by Sarina Bowen
“I am?” I asked. Concentrating on schoolwork right now sounded impossible.
Bridger kissed me on the cheek. “We can’t both flunk out. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”
— Bridger
“Hey.” Hartley was waiting for me outside Dean Darling’s office, a somber expression on his face.
“Hey. Thanks for coming.”
“Any time,” he said, pushing off the wall. “You ready?”
“Let’s do this,” I said with more bravado than I felt. Hartley turned the old brass doorknob and ducked into the dean’s ancient little office suite. I felt like I was walking to my doom. Since July I’d been pretending that I could pull it off, that I could take care of Lucy and be a full-time student like everybody else. I wasn’t looking forward to being told to lower my expectations.
Dean Darling’s secretary waved us inside, coming around her desk to take my hand. “Oh honey,” she said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Shirley.” This was all feeling way too familiar. When my father died, I walked around with a tight throat for a month as each neighbor and teacher in my life tried to comfort me.
It never worked.
The dean’s office door opened, and the man himself beckoned to us. Hartley and I filed past him, taking seats in the spindly old wooden chairs opposite his desk. I’d never had to sit here before, thank God. Until this year, my academic career at Harkness had been smooth sailing.
Not anymore.
“I am very sorry to hear that you have lost your mother,” the dean began. He had a fusty British accent.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Please know that your final exams should be the last thing on your mind right now. You will take them whenever you are ready to do so. I’ve already reached out to your professors.”
“Uh, thank you.” I wondered how accommodating he was going to sound in a minute when I told him just how messy my life really was.
“I read in your file this morning that your father is already deceased. Do you have other relatives in the area? I ask because I’m worried for all the things you might be expected to take care of. A death is not only devastating but comes with a great load of bureaucratic hassle. There is a funeral to plan, and decisions to be made. Is there anyone who will help you with that?” The dean put his elbows on the desk and studied me.
“There, uh…” I started. Shit. “There are bigger problems than that. My sister has been placed with social services, and I have to get her back.”
The Dean’s face softened. “I was going to ask about Lucy next. Her name is also in your file.”
“Yeah. This semester I’ve been…” I scratched the back of my neck.
“Just spit it out, Bro,” Hartley whispered.
So I did. I told the Dean that I’d had Lucy with me in my room at Beaumont since July. And that getting her back was going to have to take precedence over everything, including, unfortunately, my next term at Harkness. And while I told my whole sordid tale, he watched me with a calm expression on his face. They probably teach that at Dean School — how to listen to fucked-up situations without scowling.
When I finished, it was quiet for a moment. He set down the gold pen he’d been fiddling with and said, “I wondered about the pink bicycle in the rack.” Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. “What you want is not an easy thing.”
“I know,” I grumbled. “The judge is going to laugh me out of there.”
Dean Darling moved quickly, slapping his hands onto the desk blotter. “Dear boy, that is not true. And that is not what I meant. It’s not an easy thing to be a student and take care of a child.”
I just shrugged. “I’m already doing that. Taking care of an eight year old is a piece of cake. It’s not like when she was little, and I had to follow her around all day making sure she didn’t swallow pennies.”
Dean Darling toyed with his tidy beard for a moment before speaking again. “You make a fine point, and it’s obvious that you have more experience with childcare than I do. However, raising a girl into her teenage years would not be easy. And you’d be making every decision alone.”
Bridger shrugged. “I’m going to be involved, no matter what. If the state says she has to live with someone else, that only makes it harder. It will limit the jobs I can take after graduation, if I have to stick close by. I’m not… This isn’t a whim, for me, sir. It’s my life.”
The dean’s voice was quiet when he spoke next. “A few times a year I have a student in my office, sitting in that chair, whose problems are vast. And usually there isn’t a thing I can do about it. Often, the student’s academic effort has lapsed so badly that it’s too late. Occasionally, there have been mind-altering substances, paid for with his father’s money. And he wants me to fix it all.”
For a moment, the dean turned his head to look out the window into the courtyard. Then he turned to face me again. “Then we have you, Bridger McCaulley. You have a thick file with nothing in it but achievements, and no sign that anyone ever made that easier. Except for friends like Mr. Hartley here. Another of our hard-working achievers.”
I glanced at Hartley, and found my friend watching the dean intently. Like me, he didn’t have a clue where this was going.
“Shirley!” the dean called in a loud voice.
A moment later the door sprang open and her face appeared. “Yes?”
“I need you to find me a law school professor who hasn’t left town for the holidays. Start with Blackwell or Potter. We are going to need some legal advice. And one of those gents will know whom to ask.”
She closed the door and disappeared.
“Bridger,” the dean began, and my name sounded more highbrow in his accent. “We are not going to throw up our hands and let you walk away from your Harkness degree. I have never solved this particular problem for a student before, but if it can be done, we will find a way.” He took a binder off his bookshelf and flipped it open. “There is something called Married Student Housing. You may qualify for an apartment there if you have a minor child in your care.” Dean Darling picked up his phone. “I’m going to ask the dean of graduate studies. One moment.”
Hartley gave me a light smack on the arm with the back of his hand. “There you go,” he said under his breath.
It’s not a done deal yet, I cautioned myself. But a bubble of hope had already begun to swell inside my chest. While the dean made his call, I tried to tamp it back down.
Chapter Eighteen: Approach the Bench
— Bridger
The weekend was a blur of phone calls, meetings with lawyers, and visits to Lucy. While the rest of the student body hunkered down in the libraries, Scarlet and I survived on coffee, and practically lived out of her car.
But it was all worth it. On Monday morning, the lawyer that Dean Darling hooked me up with secured an emergency court date for the next afternoon. That left Scarlet and I pacing around my room, frantically phoning everyone involved.
“Brian is going to come to the hearing,” Scarlet said after hanging up with him. She handed me my phone.
“Thank God it’s in the late afternoon,” I said. “So Lucy’s teacher can be there. I left two messages for the dean already. I’m almost ready to storm his office if he doesn’t call me back.”
“He will,” Scarlet said, kissing me on top of the head. “This is all going to work. Brian wanted to remind you to make sure you have something to wear that’s appropriate for court.”
“Oh, fuck.” I looked down at myself. Old jeans? Check. Faded Harkness t-shirt? Check.
My girlfriend laughed. “Do you own a suit? Or are we driving to the mall right now?”
“I have a good sport coat and pants. But my ties are all stained.”
“That’s easy. We don’t even have to leave town for a tie. How about a good shirt?”
“Define ‘good,’” I said.
Scarlet tugged me out of my desk chair. “Come on. Time to
go shopping.”
“Right now?”
“Show me some hustle, McCaulley. There’s not much time before the buzzer.”
“You look great,” Scarlet promised me the next afternoon while straightening my tie.
But I was too busy trying not to sweat through my shirt to agree with her. “Let’s go,” I said.
“Brian is waiting for you on Elm Street,” she said, shrugging on her coat.
I held my room door open for Scarlet to pass. “Waiting for us, right?”
She paused on the landing, shaking her head. “I can’t go with you.”
“Why not?” She’d worked tirelessly with me these past few days. I couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to see the outcome.
“Think about it,” she whispered. “I’m not vain enough to imagine the judge will recognize me. But if there’s even a tiny chance that some reporter hanging around at the courthouse knew who I was… you don’t need that. You don’t want the name Ellison associated with your custody case. Plus, my phone is going to show me sitting at the library while you’re in court.”
“Scarlet, can we please get rid of that crap on your phone now? Would you cut those assholes loose so I can stop worrying about you?”
“Soon,” she promised, her eyes flicking away from me.
I wanted to argue. But I was out of time. So I kissed her instead, and went off to find her uncle.
“Always refer to a judge as ‘your honor,’” Brian reminded me.
“Right.” I’d probably watched enough cop shows to keep that straight. It’s just that my head was buzzing with anxiety as we walked into the courtroom.
There were more people inside than I expected to see. Jesus. They were all there for me. Hartley and his mother sat together on a bench next to the men’s hockey coach, of all people. Lucy’s teacher nodded to me from the other side of the aisle, where she was seated with Dean Darling. Andy Baschnagel and his parents sat behind them. Holy fuck. At least I wouldn’t have to tell anyone the bad news after I got shot down.
My young lawyer beckoned me over to take a seat in front. “I’ll be speaking for you. But allow me to introduce you to the head of the litigation department at the law school, Judge Blackwell.”
I offered him my hand. “It’s good to meet you, sir…” I caught myself. “Judge.”
Christ. One minute into the courtroom and I’d already fucked it up.
The older man just chuckled. “As long as the guy sitting up there…” he nodded toward the dais, “is ‘your honor,’ then it’s all good.”
“Thank you for coming,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely sure why he was here.
“Dean Darling and I play squash together at this hour of the week, usually,” the older man said. “Since he had to cancel, I thought I’d come and watch one of my students at his first courtroom appearance.”
“Thank you,” I said again. God, I was nervous. Then I saw Lucy’s foster parents appear in the doorway. I looked behind them, but my sister did not appear. “Where’s Lucy?” I asked my lawyer.
“The child does not attend the hearing,” he said quickly. “It’s too traumatic when things don’t work out.”
I felt a stab right in the middle of my sternum. “That makes sense,” I said quickly. I yanked at my collar, which suddenly seemed too tight. If the judge said no, I was going to have to make her cry. Again.
“Deep breaths,” my lawyer said.
“All rise for the honorable Richard Cranmore!”
“It’s show time,” the retired judge muttered.
We turned our attention to the front of the room, where a gray-haired man climbed the dais and sat behind the bench.
“You may be seated,” the clerk said.
The judge opened a file folder in front of him, and then looked out into the courtroom. “Good gracious,” he said, fiddling with the reading glasses hanging around his neck. “I’ve got a dean and half the law school faculty in my courtroom today. Who is minding the college?”
A low chuckle traveled the room, but I was too busy sweating to find the comment funny.
Judge Cranmore scanned the paperwork in front of him. “Emergency petition for guardianship,” he read. “Will Mr. Bridger McCaulley please approach the bench?”
I got up, and my two lawyers followed me.
The judge looked up from the file when I came to stand before him. “Petition for guardianship of Lucy J. McCaulley, made by Bridger McCaulley. Petitioner’s relationship to the minor child is sibling. Is that a full sibling?”
“Yes, your honor,” my lawyer said. “Their birth certificates are included in the file.”
“Sorry, yes,” the judge said, flipping pages. “Supporting documents include statements from the child’s school teacher, foster parents, friends of the family… quite the file you’ve assembled here.”
“They are all here today,” the lawyer said. “The teacher would be happy to speak to you. Her statement describes Lucy’s exemplary attendance and participation at school during the months she lived with her brother in his dorm room.”
I tried not to flinch. But seriously. How did I not foresee that we would end up here?
The judge flipped through the statements in the file and then looked down at me. “You’re a full-time student. Will you be able to continue your studies with custody of the child?”
The lawyer spoke up again. “Your honor, legal guardianship will actually make things easier for Mr. McCaulley, as he has been providing full support under strained circumstances. His custodial plan is in the file.”
The judge waved a hand. “I’ve reviewed it. I just want to hear it from him.”
I swallowed hard. “There are only two things I want to do. The first is to make a home for Lucy, and the second is finish my degree. I might have, uh, arranged things better. But I know I can do both. I’ve always taken care of her.” From my back pocket, I pulled one of the photographs that I’d removed from our house in the fall. It showed Lucy in a baby carrier on my chest while I read a geometry textbook.
I’d been fourteen when the picture was taken.
The judge looked at the picture for a long moment. Then he beckoned a social worker toward the bench. “Does the state have any concerns about this potential arrangement?”
“Housing, your honor,” the social worker assigned to the case said. “But I’ve been told that the College will provide suitable housing if guardianship is approved.”
The judge lifted his eyes to the crowd in front of him. “Who would like to speak to that?”
Dean Darling stood up. “The McCaulley family will be afforded a small two-bedroom apartment in one of our graduate student buildings. Since Mr. McCaulley is part-way through a masters degree in cell biology, I did not even have to apply much force to the graduate dean’s arm to get him to free up a unit. Mr. McCaulley’s financial aid will cover about two thirds of the cost, and I’m told that the child’s survivor’s benefits will cover the balance. In addition, a hockey alumnus has generously stepped forward to supply both Mr. McCaulley and his ward with a dining hall meal plan for the second semester. Their new apartment has a kitchen, of course, but they will not need to use it until summertime, if they so wish.”
“That is generous indeed,” the judge said, and I had to agree. What’s more, it was shocking. I didn’t know any hockey alumni.
Dean Darling cleared his throat. “There are many people here who wish to see our student succeed. He has never asked for our help, but we want him to know that he is welcome to it.”
“Well then,” the judge said with a nod. “Then we shall free up another place in our straining foster care system.”
My gut stumbled when he said foster care, and so I didn’t process the whole sentence. But then his next words sunk in. “Emergency motion for temporary guardianship approved.” Just like on TV, he tapped a gavel against its base. “We’ll revisit in three months to make sure that all conditions of the custody plan have been met.”
I stood there a moment longer, replaying his words in my head, hoping that I’d just heard what I thought I heard.
Behind me, Theresa and Hartley let out a cheer.
— Scarlet
“Tomorrow?” I squealed into the phone at Bridger, who was breathless with relief. “Why can’t you have her back tonight?”
“Paperwork,” he scoffed. “But I got to give her the good news myself, over the phone. And Amy and Rich offered to take her to Chuck E. Cheese’s to celebrate. And there’s nothing like a little bribe to get you over the hump.”
I laughed. “Where are you guys? I’m just walking back to Vanderberg.” I’d been in the library, studying for my stats exam.
“It took me awhile to get out of there,” he said. “I had to thank a whole lot of people who came to show their support, even though the judge didn’t call on anyone except the dean. Now we’re parking Brian’s car about one minute away from you. Wait for us outside?”
“Sure.” I hung up the phone and tried not to feel creeped out by the fact that Bridger’s number would pop up on Azzan’s spy report. Shoving the phone into my purse, I decided that it was time to let Luke take the spywear off. I’d left it on long enough that my father’s handlers wouldn’t assume that I’d noticed their spying. And it had occurred to me that if I traded up for a newer phone, the transition would look accidental.
I was so distracted by my own scheming that I didn’t notice who was waiting for me outside of Vanderberg.
“Hi Scarlet.”
I lifted my chin to find the district attorney Madeline Teeter standing outside my entryway door. “I told you I couldn’t talk to you,” I said immediately.
“I know you did,” she said evenly. “But if you’ll give me thirty seconds, I can explain why I came all the way down here to ask you a single question about the layout of your family home.”
The layout of our house? That piqued my interest, although it didn’t make much sense. The police had combed through the place with their search warrants several times after the arrest.
