I sunk onto my bed, phone in my hand, messages unacknowledged. It hadn’t been Raj who had told, and it hadn’t been Chapin. It could have been anyone, I told myself. Anyone could have known, anyone could have told. But even while I thought these words, I knew they weren’t true. I didn’t allow myself to dwell on this, wasn’t even prepared to approach this. I pulled my legs into the bed and slid them under the covers. I had nothing to do but wait for the next day to come.
* * *
I woke again at twilight, the light outside waning and sad. I felt suddenly, painfully lonely, lonelier than I had ever been perhaps. I reached for my phone.
My mom answered on the second ring. “Imogene?”
“Hi, Mommy,” I said. I hadn’t called her Mommy since I was six.
“Imogene, is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not.”
“What’s wrong?”
I wanted, for one last day, to have unremarkable problems. I wanted what I felt to be my real loss mourned before it was muddled with indecency, before it was delegitimized and shamed. “It’s over.”
“What’s over, Genie?”
“Adam and me.” My voice broke. “It’s all over.” And then I sobbed. I clutched my phone to my wet cheek, wailing into the mouthpiece, finding no comfort in its cold screen but feeling release nevertheless. I was in pain. I had every reason to be in pain, and it felt so good to express it. When I finished, I sniffed and sat up, waiting for kind words.
“Well,” my mom said. She cleared her throat. “Boys come and go.”
There was a beat of silence. “What?”
“Genie, it feels terrible now, but you’ll meet someone new. Don’t let this one get you down.”
I must have heard wrong. “What?”
“What what?”
“This wasn’t nothing.” My hands trembled. “This was real.”
“I never said it—”
“I loved him!”
“Okay, okay, I’m sure—”
“I really did. I really, really did.”
“Imogene—”
I ended the call. I threw the phone across the room, and it landed on the carpet with an unsatisfying thud. She didn’t understand—nobody could understand! She’d never been wanted by someone who had everything. She’d never had so much to lose. I pulled on my jacket and a pair of sneakers and flew out the door.
The campus was still and eerie, a world locked in a plastic snow globe. The snow instantly soaked through my sneakers as I trudged down the paths, but I didn’t even notice. All I could see was my destination before me, a clear path, at the end of which I’d find the answer.
I tracked snow up the stairs of Perkins and down the hall, and it melted in puddles under my feet as I knocked on his door. His friend Skeat answered.
He peeked out and looked at me. “Oh, shit,” he said.
“Kip?” I pushed the door open, catching Skeat off guard so that he stumbled backwards. I peered around the room. Park sat at Kip’s desk, a book open before him.
“Oh, shit,” Park said.
“Where is he?” I looked first at Park, then Skeat. “Is he here?”
They looked at each other.
A toilet flushed down the hall, and then Kip emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his shirt. He froze when he saw me.
“It was you,” I said.
He trained his gaze somewhere past my shoulder, avoiding my eyes. “You should go.”
“What did you tell them? Who did you tell?”
He walked past me, still coolly brushing his hands on the hem of his shirt. He stepped into his room and closed the door.
“Kip!” I raised my hand to bang on the door, lowered it. “Kip,” I said softer. “Why would you do this?”
Skeat stuck his chubby face back out the door. “You need to leave,” he said.
“I just want to talk to him.” My voice was dangerously close to a whine. What was it that I wanted to say? That nothing had ever made me feel so powerful, so important, as being his? That nobody had ever made me feel as precious, as loved? That I’d give up anything, everything, to be a part of the world he’d offered me?
Skeat shut the door. “Sorry,” he called out, the apology muffled and flat.
I stood there another moment, listening to their whispers on the other side of the door, before I left. He had left me with no choice but to walk away.
NINETEEN
It may sound strange, but I wasn’t worried about the disciplinary hearing. My thoughts were too consumed by Kip, my mind a muddle of eroticized revisitings of our best fucks, aching remembrances of his wiry hair and harmlessly sour breath, solemn cataloging of every look he’d even given me, every smile and furrowed brow. I didn’t think of the bad times—the fits, the disappointments. I didn’t want solace, and I didn’t want to think about how better off I was. I wanted to be miserable, wretchedly miserable, and the only way to indulge fully in my misery was to continue to believe Adam Kipling was the best thing that had ever happened to me. And so I did, and I thought of him and dreamed of him and alternatively rubbed myself between my legs and sobbed until snot dripped down my chin. It didn’t seem possible that I would ever think of anything else. I wasn’t sure I wanted to think of anything else.
But really, I didn’t think about the disciplinary hearing because I didn’t think it would actually happen. It loomed ahead as inevitable and preposterous as death. Yes, I would die someday, of course I would, but until then I was immortal; until then, nothing could touch me.
When my alarm went off Monday morning, its angry bleating pulling me from a hazy dream, I couldn’t remember for a moment what that sound meant—it had been a while since I’d had a reason to wake up. Was there a fire? An emergency? But the realization reached my consciousness and shuddered down my body like cool viscous goo: my affair with Kip was about to be publically dissected. I was about to be undressed and shamed, never again able to consider myself good.
I dressed quickly in the pale pink ruffled blouse and shapeless gray slacks I’d worn for the first day of classes, and when I stood before the mirror, I nearly laughed out loud. There was my cotton bra, on full display through the sheer fabric. Had I learned nothing from my mistakes? Had I really learned nothing at all?
* * *
The building of Dean Harvey’s office was too warm, almost suffocating, and I immediately soaked through the armpits of the sweater I’d thrown on in lieu of the see-through blouse. A secretary sat outside his door, texting intently on her phone.
“Hi,” I said, offering a wave.
The woman blinked at me. She looked too old for this job, too old to have her dress pants tucked into a pair of Uggs, too old to not address me. I decided that she hadn’t graduated high school, that she’d earned her GED instead and spent her free time uploading pictures of her manicures and pretending not to feel bitter that her ex had a new girlfriend. She’d probably stay there outside Dean Harvey’s office for the next thirty-five years, the dumb piece of shit. The viciousness of my thoughts startled me. I hadn’t even known I’d become mean.
“I’m here to see Dean Harvey.”
“Why?”
“I have a meeting with him.”
She sighed, lowering her phone. “Name?”
“Imogene. Imogene Abney.”
She went back to her phone. I stood, waiting, rocking on my feet. I checked the clock nervously. After another minute ticked by, the secretary looked up at me. “Well?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you going in?”
“Oh.” I stumbled past her, reaching for the doorknob. “Thanks.”
She didn’t respond. I hated her, hated her for exacerbating my unease, sure that horrible bitch was the reason my hand shook as it turned the knob.
Just like the Friday before when I met with Ms. McNally-Barnes, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what awaited me on the other side of the door was worse than anything I could have imagined. Five teachers sat in a row against the
side of the wall, among them Ms. McNally-Barnes; Ms. Moore, the supervisor from the field trip; and Dale. At the sight of him, my stomach twisted like a wrung-out rag, and I feared my bowels might fail, spilling my horrible, stinking insides onto the floor in a crushing mess. Dean Harvey sat before me behind an imposing oak desk.
“Ms. Abney,” Dean Harvey said, his jowls jiggling. Up close, he was almost unfairly ugly. It startled me for a moment that he knew my name—the name of a lowly apprentice, someone he’d never had a reason to speak to or know before—but I reminded myself that of course he would. A name is known for one of two reasons: its owner has succeeded or failed, and I had failed at remaining anonymous. He gestured to the chair in the middle of the office, placed at an angle so I could face both him and the wall of teachers simultaneously.
I sat. I felt wet and unclean, sweat pouring uncontrollably from all parts of my body. It now seemed insane that I hadn’t feared this meeting all weekend. But really, nothing could have prepared me for this horror.
Dean Harvey quickly went through introductions of the teachers—the Disciplinary Committee, he explained—but I missed the names of the two unfamiliar faces. How strange, that they knew whom I’d had sex with, and I didn’t even know their names. My mind was racing too fast to retain anything new. Dean Harvey went on to explain that we were “just going to talk,” that “nothing was decided,” and that I had “no reason to be nervous.” I sat on my shaking hands, forced a small smile. The wall of teachers remained stone-faced. Dale looked out the window.
“Do you have any questions for us before we begin?” Dean Harvey asked.
I looked at him, then at the teachers, then back at him. I’d never had so many eyes focused on me—not even in the classroom, where eyes tended to wander. “Did you…?” I hesitated. “Have you already spoken to…?”
“Yes, we spoke to the student in question when he first came forward.”
The Student in Question. Say his name, I wanted to beg.
“He’s here actually, and we’re going to have him come in and give his testimony before we get started.” Dean Harvey nodded to one of the teachers I didn’t know, and she went out into the hall.
My body went numb. Adam Kipling was here. Then the door reopened, and the last person I’d ever expected to see entered the room.
“State your name for us, son,” said Dean Harvey.
“Clarence Howell, sir.”
He didn’t look at me. He planted himself in the chair a few feet away from mine that Dean Harvey directed him towards, and he kept his eyes trained on the disciplinary board as though he didn’t even register my presence.
“Tell us what you told Ms. McNally-Barnes, son.”
Clarence nodded gravely. “I heard these two fourth years in my math class talking,” he started. “Max Park and Sam Keating. They were talking about their friend, who was seeing one of the teaching apprentices. I heard Imogene’s name, but I didn’t believe them, because I knew Imogene, and she wouldn’t do that.”
For the first time, he chanced a look at me. His eyes were red; he’d been crying. I felt suddenly, violently, that I wanted to hurt him.
“But then I was sitting outside by Perkins Hall last Saturday, about a week ago, and I saw her. Imogene. She went in, and she came out crying. And I knew Max and Sam were right.”
“You were spying,” I said, unable to keep the words in. “You were spying on me.”
Dean Harvey ignored this. “And then what happened, Mr. Howell?”
“I went to Ms. McNally-Barnes, and I told her.”
“Can you confirm this, Ms. McNally-Barnes?”
“Yes,” she said. I didn’t see her; the whole Disciplinary Committee had blurred before my eyes, faceless as a Greek choir, speaking as one. “I spoke with the student, and he confirmed everything.”
Dean Harvey excused Clarence, and he left. I’d never known anyone could be possible of such betrayal, and certainly never would have expected it from Clarence Howell—my friend, my partner in solitude. And it wasn’t just him, I realized; it was Kip, too. He confirmed everything. It was difficult to say whose betrayal was more unforeseen, whose hurt worse.
Dean Harvey had me start with our first meeting. I described my late-night walk, my encountering Kip and his friends in the woods. I didn’t mention the beer, or the breaking of curfew, or Kip walking me back to the Hovel. I would not lie, I’d decided; I would just omit the more incriminating details, the details that didn’t really matter to the story anyway. And I didn’t call him by name; I referred to Kip only as “him” and “he,” a pronoun without a face, without an identity. An unwritten rule seemed to exist that Adam Kipling’s name could not be spoken in the office and certainly not by me; I was almost reluctant to say it—scared, ashamed. His name didn’t belong in the room, I realized; nothing that had passed between us belonged in this room.
“And how did your relationship develop?” Dean Harvey prodded. The word, “relationship,” gave me a sad thrill. The teachers, silent and stern, continued to stare. Even Dale had turned away from the window to watch me.
I told them how Kip had anonymously left me his phone number, how curiosity had prompted me to contact him, how I’d stopped when I realized it was him.
“And you never responded to the text messages after you realized they were coming from a student?”
My head was a whirl, my thoughts too quick for my mouth to relay them. I explained how he’d continued to text me, how he wouldn’t stop. It seemed suddenly, comically obvious to me: It wasn’t my fault! He’d pursued me! Couldn’t they see that none of this was my fault?
From there I went on to how Kip had showed up at my doorstep, uninvited. I became almost giddy, the realization continuing to dawn on me, my faultlessness even further supported. I’d done nothing to encourage him. It was him! It was all him!
“Did you ask him to leave?”
I paused. I felt intolerably hot under their stares. I was sweating profusely by then, my skin drenched beneath my too-heavy sweater, my hair stuck to my neck and face in wet clumps. “I tried to.”
“You tried to ask him to leave?”
“I did. But he wouldn’t.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No,” I said slowly. “He just … wanted a drink of water.”
Dean Harvey looked skeptical. He made a motion for me to continue.
I did. I realized, as I spoke, that I had never told this story before, the story of Kip and I—not since I’d told it to Chapin the night of the All Hallows’ Eve Ball, and even that hadn’t been the full tale. I’d never had the audience, the interest. It may not have been the audience I sought, but it was thrilling nevertheless, to finally get to say it all out loud. I told them about the kiss, and how it happened again, and how eventually—I reddened then—things became more intimate. I left out the visits to his dorm room, the extent of our intimacy, the unnecessary sordid details. All they needed to know was that Adam Kipling had wanted me and had worn me down. He was the one in control. I’d been helpless to resist.
“And what happened when the student decided to discontinue to relationship?”
I froze. “He didn’t.”
“He never tried to break things off?”
“No,” I said, confused. “No, never.”
“And you never harassed the student?”
“Harassed?”
“Sent multiple text messages? Showed up at his dorm room uninvited? Hung around his residence hall?”
I was going to be sick. I clutched my stomach and tucked my chin into my chest. Was this what he’d told them? Surely he couldn’t have made it seem like—
“Ms. Abney?” I felt Dean Harvey’s eyes on me.
I snapped my head back up. “Why wasn’t it harassment when he did it?” I asked, startling myself. “Why was he allowed to text me and show up at my room and that wasn’t harassment?” I was met with a group of blank stares. I felt panicked, desperate. “I didn’t do anything!” I cried.
/> “This isn’t about getting anyone in trouble, Ms. Abney,” Dean Harvey said, the softness of his voice more disparaging than soothing. “We’re just trying to find the best solution to a problem.”
Alarms rang in my head. “What did he tell you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“What, is he going to file a restraining order?” I paused, mind still reeling. “Am I going to get arrested?”
“That’s not something—”
“Oh my god.” I buried my face in my hands, the tears finally coming. “Oh my god.” The injustice of it all threatened to choke me. I couldn’t be left with all the blame. I wasn’t the one to blame at all. “This isn’t the first time he did this, you know.” I didn’t know I’d said the words out loud until six faces swiveled at once towards me, suddenly rapt. “It’s true,” I said, less certain this time.
“What are you referring to, Imogene?” Ms. McNally-Barnes asked.
“Kip—er, Adam.” I’d said his name; the spell was broken, the jig was up. “He used to, um, see another apprentice before me.” I sidled to the edge of my seat. I nodded to Ms. McNally-Barnes, close to pleading. “Remember, at orientation, you told us about those apprentices? The ones who sometimes developed too-close relationships with the students?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Imogene, but I can assure you—” Ms. McNally-Barnes fixed me with a look so ashamed, so repelled, that I knew I wouldn’t be able to feel like one of the good ones ever again. “—nothing even remotely close to the level of involvement you engaged yourself in has happened or will ever happen again at Vandenberg.”
I fell back into my chair as though slapped. It was so obvious I would have laughed if I weren’t so close to tearing my hair out. Of course Kaya had gotten away with it. Of course Kaya had known exactly when to walk away.
“Imogene.” Dean Harvey’s voice was stern, and I turned to look up at him. “Why don’t you wait outside for a moment?”
I sniffed, tried to compose myself. “Okay,” I said, as though I had a choice.
Outside, the secretary was still on her phone. She glanced up at me as I took a plastic chair against the wall, and then looked back down at her phone. “You okay?” she asked the screen.
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