, how Hawk could have ever lashed out at this wonderful man.

  I quickly see my rip-Harrison-a-new-one plan would have gone nowhere. The moment his keynote address concludes, there’s a break in activities and he’s surrounded. By the time the crowd clears, he’s managed to slip out of the room without my noticing. I spend the rest of the afternoon in sessions that are more closely aligned to my own area of interest. Prof. Lamertus flags me down during a coffee break, and I’m more than happy to chat with him. He asks me to drop in to see him sometime later next week when we’re both back on campus.

  I don’t see Prof. Harrison again until the banquet dinner that evening, and even then it’s only from a distance. I should have guessed that, being the keynote speaker, he would be seated at a special table in the hall. I do, however, cross paths with one of my classmates from Colorado, Michael Chen, who I discover is now a graduate student in statistics at the University of Florida. We chat for a few minutes, and when he finds out I’m enrolled at Manderson, his face brightens.