Long May She Reign (82 page)

She was startled enough to jump, which she instantly regretted. But, screw him—and his stupid dark hair, and unfriendly eyes. “I'm afraid I have another appointment right now, sir,” she said. “I think I could stop by in about twenty minutes, if that would be convenient.”

He didn't like it, but he nodded, and she nodded back, cocking her head just enough to let him know she had no other appointment at all, but that he didn't have a shot in hell of being able to prove otherwise, and she would damn well show up when she
felt
like showing up.

Because if he wanted fear, and immediate submission to authority, he could forget it.

She killed the time by going to get some coffee, and then wandered up to his office half an hour later. He was at his desk, reading a textbook, and when he saw her, he looked at his watch.

Yup. She had taken her own sweet time heading over here.

“Come in, please, Miss Powers,” he said.

She limped over to the extra chair by the side of the desk and sat down, taking an ostentatious swig of her coffee. Yes, she had been late, and
yes
, that had not stopped her from going out of her way to walk down to Spring Street and purchase a beverage, first.

“I'm glad you could find the time to stop by,” he said.

She nodded once, and waited.

“You probably noticed that you didn't receive a grade,” he said.

Gosh, no. That trivial detail had escaped her scatter-brained attention.

“May I have it back, please?” he asked.

She unzipped her knapsack and removed the paper, which had gotten—oh, dear, what a disappointment—quite wrinkled and bent, by virtue of having been forcefully jammed in there.

“I appreciate that you're dealing with a unique set of circumstances,” Dr. Richardson said, taking it from her. “But I can't tell you how disappointed I was by this.”

What the hell was his problem? She hadn't thought it was the best paper ever written, but it wasn't
that
bad. She sipped some coffee.

“As I'm sure you know, we take the Honor Code very seriously here,” he said.

Now she almost
dropped
her coffee. “Sir?”

He looked at her, unsmiling.

Jesus Christ. She could feel her heart beating faster. “Sir, I—” If she sounded frantic, that might suggest a guilty conscience. She took a deep breath. “Dr. Richardson, I really don't understand. I footnoted everything in sight.” Which had made typing one-handed even more challenging than usual.

“That doesn't change the fact that it's pretty obvious you received a great deal of outside help,” he said.

What was obvious about
that
? Unless he meant C-Span. She was starting to feel very hot, and wished she could drag her sleeve across her face, in case she was perspiring.

“It's partially my fault,” he said. “I should have considered the fact that you have access to resources that the rest of the class doesn't, but it didn't occur to me that you would take advantage of—”

This was nuts. “What, do you think my
mother
wrote it, or something?” she asked. “During the incredible amount of spare time she has?”

“No,” he conceded. “My assumption is that it was farmed out to a staff member, and—”

Oh, for God's sakes. “It isn't even that well-written, sir.” She put her coffee down and leaned forward to point at a sentence in the second paragraph, which had bothered her terribly while she was writing it, but even though she tried several times, she hadn't been able to do a good job of improving it. “Look at that. That's very clunky.”

“You may have done most of the writing yourself, but there's a political sophistication to the ideas that—” He sighed. “Miss Powers, students here are very bright, but I've read a lot of freshman papers, and this simply isn't one.”

Jesus Christ, if she got brought up on honor code charges, it was going to be a disaster. Even the legitimate media would latch on to it. And, knowing how tired she always was and how much pressure she was under, no one—possibly even her own parents—was going to believe that she hadn't done anything wrong. Taken a few unethical, but human, shortcuts.

“I'm willing to try and work this out with you privately,” Dr. Richardson said, “but we're really not going to get anywhere until you start being honest.”

What was she supposed to say, that the mere concept of the assignment had been too much for her, and so she'd had it vetted by the best political minds in the country? Gotten the President to form a small task force, which met for several hours a day before spring break, devoted solely to ensuring her academic success?

“Miss Powers, let me be very frank. I don't want to bruise your feelings, but nothing I've heard you say in class comes even close to the acuity and focus in this paper,” he said. “It's an entirely different voice.”

What a self-righteous prick. Who clearly had a tin ear. Since insouciance seemed to irritate him, she picked up her coffee again and drank some. “Perhaps I feel ill at ease, sir, in a room where several people
regularly
take cheap shots at the current Administration, and the professor never steps in, no matter how specious their remarks are.”

Dr. Richardson frowned.

“I don't mind the cheap shots,” Meg said. Much. “But the lack of intellectual rigor behind them bothers me, sir, and it really ought to bother you, too.” Except that it was easier for him to sit around and impugn
her
intelligence, instead. “You keep letting them descend into virulent partisanship, and it defeats the entire purpose of what should be an open and supportive academic environment.”

His frown intensified.

“The voice starting to sound a little familiar to you?” she asked. “
Sir?
”

She would have expected that to make him very angry—maybe even
wanted
it to happen, but instead, he just leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach.

“Did you consult with
anyone
while you were writing it?” he asked.

She had many flaws, but cheating—in any form—had never been one of them. “Well, I went to the library a couple of times,” she said. “But it's all right there in the bibliography.” Because, yes, in addition to the footnotes, she had been conscientious enough to do a full bibliography, too. One night on the phone, she had mentioned the topic of the paper to her mother, who had laughed nervously, and said that she should try, if possible, to be kind—which was the extent of professional advice and counsel she had received.

But, they were still at an impasse here.

“Would it be easier for me just to drop the course?” she asked. “I mean, I don't think either of us is really enjoying my being in there, so—”

Dr. Richardson shook his head. “That's not the outcome I had in mind, Miss Powers.”

Yeah, well, if he thought he was the one who could make the final call on that, he was in for a rude awakening.

“The section about the nature of threat raised my suspicions even more than the rest of the paper,” he said. “It seemed—well, it was unusually savvy and provocative.”

How could it be at all suspicious that she had spent a lot of time ruminating about the concept of the executive branch's response to
threats
?

Besides, why wouldn't she be politically savvy? Christ, the second time she had
walked
—not that it was any of his business—had been on the floor of the House. Apparently, crawling and scooting had bored the hell out of her, and her father had always said that she would try, over and over, to stand up on her own, and that every time she fell, she would be upset enough to slap the rug with her hands, and that it had been painful to witness. Her parents had been living in Georgetown, during that period of their marriage, although they commuted back to Boston on weekends, and one early evening, right after the sitter had gone home, she had taken several successful steps across the living room, only tumbling over once.

Her mother was so upset to have missed it—the House was in the middle of a late-running, very contentious session, getting ready to vote on a hotly disputed bill—that her father brought her over to the Capitol right away, and an enterprising photographer had been able to capture the huge grin on the Chief Deputy Minority Whip's face as her tiny daughter—also beaming—made her unwieldy way towards her. The backdrop of older male Representatives standing across the aisle, some of them frowning, the rest of them with bemused or nonplussed smiles, gave the photo—the original of which was now hanging in the Smithsonian—extra resonance, although her mother had commented, more than once over the years, that considering the degree to which the image had been disseminated, she really wished that her father had thought to brush her hair, first.

“I'd like to see another paper from you,” Dr. Richardson said.

What a waste of time. “If you think I cheated on the first one, sir, what are the odds that I won't do it again?” she asked. “And you won't have any way of knowing for sure.”

He looked so exasperated that it made her nervous, and she tilted back far enough to glance out at the hall and make sure that at least one of her agents was close by, just in case. And yes, there was Larry, looking like a long-in-the-tooth, slightly balding student in a Williams sweatshirt.

“I think it would be very interesting if you explored the threat concept in more depth,” he said. “You'll get extra credit, naturally.”

“I'm doing so badly I
need
extra credit?” she asked.

He let out a hard breath, smacking her paper down onto his desk, and she used her right leg to push her chair several inches away from him.

Out of easy punching range.

But he didn't seem to notice, picking up a pen, and making three quick slashes to write a large A at the bottom of the last page. “Very well,” he said. “I guess we're finished here.”

Had she earned this A—or was he only trying to get rid of her? She sure as hell didn't want a grade that wasn't rightfully hers. “No, thank you, sir,” she said, giving it back again. “If I don't deserve a good grade, I don't want one.”

He stared at her, and then his hands went up into his hair, as though he might actually tear some of it out. That was odd, and she looked up at his head, which made him realize what he was doing, and he brought his hands down again.

It also made her like him. A little.

“Why are you in college, Miss Powers?” he asked.

Implying, what, that she lacked the aptitude? The cognitive capacity? “Because I can't sing or dance,” she said.

His smile was reluctant, but at least it was a smile. “I know that the college experience isn't all about academics, and sometimes, it isn't even
mostly
about academics. And I'm not going to insult you by pretending that, for a number of reasons, you can't spend the rest of your time here going through the motions, and
still
be able to walk into almost any career you choose. If you'd rather proceed that way, then it really isn't my place to urge you to do otherwise.”

But.

“Just an observation,” he said.

Variations of which she had been hearing since elementary school.
Très ennuyeux
.

“I apologize for jumping to an erroneous conclusion about your work,” he said. “And I will also pay more attention to the tenor of some of our class discussions from now on.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

The silence which followed was not a congenial one.

“Okay, then.” She stood up, accepting the paper he handed her, and putting it—not quite neatly—into her knapsack. “I'd better get to my next class.” Philosophy, where she hoped her professor would be nothing, if not generous, about the paper
he
was going to be giving back.

Dr. Richardson stood up, but didn't shake her hand, since it was wrapped around her cane. “Yes. Well. I'll see you in class on Thursday.”

Maybe—or, maybe not.

46

SHE GOT AN
A on her philosophy paper, and as far as she could tell, her professor's nearly illegible handwritten comments seemed to say something close to “Very well-reasoned. You have a splendid grasp of the material!”

So, okay, fine. Maybe she would just go ahead and major in philosophy.

And then, effortlessly, walk into her profession of choice, whatever it might be, esoteric educational background in hand. Piece of cake.

She met Jack for lunch, and he did a pretty good job of not seeming concerned about how much she ate—an attitude she encouraged by polishing off a hot turkey sandwich, french fries, some steamed carrots, and a couple of peanut butter cookies.

Once they had finished, he talked her into going up to his room—the first time she had been there—and after she admired some of his sketches and paintings, and sat down to look at photos of his family, and his equally blond golden retriever, they spent a good chunk of time on his bed, fooling around.

That is, until one of his suitemates walked in without knocking, stopped short, and backed out—although not before sneaking a couple of fast peeks. The whole thing was all the more mortifying because she had never met the guy before, and made that much worse by the fact that the extent of Jack's reaction had been to roll over lazily, flop his arm down over her exposed chest, and say, “Hi, Leo. This is Meg.”

Once the door had closed again, she sat up to put on her bra—always challenging, one-handed—and shirt back on.

“Come on, Meg,” Jack said. “He didn't see anything.”

Meg shrugged into the bra, then threaded her splint through the right sleeve. “Except for the part where he stared at my
breasts
.”