by Claire Adams
"I just think you're too young to get dragged into such a dirty, corporate world. It's more about politics and money than it is about journalistic integrity at Wire Communications," I said.
"Too young?" Clarity's eyes flashed and she leaned closer. "You didn't think I was too young for other things."
I smiled at her fierce retort. "We're done with the dishes. Time to say goodnight?"
Her rose petal lips quirked in an effort to hide her smile. "How about I walk you out?"
I loved when her uncertainty disappeared, and I promised myself to rile her up in the future. It was hard to shake the thought and follow her into the dining room.
There, Clarity snuffed out the candles but glowed herself in the dim light. I stepped closer to her and reached to extinguish a far candle just so our bodies could brush.
"So is this why you were so nice about my short story?" Clarity asked.
An avalanche of snow couldn't have been more effective in freezing my fantasies. "Oh, my god, please tell me you don't think that could be true. It's not." I took her by the shoulders and spun her to face me. "I see more in your writing than puff pieces and articles. I don't want you to be restricted. You should be free to write whatever you desire."
"I wish I was free in my desires," Clarity muttered, and the words were like hot magma melting the ground between us.
She swayed closer, and I couldn't find the strength to step back.
"Ford," Clarity's father called from the hallway. We jumped apart, startled, and he called again. "Go ahead and leave the rest of the dishes. Come join me in my office."
"Don't worry," Clarity said, "you're not in trouble."
I scoffed at her. "As if you've ever been in trouble with the dean before."
I found Patrick leaning on his desk. As I walked in the door of his office, he pulled out two cigars and offered me one. "Care to join me? I find it helps with digestion."
"Is that the Landsman College logo? I had no idea the gift shop sold those," I said.
Patrick grinned. "No, these were specially made. A gift from one of our largest donors, Michael Tailor. I think you met him at the donors’ dinner." He held out the cigar again.
I shook my head. "No, thanks. I was never very good at it."
"Suit yourself. Do you mind if I do?"
I shook my head ‘no’ and took the seat he offered me. The dean's home office was simple but elegant, with a large, hand-carved desk and luxurious, leather chair. Patrick took the hard-backed chair next to me and lit his cigar.
"You know, I'm impressed with you. I think it's great how you can see past the narrow confines of your classroom," he said between puffs.
"I'm afraid other people think I'm not suited to academia for that very reason," I said.
Patrick shook his head. "I suppose it helps that you are closer in age to your students, but I think it's great how you get involved in their personal lives. Especially Clarity."
My eyes flared wide. "Especially Clarity?" I asked with my heart hammering. Had her father picked up on my feelings of attraction for his daughter? The thought horrified me, and I could barely keep it from my expression.
"Yes, by encouraging her creative writing. I am so happy that she took it up again. You have no idea how many hours she spent writing stories as a child."
I leaned back and relaxed my shoulders. "Well, that would explain why she's very good at it."
"It nearly broke my heart when she stopped." Patrick puffed on his cigar. The smoke drifted upwards in three wobbling rings. "Clarity is still so affected by her mother leaving. She's driven by the idea that she has to be the complete opposite of her mother to be a good person."
"Hmm," I said and wiped my palms on my knees.
"Oh, she wasn't how she sounds, not exactly. Clarity's mother and I were a bad match from the beginning, and I knew it. When she left I wasn't all that heartbroken, but it killed me to see what it did to Clarity." Patrick slapped my shoulder. "Take a little advice from an old man: it's not your heart you should follow when you fall in love, but your gut."
"My gut?" I asked.
Patrick returned my skeptical smile with a vigorous head nod. "I knew in my gut that Clarity's mother and I were never going to be able to make a serious go of things, but my heart wanted it to be true. I hesitated to make plans with her even from the start because I knew I couldn't rely on her, I knew she'd be gone sooner than later, but I tried anyway. Go with your gut."
I shrugged, uncomfortable. "My hunches have never really been that good," I said.
"Now, see, I can tell when someone is lying," Patrick sat forward and studied my face. "In fact, I think you might have already gotten a hunch about someone, but you're holding back."
There was a loud clatter from the kitchen, and Clarity's faint voice called, "I'm alright. Everything's fine."
Her father stood up. "I better go help dry the dishes. Help yourself to a glass of scotch. It'll warm you up before you head out in the snow."
I stood up as he headed out the door. It felt awkward to be alone in his office, but a moment later, I heard laughter in the kitchen. Patrick was a genuinely kind and generous person, and his daughter... I needed a drink to think about Clarity.
On the far wall of the office was a built-in cabinet and shelves. I took a lowball glass from the shelf and turned the scotch bottle to admire the vintage before I poured a drink.
"Thanks a million, Michael Tailor?" I looked at the small, handwritten tag two more times before I put back my glass and backed away from the cabinet.
I paced back and forth and read the tag a few more times. Why was Michael Tailor giving the dean custom cigars and expensive scotch?
The short stretch between the cabinet and the opposite wall was not enough area to help me think. I expanded my pacing and took a lap around behind Patrick's desk. On the second lap, I felt the hardening cement in my stomach that meant I had a hunch.
A manila folder was open on the dean's desk, I didn't even have to touch the spread out pages to see what they were. Test scores from Michael Tailor Junior. Terrible test scores.
"Ouch, that's not going to get you into Landsman," I muttered.
Junior's application essay lay closer to the dean's computer. I stepped forward to read the ridiculously bad opening lines and accidentally bumped the desk.
The computer screen glowed to life and showed two documents. The one behind was a template from Landsman College entitled Acceptance Letter. The other was a new version of the application essay, or rather, a loose interpretation of what the young man must have meant.
Clarity's father was rewriting the essay and preparing to send Junior an acceptance letter.
The implications froze me to the spot, and that's where Clarity found me. She bounced into the door frame and laughed. "I hope you're not looking at those terrible pictures of me. He insists on keeping them on his desk even though they're almost a decade old."
Words couldn't escape around the wedge in my throat. Clarity took a step in the door and locked her eyes on my face. I cleared my throat, but no words came out.
"What's the matter? What is it?" Clarity rushed across the office.
I stopped her at the corner of her father's desk. "It's nothing."
"No, I saw the look on your face. What's in the folder?"
I caught her arm and tried to steer her back towards the door. "How about we go for a walk in the snow? I need to burn off some calories from that feast."
"Stop trying to stop me," Clarity snapped. She pulled her arm back. "If my father left something out on his desk, I have more of a right to see it than you."
I let my hands fall and Clarity pushed past me. "It's probably nothing," I said. "It's not what it looks like."
She glanced at the computer screen first. "Why is he retyping the essay?" She popped her mouth closed as she saw the acceptance letter, and then she picked up the original essay.
"We're not going to jump to any conclusions," I said.
Clarity
flinched away as I tried to put my hands on her shoulders. "His test scores are terrible. I mean, really subpar. Landsman College doesn't discriminate against people of different abilities, but this shows a complete lack of effort."
"Maybe your father is giving him feedback so he can try again and be successful in the future."
Clarity's eyes were glass hard. "So how do you explain the acceptance letter?" Then she stumbled and gripped the leather chair for support. "Oh, god. That explains the sudden friendship and all the nice gifts. My father only just met Michael Tailor."
I leaned on the desk and tried to get Clarity to look at me, but she was lost in a whirlwind of worry. "Don't jump to any conclusions."
She looked up at me, and I saw the first wash of tears. "Do you think that's why I got the internship?"
I tugged her away from the desk, but Clarity wouldn't leave the office. We stood on the plush rug in the center of the room, and I squeezed her fingers. "You got the internship on your own merit. How could you possibly compare yourself to Junior? All your father did was mail in your application, and you did the rest. Never doubt that, Clarity."
She shook her head. "You heard my father. His friend Michael Tailor has an 'in' at Wire Communications. I may never have been considered if someone didn't put my application on the top of a pile."
I rattled her hands gently. "You don't think I would have told you if you didn't qualify for the internship? You're probably the best candidate they've ever had."
Clarity sniffled. "How can I believe you? How can I believe you if I can't even believe my own father?"
The look of grief on her face fizzed like acid in my stomach. "A good journalist doesn't jump to conclusions. You need hard evidence to be corroborated."
She tugged her hands free of my grip and headed for the door. "I have to turn it down. I can't take that internship."
I followed her to the door and jumped back as she wheeled around to face me. "What? What did I say?" I asked.
Clarity clapped both hands to her mouth and struggled to get a deep breath. Her eyes were wide with fear. "A good journalist. You're a good journalist."
"No one ever said that. Just calm down, we can figure this out."
"That's it, don't you see?" Clarity cried. "You uncovered corruption at Landsman College. It's your journalistic duty to pursue the story and find the truth."
"Clarity, I didn't see anything. Your father invited me to his office to smoke a cigar," I said.
Her tears overflowed. "You didn't do anything wrong. He invited you into his office, he left the test scores and essay in plain view, and his computer was still on. You can't just walk away from a story like this, no matter who’s involved."
"I'm not a journalist anymore, I'm a professor," I said.
Clarity shook her head. "The first principle of journalistic ethics is to seek truth and report it. And you're the editor of the Landsman College newspaper. You have to report it."
I took her by both shoulders and pulled her close, then I leaned down and made sure she saw me. "Clarity, I will have seen nothing, and I will do nothing, if that is what you want."
Her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. "My father may be guilty of corruption; please don't make me doubt your integrity too."
Chapter Eleven
Clarity
I took items at random from the cafeteria line. It didn't matter as long as I wasn't having breakfast across from my father. He was acting as if nothing was wrong, but not in a normal way. My father's school spirit seemed strained for the first time ever. At least I knew he wasn't comfortable with what he'd done.
I stared blankly at the dry cereal choices. Had my father really ignored an applicant's test results? Michael Tailor Junior's scores were not only poor; they were deliberately bad. How could my father doctor an entrance essay in order to justify letting such a determinedly defiant student in to Landsman College?
The most logical explanation made me sick. Despite the sweet smell of the buttermilk pancakes, I knew I wasn't going to be able to eat a thing on my tray. I had only come to the cafeteria to avoid my father.
At least my misery did not stand out. Everywhere, students were struggling to adjust to classes as usual. The first day back after break and most students shuffled through in pajama pants and collegiate sweatshirts. Messy hair and blurry eyes were everywhere.
I just wanted to be alone.
"Student ID?" the cafeteria worker asked.
I winced, but handed him the card. The last time someone had asked me that I had lied. It had been so easy to tell the security guard a false name. I had been thinking about saving my father the embarrassment. And I had been thinking of Ford.
Looking back over the Thanksgiving holiday, Ford had been my only bright spot. Now all the happy moments with my father were tarnished by the major infraction he had committed, probably while the turkey was baking in the oven. I squeezed my eyes shut for just a moment and conjured up Ford's stormy gaze again. He had stood in front of me, steadied me as I reeled in disbelief, and Ford had promised he saw nothing.
"If that's what you want." His words echoed in my head.
"What?" I asked.
The cafeteria worker sighed and repeated, "There’s fresh orange juice near the end counter if that's what you want."
"Thanks." I scooped up my tray and searched for a quiet table.
I sat down in the far corner by the window and faced Thompson Hall. I wondered if I would see Ford hurrying to his first class. I wondered if he was going to break the story about my father accepting bribes.
Ford had to know the only reason my father did it was to secure me the internship at Wire Communications. It was all I had talked about all summer and all I had focused on since the beginning of the year. The career-making internship that I was going to turn down.
I slumped back in my chair. "What's the point of even going to class?"
The answer bolted me upright in my chair. Ford. Somehow he was the only person I wanted to see.
"Clarity, hi! I don't normally see you in the cafeteria. It's so great to run into you after break and before class," Thomas said.
I bit my cheek but smiled as he sat down. "Yeah, speaking of class, I need to get there a little early."
Thomas checked his watch. "No problem, we've got time for a little coffee and then I'll walk with you." He smiled. "How was your break? Who did your father end up inviting to Thanksgiving dinner?"
I summoned the good section of memories, memories from before I entered my father's office. "It was really nice. Professor Rumsfeld and his wife were there, and Ford. I mean, Professor Bauer."
"You're on a first name basis now?" Thomas put down his coffee cup and studied the paper rim.
"Well, yeah, I guess. Actually, all the professors wanted to be normal people so I called them all by their first names. Professor Rumsfeld's first name is Jackson," I said.
Thomas picked at his scrambled eggs. "So, what was Ford like? Did he pull a restaurant critic at dinner?"
I laughed. "No, he actually relaxed. My father cracked me up a few times. The Professor's got an infectious laugh."
"So you've been infected?" Thomas scowled and swigged his coffee.
"What? No. I'm just saying that Professor Bauer—"
"Ford."
"Yes, Ford, is actually very nice. He even stayed and helped was the dishes," I said.
Thomas sat back and crossed his arms. "I can't believe your father invited him, much less let him stay late."
I narrowed my eyes and searched Thomas' surly face. "What's wrong with that?"
"You know that he's no good, right? You're not totally oblivious to the fact that Ford Bauer is not a good man."
I gripped the edge of the cafeteria table. "Ford is a better man than you'll ever know."
"God, Clarity." Thomas shoved his tray away, and it bumped mine, sloshing my coffee. "I didn't think you'd be one of those girls."
"What exactly are you trying to say, Thomas?"
His whole demeanor changed. A sweaty, hopeful look sprung into Thomas' eyes, and he sat forward. "Maybe once you know the truth about him, you'll forget all about how handsome he is or whatever it is that attracts girls like flies."
I crossed my arms and laid my elbows along the edge of the table. "Did you just call me a fly?"
Thomas reached out and gripped my hand but I refused to untuck it from my crossed arms. "Clarity, I'm sorry, but Ford's done this before."
"Done what exactly?"
"He's seduced students before. You can ask Libby Blackwell. They had an affair her freshman year and then he just dumped her flat. A professor, which should matter to you. A professor seduced a student and then tossed her away like she was nothing," Thomas said.
I was glad no one else was near my quiet table. "What is wrong with you, Thomas?" I jumped to my feet. "I get you're jealous, it makes sense, but I didn't think you were the type of guy to spread false rumors in the hopes of making yourself look better in comparison."
"Clarity, please, wait," Thomas called.
I went back and whipped my untouched breakfast from the table. "You should be ashamed of yourself."
As I marched away, I heard Thomas mutter, "And you should do your research."
#
I stormed out of the cafeteria, only having enough control to stop before throwing out my coffee. The coffee gave me something to grip in between my angry hands and something to sip at so I didn't have to smile. It didn't matter that it was lukewarm and bitter.
Thomas' words sent me off-course, and I wandered down the hallway without a destination. At the student mailboxes, I changed course, then stopped abruptly.
Libby flounced around the corner and giggled at some love note that had been left in her mailbox. I followed her past the registrar's office and out onto the main lawn.
The back of her tight, velour jogging pants flashed the rhinestoned word 'fresh.' Above it was a long-sleeved tee-shirt at least two sizes too small that squeezed her tiny waist. Her shock of dyed blonde hair flipped back and forth in a long ponytail, and I stared at it as if hypnotized.
