Psyched (Taboo 101 #2)

by Havana Scott

  “Depends what you call being friends,” Jimenez mutters.

  “Look, even if it’s what you think it is, I’m not his patient, and he’s not my therapist. We saw each other off campus. He never forced me. If anything, I was the one who came onto him, but to be fair, I didn’t even know who he was.”

  Jimenez raises an eyebrow. “You weren’t aware that Dr. Lee was an employee of this university?”

  “I didn’t know about his reputation. I didn’t make the connection it was him when I met him.”

  She chuckles under her breath. “You’d be the only person who didn’t.” She looks at the two men to clarify. “He’s like a celebrity among the young women here.”

  “I know. Go on, Alice.” Dean Alexander leans back in his leather chair which squeaks under his weight.

  I sigh and grasp for the right words. “I met him off-campus. I couldn’t have known who he was. I’m not in tune to who the ‘hot guys’ are. Ask Professor Eckler. The engineering students live in their own little world, especially when they’re as focused as I am on graduating with top honors. Right, Professor?”

  Thankfully, he nods.

  “I don’t even own a nice pair of shoes, an expensive purse, or anything you might consider girly. I’m not one of the women who line up to see him. Trust me on this.”

  “Well, that’s why we called you here, because we wanted your take on the situation,” Dean Alexander says, rocking and rocking in his chair.

  “Dr. Lee hasn’t done anything wrong, so please don’t give him any trouble. I would feel so guilty if I made him lose his job,” I plead, forcing down the dread rising in my chest.

  “Oh, if he loses it, it’s all on him, Miss Verano. No worries there. He gave himself plenty of trouble without you. As of yesterday, he was placed on probation and last I heard, is taking a leave of absence. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t return. Happens quite a bit when employees are given warnings.”

  My lungs nearly explode inside my body. Probation? Are they serious?

  So, they’re punishing him anyway because of me?

  “Probation for what?” I feel panicked, choked. I want to stand up and shout angry words. “He stood up for me. I was being harassed. How can the college put him on probation for that?”

  “Did you let me know?” Professor Eckler jumps into the conversation. “You never told me you were having issues with Aaron beyond the classroom arguments, Alice. Had you told me, I would’ve informed the right people, and we would’ve done something about it.”

  Professor Eckler is just covering his ass, and I get that. “It didn’t happen until the day of our presentation, and anyway, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He was fine in class, just a misogynistic jerk. I don’t snitch on people for being jerks, Professor Eckler. I deal with it on my own like a big girl. That’s what I’ve always done. My whole life, as a matter of fact.”

  Dr. Jimenez is really listening to me. She gets it and speaks to the two men in the room. “It’s normal for victims to feel that they can’t tell anyone what’s happening or for them to try and deal with the situation on their own. Unfortunately, this kind of behavior is more common than you think, especially among women who are beginning to take traditional men’s jobs.”

  “I’m not a victim,” I say. “Nothing happened.”

  Dr. Jimenez looks right at me with big brown eyes in a way that almost makes me lose it. “Alice, being cornered on campus unwillingly by two men suggesting you have sex with them is sexual harassment. You may not think it’s ‘that bad,’ or ‘so horrible,’ but we take all cases here seriously.” She must realize I’m feeling defensive, because she reaches out to touch my knee. “We’re on your side.”

  I feel the wall of tears start rising, but I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Maybe Dr. Jimenez is right, and I’ve spent too many years forming this shield around me to the point that I don’t even realize when I’m being hit anymore. She’s right—Aaron did harass me, and it was a big deal.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he pays for what he did. Thing is, I think he’s already paid enough.” Roman beat him up pretty badly. I just wish they had put Aaron on probation for it, not Roman.

  “Glad you bring that up,” Dean Alexander jumps in again, “because while this is an informal meeting, this case is going to a student council meeting next week to decide the course of action for Aaron Rogers. You don’t need to be there. They deliberate with the facts given and decide an outcome. We’ll let you know. Now, switching gears, let’s talk a moment about your GPA. We were hoping for a 4.0.”

  We? Ah, yes, the college needs to look good.

  “Trust me, you’re not the only one.” I look down at my hands.

  “It’s important for our engineering program that our female graduates get into the most sought-after entry level positions in the workplace following graduation. We see that one lab grade has brought your GPA down. Was that because of the in-class harassment you endured from your classmate?” Dean Alexander cocks his head.

  “No, it was because of—” There I go again, protecting Aaron and brushing it off as no big deal. Actually, I would’ve nailed that lab if it wasn’t for Aaron, but I don’t like shirking responsibility considering I engaged in the same argument.

  Eckler gives me a wide-eyed look. “Isn’t it because you had an issue that day with Aaron and Parker? It made you physically ill, and that’s why you got a bad grade? Alice?”

  Right.

  Eckler may not be the most with-it teacher on the planet, but he’s trying to cover for me. He’s found a loophole to get Aaron the justice he deserves, and all I have to do is nod emphatically and let the admins handle it. “Yes, we got into a battle of the sexes argument that day, and I guess I was out of sorts from that point on.”

  “I see,” Dean Alexander mumbles, writing something down on his notepad. “In that case, we’ll strike that grade from the record in light of the duress you endured.” He smiles, and Professor Eckler, Dr. Jimenez both look satisfied with that ruling. “Oh, and one more thing. This morning, we received a wonderful opportunity from Tesla in California.”

  Here we go—the internship my father created for a few lucky individuals from this program, the one everyone thinks I have nabbed while not understanding that I still have to work for it. It’s got my name all over it, though I’m not sure I want it anymore.

  The dean pushes a stack of papers held together with a paper clip in front of me. “We think it would be great, now that your average is back to 4.0, notwithstanding your final exam grades, if you would apply for this exciting program. It would be great for you and great for the college.” He winks. “Take this home and look it over. They need completed applications by Thursday.”

  Thursday. That’s in three days. I have to decide my entire future in three days.

  “If you don’t have any other questions, Miss Verano, then we’ll call this meeting to a close.” He stands and extends his hand, which I shake. “In case I don’t see you before graduation, we hope you’ve had a great experience here at Blaketon and please don’t forget that we’re always here for you in case you need us.”

  The smile on the dean’s handsome face tells me I better not have any questions or objections, because this is how he wants his fairy tale to end—with him believing that they did everything they could to protect and empower the women in their engineering program.

  I have issues with the way this is being handled, abruptly and without allowing me much say, but I’m too overwhelmed to figure out exactly what’s bothering me. All I know is that it’s time to scoop up my backpack and head on out, reeling from the inquisition.

  Before leaving, Professor Eckler touches my arm, “Congratulations, Alice. No one deserves that internship more than you do, and I’ll be damned if Rogers gets it.”

  I smile quietly.

  The eggshells. It’s the fragile, walking-on-eggshells way they’re deali
ng with this situation, as though they don’t want to be called out for sexism or anti-feminist behavior, don’t want to make the news, nothing. Blaketon has been working to attract more female engineering students, so the quieter this all ends, the better.

  But none of it matters—the end of my studies here, Roman’s probation, the thing with Aaron—because soon, I’ll be gone and will never see any of them again. I’ve been absolved of all my sins, as long as I smile happily and proclaim how Blaketon University made my career dreams come true all while wearing a great big smile in cap and gown, holding my diploma!

  The worst part about it all is that I have no one to go home to. Jilly isn’t my number one confidante anymore, and Gunther is a clueless boy trying the best that he can. The person I love, the person I want to run to and tell about everything that happened here today is Roman, is the one who wants nothing to do with me.

  I should feel happy right now, but I’m miserable.

  Outside the building, I pull out my phone and tell myself this is the last text I will ever send him: I’m sorry for everything, Roman. Please know that I loved you.

  20

  ROMAN

  A place to forget, start over, and make dreams happen.

  It’s been a while since I visited my sister, Maxine Lee, in the City of Dreams. Five years to be exact, and I can’t think of one good reason why I’ve been away so long. Maxie works in craft services for Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank, which basically means this: she has the best job in the world. She gets to cook and create amazing catering services for some of the best people in the film industry. I’m always jealous of her photo albums on Facebook of her with just about every actor, director, or celebrity in Los Angeles.

  “ROMAN!” She yells at the top of her lungs, a brunette goddess bouncing down the exterior hallway of her apartment building. “Oh, my God! I’m so glad you made it!”

  “Me, too, hon. Me, too.” I give my older sister the biggest hug ever. There’s something wonderful about hugging your family member that’s so familiar, it’s like coming home every time. Memories flood me—we’re back in Tucson playing King of the Bed in Mom’s room, and she’s about to let me win, or we’re waking up early to survey the presents on Christmas morning.

  Maxie’s got that California look to her now—thin, strong, healthy—the way practically everybody looks around here. Every time I visit her, she goes about knocking on neighbors’ doors introducing me to pretty much everybody. “Oh, my God, you have to meet Mrs. Nettermeyer. You’ll love her, Roman. She has a fucking jungle in her apartment. Wait ‘til you see this.”

  We say hello to Mrs. Nettermeyer, an 81-year-old retired makeup artist who grows just about every type of plant you can imagine inside her apartment and balcony, except for weed. Well, maybe she’s got that, too, I don’t know. She’ll never need an oxygen tank, that’s for sure.

  “Oh, he’s a handsome version of you, Maxie. A Maxie in boy form.” The old woman pats my face and breathes in her cup of tea. “Very good genes. I’m surprised you’re not both on screen.”

  “We work behind the scenes, Mrs. Nettermeyer. You know that.”

  The next stop is the actual studio where we get immediate access thanks to my sister’s swagger. She introduces me to just about everybody who works for her catering company—Reel Eats. Every chef, every busboy, every waitress—everybody loves her. Across the lot, I watch a production crew getting ready for a shoot, and all I can imagine is what Blondie would think if she were here.

  I know she would love it.

  Alice Verano.

  The right girl at the wrong time. Yesterday morning, she sent me a text telling me she loved me. It must’ve been hard for her to send, considering her penchant for disconnecting, but I didn’t respond. I’m the last person she needs to talk to right now. We all need a reprieve from the madness.

  Maxie hops into one of her silver food trucks and tells her employees that they need to put together an order of a hundred assorted cookies ASAP. Turning to me, she whispers, “Nobody’s gonna eat them. They’re all on diets.”

  “I’ll eat them,” I offer.

  She laughs that melodious, happy cackle only my sister can do. “So, what are you going to do then, Roman?”

  Over the phone this week, I filled her in on my life drama, and in usual Maxie style, she told me to stop being a butthead and come tell her in person. So, here I am. But for some reason, talking about it with her makes it feel more real. I guess this is what patients feel when they divulge their secrets to me.

  “I’m not sure. I just don’t think there’s anything left for me at Blaketon. It used to make me happy.”

  “But it doesn’t anymore. You’ve outgrown it. You need to come out here, be with me, forget the little girl, connect with the ocean. I know you, Roman, you’re a water sign. You don’t do enough meditating around bodies of water, but you should.”

  “Is that real science?” I joke.

  She slaps my arm. “Make fun all you want, but it’s true.”

  She tends to more business, getting trays ready and checking for orders on her phone, but all I can think about is her choice of words—little girl. Alice may be twenty, but she turns twenty-one in a couple weeks, and she’s more mature than most of the so-called women I’ve met in my life. With a great head on her shoulders and a future like an open road toward the sunrise.

  Despite my efforts to forget about her by escaping to LA, it seems that I can’t. Everywhere I look are creative doers, people who make shit happen, and I can just see her working in an environment like this.

  “What if I did move here?” I ask Maxie. “I imagine that therapists are a dime a dozen in the big city.”

  “Roman, there are ten million people in LA. You really think they’re fresh out of shrinks? Come on, dude.”

  It’s not a terrible idea. Just like these big studios have their own caterers, their own massage clinics, their own everything—they’re insular, their own little worlds—I’m sure they have onsite therapy clinics as well. Would I want that? To listen to the woes of the dreamers, the doers, and the makers?

  I would fucking love it.

  “Would you be able to put in a good word for me here at the studio?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  “I don’t work for WB, but I know everyone here.” She laughs. “That’s the best thing about my job—everybody has to eat. And when they do, they come to my truck. I’ll get you a walk-in with HR.”

  “Awesome. Hey, you mind if I go exploring? You’re busy here, and…”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. Here, just wear this.” She removes the ID lanyard around her neck and rings it around mine, even though I have my own guest lanyard. “If anybody asks, you’re with me.”

  “Got it. My sister, the hot shit.”

  “Better than a cold shit.” She tweaks my nose as if I were six again.

  I take off in any direction, trying not to get in anybody’s way. There’s carts moving down every hallway, people busily scurrying, and electric carts between every building. I enter what I believe are the main offices with marbled floors, pretty receptionists, and brochures by the info desk. Lots of brochures, advertising studio tours and special events, but one in particular catches my eye.

  It’s way in the back but in big, black letters at the top, it reads, “We Need Your Right Brain.” Right brains have traditionally been the creative half of your mind. Plucking the brochure, I take a quick glance and realize it’s a general call for employment.

  “Make sure they have the qualifications listed in the back,” a young woman with her thin hair tied into a messy bun says. “Actually, the best thing is to go online and make sure the list is current.”

  “Are these all your open positions here?” I ask, tapping the tri-fold.

  “The creative positions but not all are paid. If they’re hiring. If not, they’ll put you on a waiting list. Some are internships. Online is better than the brochure. It’s worth a shot.”

  “Got i
t. Thanks.” I take another brochure for good measure. I can’t imagine that Warner Brothers Studios would need a psychologist but you never know. Even just a temporary consulting gig for one of their productions would be a start. On the back of the brochure, I see they’re looking for “creative engineers” for set design. May be off location.

  Alice immediately comes to mind. I know she’s set for life at her father’s place of global domination, but it wouldn’t hurt to look this over. As much as I’m missing her something fierce, though, I won’t call her.

  I stroll down a well-lit hallway to a new wing where several people sit around benches reviewing papers. Putting two and two together, I gather that they’re scripts and maybe these are actors preparing for an audition. Simultaneously, five blond guys with medium build all look up at me, nod, then resume going over their lines.

  Yep. Actors.

  Opening my bag to slip the two brochures inside, I notice the manila envelope Mrs. Gio had given me during our coffee meet-up the other day, the one containing her resignation letter. I never did read it on the plane like I said I’d do and ended up falling asleep on the flight instead. Now, I pull it out, open the prongs, and peek inside.

  A folder.

  I slide it out and look at it. Did she give me the wrong thing? Then, I see it—Alice Verano—right in the corner. Mrs. Gio removed Alice’s file from the shelves before the investigator could get to it. No wonder I hadn’t received a call about it yet. Always three steps ahead, Mrs. Gio. Thank you. Maybe I’ll still have a job when I get back. If I want it, that is.

  Just then, a door opens on the opposite side of the hallway, the quieter side with the water fountain near the EXIT sign in the back. A tall, older gentleman walks out, throwing his messenger bag over his shoulder. He looks content, but then again, so do most people here, which says a lot. We nearly bump into each other.