Rancher Daddy

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Any idea where she is?” I ask her.

  She looks me up and down, then shakes her head. “Nope,” she says dismissively. “Even if I did, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t tell you, Professor.”

  So much for containing the situation. Everyone in town knows what’s going on, and they all think I’m guilty as sin.

  Tuesday at two comes way too soon. Liza, Dean Hunt, and I, are shown into a large conference room. A few moments later we’re joined by an attorney and his assistant, a senior administrator named Dr. Davenport who reports directly to the Chancellor of the University, plus her assistant who is tasked with taking notes. The company is rounded out by a director from the school’s human resources office. None of them appear pleased to be here.

  It starts out very official, almost like a deposition. For the record, I’m asked to confirm my name, my credentials, my hire date, and an accounting of the classes I supervise and other responsibilities I’ve been given. Then they get to the heart of the matter.

  Dr. Davenport produces a small stack of papers from a folder. She presents them as if she’s presenting evidence in a courtroom.

  “This is a print out of an email and attachment pulled from the university email server. The header information indicates that it was sent from a computer with an IP address corresponding to your university issued laptop, at two-o-six AM, Sunday, a week ago.”

  She slides the print outs down the table so everyone can inspect them. They’ve all seen the email before, as evidenced by their blasé reaction as they move the papers along.

  “The note was sent to a student named Catherine Chloe Harvey who is registered for an art history course, History of 19th and 20th Century Graphic Design and Typography, taught by Professor Johnson. Professor Chandler, is it true that Professor Johnson asked you to proctor the mid-term exam for that class, which met last Tuesday?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “And that’s why you were in possession of the exam and answer key?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes, because Liza gave it to me.

  “Professor Chandler, it appears that you’ve assisted a student—a student who is also registered in two of your classes—with cheating. Can you explain yourself?”

  I take a breath and am about to speak, when Dean Hunt raises his hand to halt me.

  “Dr. Davenport,” he says, “Professor Chandler has opted to have a faculty representative advocate for him in this matter, as is his right under university disciplinary hearing guidelines. Professor Johnson will be speaking on his behalf.”

  What the…?

  Davenport nods. Apparently, this is how it’s done.

  Liza sits forward, folding her hands neatly in front of her. She offers a solemn smile, then she begins, working from prepared notes.

  “Professor Chandler’s qualifications speak for themselves. His academic and professional accomplishments are exceptional, especially when considered in relation to his youth. I don’t believe there’s anyone in this room who can conceive of the unique pressures and stresses our colleague has endured this semester, having been thrust into a role that most of us were still barely prepared for by the time were a decade older than he is now.”

  Where is she going with this?

  She relaxes.

  “Hayes is brilliant,” she says, dropping to my first name. In an effort to make me appear more sympathetic) “He’s talented. But he’s also young—just twenty-four years old. As qualified as he is on paper, he cannot help the fact that his youth and relative lack of life experience has left him vulnerable…”

  What?

  “… to those who would use his inexperience and uneven maturity for their own gain.”

  She’s blaming Chloe for this? No. She wouldn’t.

  “Chloe Harvey is an ambitious young woman, who, based on my observation of her college career since she was a freshman, lets nothing stand in the way of getting what she wants.”

  I can’t let this stand, I’ve got to stop this.

  “Liza, that’s not true, Chloe didn’t…”

  Dean Hunt raises his hand again, cutting me off with a sharp look. “The less you say the better, Hayes. Be quiet.”

  I’m stunned.

  Liza goes on.

  “I’ve watched Chloe’s behavior toward Hayes these past few months. She’s forward. She behaves provocatively. She’s manipulative. Since the first few days of this term, she singled Hayes out, almost as if she was grooming him, setting him up to give her an advantage over her peers. Just a few weeks into the term and she had Hayes doing her work for her. This was witnessed by several students on multiple occasions. I’m sure from Hayes’ perspective his assistance was harmless enough, however it wasn’t viewed that way by the students who didn’t receive the same kind of help.

  “I believe that Chloe Harvey manipulated Hayes, taking advantage of his attraction to her, and his youth and relative inexperience. I believe she convinced him to do something that we all know is wrong, but I also believe that there may have been an element of blackmail involved. Miss Harvey intimated to Hayes that she would end their relationship if he didn’t help her. I witnessed the interaction between them myself, at a party at Hayes’ home just a few hours before this email was sent. Half the attendees at the party witnessed it.”

  Liza takes a breath, pausing. My brain is still trying to catch up, to process this fabrication she’s laid out.

  “Dean Hunt and I have conferred on this matter. We take it as seriously as you do, and we recognize we need to address it head on. Hayes Chandler is an excellent educator and overall, has been a tremendous complement to our team. What we’d like to propose is placing Hayes under a two-year probation, assigning a senior member of faculty to monitor his interactions with students, mentoring him through the more challenging aspects of maintaining proper boundaries between his students and himself, personally and professionally.”

  I stopped listening at two-year probation. They can take their probation and shove it straight up their collective asses. If Chloe gets railroaded for this fiasco, I know how I’m going to solve it, and it’s not going to make anyone in this room happy. So be it. Liza and Dean Hunt may have intimidated me into silence for the moment, but if they hurt Chloe, they’re going to regret it.

  I’m dismissed from the meeting while the Powers-That-Be decide my fate. Walking across campus, back to the art building. I’m reeling from the surreal shock of what happened in that room. It takes a dark mind to contrive the things Liza accused Chloe of. It takes a load of dislike to impugn another human being’s character so completely.

  Then it clicks in my brain. It was Liza. She knew I had the test and key. She was still at the party after I left it, and she was in my office earlier Saturday night. She saw my computer was logged in. She set me up to proctor the exam when any random grad student could have covered for her and appreciated the opportunity. I didn’t question it because I’m accustomed to being that random grad student.

  Liza’s right about one thing, my youth and immaturity made me vulnerable to manipulation—but not from Chloe.

  I’ve been such an idiot.

  Chapter 15

  Chloe

  This is so much worse than I ever imagined it could be. I thought I’d be given a chance to explain my side, but they’re not interested in hearing me out. Their minds are made up. They were made up before I walked into this room.

  Liza Johnson and Dean Hunt are on one side of the table. An admin taking notes, a grim-looking lawyer, and his sidekick are on the other. Dr. Davenport from the Chancellor’s office is at the head. And I’m way down at the bottom, all their eyes on me as if this is an interrogation.

  The things Liza Johnson says about me are outrageous. But every time I try to dispute her version, I’m told by Dean Hunt to be quiet.

  At the end of this farce, Dr. Davenport finally asks me what I have to say for myself. When I tell them they’re wrong, that none of it happened that way, that I didn’t cheat, and I ne
ver asked Hayes to do any of the things he did, they don’t hear me. Instead, the attorney levels his gaze.

  “Miss Harvey, as counsel for the university, let me be plain about the facts here. We’ve corroborated every detail with witnesses, faculty and some of your fellow students. Your behavior has been deplorable. We’ve stopped short of pursuing a sexual harassment action against you, for your behavior toward Professor Chandler. But if you fight this, I’ll have no qualms about going down that path. I don’t think that’s something you want to have on your record, so think carefully before you make your next move.”

  Sexual harassment? Me? What universe do they inhabit?

  Dr. Davenport folds her hands in front of her on the table top.

  “Miss Harvey, the ideal solution here, for everyone involved, is for you to withdraw from school immediately. If you do that today, I’ll personally see that your tuition and fees for the entire semester are reimbursed. The cashier’s office will deposit funds into your linked bank account by the close of business tomorrow.”

  She takes a breath before going on, laying down the law.

  “If you chose not to withdraw, we will proceed with a full Honor Board hearing, which I assure you will lead to your formal expulsion from school. Either way, Miss Harvey, you won’t be back at VCU. Ever.”

  The house of cards that for three years I’ve so carefully constructed in my mind, slowly folds, imploding, slacking to a flat stack of nothingness. All those sleepless nights. All the hoops I jumped through. All the work I put in. All the money spent. For this?

  My brain spins. I try to seize what this means, but I can’t process it.

  The lawyer’s assistant places a piece of paper in front of me and a pen in my hand. She shows me where to sign.

  As soon as it’s done, but before the ink is dry, the meeting breaks up with all of them looking triumphant, shaking hands around the table.

  I gape at Liza slack-jawed. She cuts her eyes at me, smirking as if she’s just won the lottery. It’s then that clarity enlightens me. She did this. She did it all. Hayes didn’t send that note. She did it. She planned the whole thing, just to get Hayes on the ropes and get rid of me. We both played right into her hands.

  Why does she hate me so much? Why would she go to such lengths?

  It’s all too much for my devastated brain to consider.

  On my way out of the Chancellor’s office, I resist bursting out in tears. I swear to god, I won’t let these people see me broken. I’ve got nothing left except my dignity, and I’ll be damned if they’re going to deny me that.

  Back at Greg’s place, with Paul and Greg’s roommates, I break the news.

  Paul is stunned, rendered speechless. Greg isn’t.

  “That’s fucked up,” he says. “What did they do to Hayes?”

  “I have no clue.” I hang my head down.

  Finally, Paul comes back to his senses. “They kicked you out. Forever? Like, you can’t even re-enroll in the spring?”

  I shake my head. “Nope,” I say. “I’m done here. College drop-out. That’s gonna look great on my resume.”

  He looks pained. “This is so wrong.”

  I need to get to the bottom of something.

  “So… did either of you get interviewed by someone from the Chancellor’s office or the Dean, about this cheating thing?”

  Greg and Paul look at one another, then down at their feet. They both did.

  “And who else?” I ask, not waiting for them to answer the first question, as their reactions tell me plenty.

  Greg shakes his head, “I think a couple people from your art history class,” he says. “I heard that some grad student from the painting department went to talk to the Dean. And there were a lot of people pissed that Hayes gave you a pass on the font tracings. That’s a shit load of work you got to skip.”

  I look around the room. There are ten packed boxes full of stuff that I took out of my apartment because I couldn’t risk losing any of it. Sentimental things that matter to me, that can’t be replaced. I spot the one marked “Old Skool” in black magic marker. I’ve been carrying “Old Sckool” around with me for what feels like a lifetime. I go to the box, ripping the tape away from its folded, tucked flaps. In two seconds I find my object; an eighteen by twenty binder filled with transparent plastic sleeves—hundreds of them. Inside each sleeve is a sheet of Mylar, carefully hand-inked with a precise reproduction of a type font.

  I shove the binder into Greg’s hands.

  “I didn’t get a pass on the work,” I tell him, offering him the proof of my claims. “In fact, I think you guys are getting the pass. I did a couple hundred of these over just a few months, with Hayes looking over my shoulder. You’ve got to do what? Thirty of them?”

  Greg inspects the contents of the binder, his jaw slack. “Jesus,” he whispers, contemplating the hundreds of hours and detailed examination of countless type forms the contents of this binder represent.

  “See, that’s the thing none of you considered. I met Hayes when I was thirteen-years-old. I worked summers at the design firm when I was in high school while the rest of you were playing at the beach or at camp or whatever it is normal kids do. I’ve done so much of this shit already, I really don’t need a leg up. I was only here for the studio space, the fancy equipment, and the diploma.”

  Greg looks up at me, chastened. It doesn’t matter, the damage is done. My friends sold me out.

  I turn to Paul. “Did you guys go to Liza, or did she come to you?”

  “She came to me,” Paul says.

  At least I can be grateful for that. They didn’t go out of their way to stab me in the back.

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. They were supposed to fire him.”

  “Hayes?” I ask, incredulous. “Is that what she told you?”

  Paul’s expression darkens. “She didn’t come right out and say it, but… she kind of implied that if we helped her…”

  Wow. I nod. “Okay,” I say, looking around. “I’ll have my shit out of here as quick as I can. Probably by tomorrow. I’ve gotta make some calls and nail down plans.”

  “Where are you going?” Paul asks, confused. “I mean, do you even have a clue yet?”

  I level my gaze on his disturbed face. I’m amused, which is better I suppose, than outraged.

  “I’m going to New York,” I say. “This town… I never really wanted to be here anyway. I never should have been. It just slowed me down and cost me money.”

  I have three things I need to do before I call it a night.

  The first is to call Scott and Danny, tell them what’s happened, and hope they’re still willing to take me in. The next is to call Hayes and apologize to him for thinking he sent the email. And the third is to go to Little Mexico and quit my job. My bartending days are behind me. I can’t say I’m unhappy about that, but I’ll miss the crew.

  Tomorrow I’ll organize moving. Scott and Danny have been as good as their word, sending me money; five hundred dollars every two weeks. I’ve banked most of it, so cash to get moved isn’t a huge problem. I’ll hire a couple guys at the U-Haul place to help me clear my apartment. With any luck I’ll be on the road by tomorrow afternoon.

  I pull up Scott’s number in my contacts, hoping he picks up. The call rolls to his voicemail without ringing. He’s obviously on the phone with someone else. I call Danny and the same thing happens. Instead of leaving a voicemail, I text Scott.

  “Hey – Call me when u get this. Important.”

  Two minutes later my phone rings.

  “Hi Chloe, what’s up?” he asks. I hear a crowded restaurant or bar in the background, lots of voices all talking at once.

  “Thanks for getting back to me so fast,” I say. “So… I have news. Are you busy, because it can wait.”

  “No, I’m fine,” he says. “Danny are I are waiting for a table. It’ll be awhile yet. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll give you all the nitty gritty details later,” I tell him. “
But the short version is that I’m done with school. I’m coming to New York, if you’ll have me.”

  A long pause follows, then he says, “Okay. Of course, we’ll have you. Don’t be ridiculous. But tell me what’s happened. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay,” I assure him. “It’s really complicated. I swear, I’ll tell you everything, when I get there. When I’m… with friends. This place isn’t very… No real friends here…” I feel a knot draw my throat closed and those tears I thought I’d shut down start leaking, streaking my face.

  “Oh, Chloe-cat, c’mon home,” Scott almost sings into the phone, calling me by the pet name my father used when I was a girl. “What can I do to get you here?”

  “Nothing,” I tell him, trying to clear the sound of tears from my voice. “I’ll call you when I get on the road.”

  I do my best to cut the call short, realizing now how close to the surface my emotions are. I don’t want Scott to worry. He’ll worry himself sick if I break down in tears. He’ll make me tell him everything, and I don’t have the energy for it.

  For the same reason I cut it short with Scott, I decide not to call Hayes. Instead I text him.

  “Hayes. I figured it out today that you didn’t send the email. It was LJ. Not sure why she hates me so much, but it’s done. I’m done. They threatened to expel me and more if I didn’t withdraw. I’m going to NYC. I should be able to get the apartment cleared by tomorrow. I’m sorry about all this.”

  I hit send, then wish I hadn’t said I’m sorry, because I didn’t do anything wrong. I have nothing to apologize for.

  It only takes a moment before his response comes back.

  “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Yeah, you or me either.”

  “Nothing to say. I’ll leave the key in the box by the door.”

  I feel tears welling up again. I remember the way Hayes held me, the way his scent made me weak. The feel of his body against mine. It was just a few days ago, but now it seems like forever. That’s all over. It’s history. A mistake I shouldn’t have made.