“It was for a date!”
“Precisely. You auctioned yourself off for a date…”
“It was for foster children.” My voice sounds so small against the tide of outrage and disgust that keeps swelling with everything the dean says.
“It was for an internship, Miss Carson. At BioKin.”
“First of all, that’s wrong,” I state flatly, unwilling and unable to show any more emotion. “That wasn’t my motivation for doing the auction, and it had nothing to do with my studies here. I disclosed the internship to my professors, but that’s completely separate from the auction and from the charity.”
Dean Hughes stands up from his seat, using his desk to help push himself up.
“Who won the auction?” He walks to the door while asking the question, not facing me.
“None of your damn business,” I spit back at him.
The dean gestures towards the reception area through the door.
“Our business is done here, Miss Carson. From now on, you are welcome on campus as a visitor. Please turn in your student ID downstairs and exit the building immediately.”
Sofie
No taxis, no trains, just me and my own two feet.
I'm carrying myself back downtown, back home, because I don't know where the fuck else to go. Looking at every unfriendly face on the sidewalk going the other direction, all I can think is I'm supposed to be in Advanced Plant Ecophysiology right now.
Missing one class is rare for me. And if I did, I’d have a very good reason, plus a plan to get myself back on track before long.
Back on track.
I'm never going to get back on track again.
There are no more classes for me. No more lectures, no more notes to pore over, no more research in world-class lab facilities, no more hours of solitary study in the library, slowly bringing complex concepts to light.
No more of the purpose that drives my life.
Tears are streaming down my face before I even make it ten blocks. It’s the uncertainty that’s getting me as much as anything. It’s not like I have a backup plan.
I’m livid with myself for not planning better. I know it’s not right, but I don’t know where else to direct what I’m feeling.
All my hopes, my ambition, I put into this one fucking school.
I have everything set up there. Hitting the reset button anywhere else won’t work, because there is nowhere else to continue the program that I’ve thrown endless hours into, plus endless passion and endless frustrations and the solid, hard-earned foundation of what was going to be my life’s work.
It’s all built on the programs, the classes, the unique research potential that I know is only available at that one institute, the one university that just decided to pull the rug out from under everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
I’m halfway home when I swallow and decide to stop crying. It works.
I quickly make another decision: to stop feeling sorry for myself.
This all happened so quickly, and it feels so devastating, but I have the responsibility to fix it, or at least figure out what’s next. Wallowing is not going to help—it’s up to me to get through this.
I stay cool and collected all the way back to my building. I keep it up until I’m almost at my apartment door, where I again start thinking about the rest of the day’s classes I’m missing, together the rest of the month and the semester.
I bite back a sob. I know it’s going to be painful just cutting it all off and letting it all go—even if I do need to figure this shit out rationally.
Once I’m inside the apartment, I let myself start crying again. I feel silly standing by the door and sobbing loudly, but I know I can’t keep it inside, so I better let it out now.
“Sofie?”
Oh, fuck, of course Chloe’s home.
I hear Chloe walking fast from her room. I breathe deeply and get a hold of myself as her footsteps get closer.
I grab a tissue from my purse and do my best to wipe away all the tears, but when I see Chloe’s worried face, the tears start welling up in my eyes again and my bawling starts right back up.
I close my eyes, embarrassed.
Just stop. Be brave for your friend.
It’s no use. I feel Chloe’s put her hand gently on my shoulder, and it embarrasses me even more when I can’t help but give her a hug.
Chloe immediately puts her arms around me and holds me close. She doesn’t falter, holding me tight and rubbing my back softly while I let loose for another few seconds, or maybe longer.
I’m so relieved to feel it passing, to feel the tears drying up and my breathing return to normal. Chloe keeps holding me until I start to pull away. She watches me with concern while I wipe away the last set of tears.
“I got expelled,” I tell Chloe as soon as it feels like I can talk coherently. The way I’m acting, she must think something so horrible has happened that I spill the beans quickly for her sake.
I know Chloe’s going to be annoyed at best that I put her through this, letting her think the worst only to find out this is all about something that probably doesn’t matter that much to her.
“What?” Chloe already seems upset with me. “But you’re the best fucking student they have.”
Chloe’s pissed—but not at me. I should’ve given her more credit.
“The dean himself kicked me out. It’s because of the auction.” I start sniffling again, but I catch myself.
“What? You mean the thing you did for charity? What the fuck does that have to do with the price of fucking tea in China?”
Chloe’s indignance is so strong I start feeling it myself. I’ve been so focused on what I’m going to do, I forgot how fucking absurd and unjust this is.
I want to hug her again, but she’s done enough for me already.
“They think...the way he put it is, I auctioned myself off for an internship.”
Chloe stares at me with the same look of shock and outrage I must’ve given the dean back at his office—except her mouth is actually agape.
Chloe looks up at the ceiling, trying to process what I told her.
“What the fucking fuck? How could they do this to you, Sofie? How dare they?”
“I don’t know,” I say, almost sobbing once again. “I except it’s some kind of ivy league politics. My life is completely fucked up now.”
“No,” Chloe declares, putting her hand on my shoulder.
“No?”
“No, you’re life isn’t fucked up, not if it’s Ivy League politics. You don’t need to let this happen.”
I think Chloe is taking this worse than I am, and I’m just barely stopping myself from bawling again, and maybe throwing up as well.
“You’re the best friend anyone could ever fucking ask for, Chloe, but it already happened. I can’t change that.”
“That’s true, you can’t.”
I put my hand over my face and almost collapse onto the floor. Somehow, for a second, Chloe was making me think that she had an ace up her sleeve, that things weren’t completely hopeless. Now I see she’s just as lost as I am, if not more.
That’s the way it should be, I suppose. This is my problem, fair or not. I can’t expect anybody to step in, wave their magic wand, and make it all go away.
“But they can.” Chloe’s voice snaps me out of what was soon going to be a panicky spiral of thought.
I know the problem is on me, and while that’s too much to think about right now, if I don’t think about it right now, when will I—wait, what the hell is Chloe talking about?
“Who’s they?” My voice quavers with the question.
“Sofie,” Chloe begins with a kind, soft tone, “I’m talking about the people you know who can make ‘ivy league politics’ bend to their will.”
Oh. I didn’t even thinking about them.
I get a warm, comforting tingle just thinking about Lucas, Oliver, and Elijah being there to spend time with me and make my life a little brighter, but Chloe�
��s way off base with that idea.
“Your heart’s in the right place, and bigger than this whole fucking city, but I would never ask something like that from those guys or from anyone.”
“Oh.” Chloe takes her hand off my shoulder and gives me an agreeable look which I take to mean I totally get it.
“So, yeah, you understand...” I can’t get any more words out. I don’t know how these crying jags decide when to start surfacing. I shudder a bit and fight back the tears, composing myself.
I can’t think of anything else to say, though.
“Sofie, I don’t think I understand. The ball’s in your court, so to speak. They’d love to help you, they’d probably trip over themselves for the chance.”
My need to cry fades away, and my need to make this clear to Chloe takes its place.
“I don’t want to ask for their help. I can’t.”
“There’s no shame in asking for help...”
“There is with this. Not one of those guys got where they are now by begging people for favors.”
“You sure about that?”
Maybe this is Chloe’s sneaky way of making me feel better, because I’m getting energized just by explaining how strongly I’m against this idea.
“Yes! They all made their own way, they didn’t need any help. I want to open my own doors, not have someone else do it for me.”
“Sofie...”
“And how’s it going to look to them if I ask them to fight my battles for me?”
“Do you think they never asked any favors? Ever?”
“That’s...no, not like this.”
I’m not sure about that, and fuck, here it comes again.
I just start fucking weeping again. Chloe clutches my arm affectionately, and she has no idea how much I appreciate it.
“You know what, Sofie? I do understand, I just wanted to help.”
“I know. I’ll figure it out.”
Chloe gives me another strong, warm hug before leaving me to have some time to myself. She didn’t have to leave that quickly, though. I have all the time in the world now.
Lucas
It’s just another day at the races.
There’s a phrase that always just fell short of connecting with me. There’s something off about it, and I don’t know why it’s become a cliché.
Yet here we are, at the races, again. Not the dog races, or the horse races—perhaps the rat races. That’s more accurate, but it doesn’t feel right.
No, forget it. It’s just another day at BioKin, the same as any other. We’re all getting through it, helped by the useful habit, shared by nearly all of us in the upstairs offices, of leaving personal baggage at home and efficiently keeping things in the work compartment while we’re here.
I’m walking through the hallway between offices, hitting my hallway stride as my tired little amble that I start with every morning becomes a full-on strut.
This usually happens by eleven at the latest. If I haven’t hit my hallway stride by one, I’ve been known to write off the whole fucking day as a loss.
Hey, if I’m going to spend sixty percent of my day on the same mindless cardiovascular activity, I might as well make the most of it.
This time I’m carrying a folder full of printed grant proposals—after having to snatch it from the desk in Elijah’s empty office because he keeps deciding to disappear this morning—and looking askance at the ghastly fluorescent lights that we have installed in this hallway for some unknown fucking reason.
I’m still strutting, just to show the fluorescents that they can’t get to me no matter how obnoxiously they buzz, when I see that I’m not alone in the world after all.
“Oliver!” I cry out to the suited countenance walking past me through the hall, “just in time to see my hallway stride.”
“Don’t waste it on me,” he grumbles, “I’ll just break it.”
Not bad, Oliver. Better than usual, in any event.
“Hey, speaking of breaking things, can we break these goddamn fluorescent bulbs already? I mean, fucking hell, aren’t we supposed to be at the forefront of science, or innovation, or...”
Oliver stops his usual exercise of just walking away from me, and the sound of his shoes squealing to a halt actually shuts me up.
“Science or innovation, right. What was the next thing you were about to say?”
“Not having fluorescent lights. That’s something we can be at the forefront of, replacing these harsh mistresses with something eco-friendly, easy on the eyes and literally cooler.”
He’s now scrutinizing the ceiling, looking as directly at the long, cylindrical light bulbs as humanly possible without losing his sight permanently.
“You know what, I agree. Where’s Elijah?”
“Ah, the question on everyone’s mind since time immemorial.”
“Do you know? Because please just say so if you do.”
“I do n…”
I’m stopped in my verbal tracks again by the sound of yet another familiar set of shoes approaching from the adjacent hallway.
“Would you look at that, Oliver. It is a small world after all. How the hell are ya, Elijah? Haven’t seen you in these parts in...”
“Are those the grant proposals? How’d you get those?”
“Well, you certainly weren’t around to...”
I’m fucking interrupted again. The culprit this time is the blood-curdling squall of Elijah’s office phone.
“Must be important if they sent it through,” Elijah grumbles while making a sharp left turn into his office.
“Anyway,” I address Oliver, ready to start my lecture with my forefinger pointed straight at one of the light bulbs, “the energy costs of these...”
“Chloe! How good to hear from you.”
I’m going to stop even trying to get full sentences out today.
The loud, boisterous greeting coming from Elijah’s is quite un-Elijah-like. It’s definitely his voice, but the way he’s talking to Chloe on the phone...
Oliver and I exchange a look. Neither of us know why Chloe’s calling Elijah, but it must have something to do with Sofie, and that’s enough to get us both stampeding into Elijah’s office with the intensity of startled elephants.
Elijah looks up at us and for some unknown reason puts his hand over the receiver when he sees us scuttle into the office.
With annoyed eyes, Elijah gestures to the phone with his desk—can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?—before something Chloe says on the other end gives him pause.
“Yes, that’s Lucas, and Oliver...”
Oliver and I give each another look. It seems Chloe has a talent for guessing who people are by the sound of their shoes through the phone.
“I’ll put it on speaker,” Elijah conveys with the earnestness of an Eagle Scout. He gives us a weighty look, hits the button on his phone and hangs up the receiver.
“As I was saying...can you guys hear me? I thought I heard you in the background and you all need to hear this.” Chloe’s voice is loud and clear through the speaker.
“Hi Chloe, you’re coming through with perfect clarity,” I announce. She lets out just enough of a slight chuckle to signal that she gets my slight humor.
“What’s up, Chloe? Is everything okay?” Oliver’s trying to steer us towards the meat of the matter.
“Yeah. Well, sort of.”
Chloe’s response sucks the air right out of the room. It’s not usual for her to call us in the first place, and suddenly we’re all fucking worried about why she did.
“Talk to us, Chloe,” Elijah implores.
She’s sighing loud enough for all of us to hear through the speaker.
I don’t know if it’s ever been so quiet with the three of us in the same room together, and I’m almost positive we’ve never been this collectively worried.
This might be bad.
“As I was saying, I know it’s a betrayal. I mean, we’re BFFs, and you all know that.”
Oliver and I simultaneously start scrutinizing Elijah’s face for any indication of what Chloe’s talking about, and he responds by pointing at the speaker and giving us a classic ‘just shut the fuck up and listen’ glower.
“But this is just too much,” she continues. I realize that I’m practically leaning into the speaker to hear what’s next, even though the volume is more than loud enough.
“What’s too much?” I burst in with that question despite my attempts to listen keenly. I’m just too damn keen, and I can’t wait any longer to find out what’s happening with Sofie.
“Is that…well, never mind that: Sofie was expelled. From school.”
It’s not just me who’s leaning into the speaker. Each of us are hunched over, intensely intent on hearing what Chloe has to say.
After that announcement, though, we all fall out of our tense poses and look at each other. Now there are even more questions.
“Why?” asks Oliver.
Another sigh comes through the speaker. Fuck. Now all I want to know is if Sofie’s okay, but I’m guessing we’ll find out soon.
“Because of the auction.”
Just as we were all beginning to lean towards the phone again, we relapse into our confused stances.
“The date auction? The one for charity?” Elijah’s voice is growing severe in a way I seldom hear it—and I’m feeling the same fucking severity as the story starts coming into focus.
“The very same, guys. They accused her of, Christ, they way they put it is ‘auctioning herself off.”
“The way who puts it?” demands Oliver, taking the words directly out of my mouth, and I’m sure Elijah’s as well.
“The dean,” Chloe states with another sigh.
“Kent Hughes?” Damn, Elijah’s reaching a new level of intensity. I’m surprised he hasn’t slammed his fist through the desk yet.
“Uh, I guess,” answers Chloe’s voice through the speaker. “He’s accusing her of using the auction as leverage for her internship there.”
Another term people use that never quite connected with me is ‘seeing red.’ In my experience, no matter how angry I get, my visual color pattern stays very much the same.
Until right fucking now.
The King's Virgin Bride Page 52
