I'd kept up to date with what he was doing, even if I was intentionally keeping myself away from football. Coach Taylor could tell Thursday that something was up, and he told me what Duncan had been doing. I prayed, as I slipped off to sleep on Saturday, that he'd call me soon.
Waking up Sunday, I know that I need him. My arms ache, and more importantly, my heart aches as I think of him, the sight of him hugging his teammates after his touchdown. The talking heads after the game were, of course, heaping praise on him, saying that perhaps the half-game benching helped him.
My phone rings, and I'm excited, thinking that perhaps it’s Duncan, but my excitement fades when I see that the number is a landline, although one I don't know. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end is a bit stuffy, officious, but unconsciously so, like someone who has been doing it for so long, they don't even realize it. "Miss Mittel? This is Lawrence Friar, Vice Dean of the Academic Board."
Vice Dean of the Academic Board. The Honor Committee. They're one of the staples of Western, and one of the reasons I'd selected the school. Modeled after the successful and long-running boards in the Ivy League and at the military academies, the Honor Committee has one purpose: to eliminate cheating. Even the athletes aren't exempt. An athlete at Western might get tutoring, might get easy classes, but they do have to turn in their own work and take their own tests.
"Good morning, Dean Friar. How can I help you?"
"There's no easy way to say this, so I'll cut straight to the point. Miss Mittel, there's been an accusation of cheating."
"Oh no! Well, of course, I'll be happy to help the Board in any way I can. Who is the accusation against?"
"It's against you, Miss Mittel. Would you mind coming to the Board offices?"
I'm shocked. What the hell is going on? "Of—of course. When?"
"As soon as you can would be best. We’d like to clear this up as quickly as possible."
"Y—yes, of course. Me too. This must be some sort of misunderstanding."
"I hope so, Miss Mittel. Please, as soon as you can."
I roll out of bed and grab the nearest set of clothes I can find, pulling on some jeans and a t-shirt. I walk across campus, trying to figure out what the hell could have caused someone to level an Honor charge against me. I mean, I make sure to list all my sources for all my papers, which I know is the biggest thing that people get rapped for by the Honor Board.
The Board has its own separate building on campus, a small, octagonal building that's made of granite, with a peaked roof that gives it an intimidating air, and the only windows are narrow slits on the upper floors. Frankly, I've always thought the Honor building looks like a cross between an old-fashioned jail tower and a rocket ship and has a sort of Gothic intimidation that would be complete if they would put the stocks or a gallows out front. I walk up to the heavy front doors and pull, finding them locked. Before I can think that perhaps I just got punked, the intercom next to the door buzzes. "Miss Mittel?"
"Yes, the doors are locked."
"I'll be right down."
I stand at the front of the building, feeling my nervousness grow with each second that passes. I start shifting back and forth, not sure what is going on, but I can't help my jitters. Finally, just when I'm about to hit the button on the intercom again, the heavy doors unlock, and the door opens up. They're bigger than normal doors, at least ten feet tall, and I see as they're pushed open that they're thick, too. In fact, if there's ever a zombie attack, the Honor building is a very good place to take cover.
"Miss Mittel, I'm Dean Friar. Please, come inside."
He’s probably a little over fifty years-old, with a big shock of white hair on top of his head that looks slightly curly, like maybe he should be the sort of man who always keeps his hair short in order to keep it under control, but he doesn't. He's probably been in academia his entire adult life and cut his teeth on the wild days of the seventies.
"Dean, I would love to know what this is about. I mean, I've never cheated on anything in my life." Now that I have someone to talk to, my jitters stop, but my nervousness doesn't. If anything, I'm getting more nervous by the second.
"I understand, but we need to go through the process. Follow me, please."
We go upstairs, where I see Professor Vladisova sitting in a conference room. There's only one conclusion that comes to mind—my organic midterm. "Professor? Do you think I cheated on the test?"
"You left the test room for several minutes," the Professor says in her heavily accented English, tapping a paper in front of her. "You come back in, sit down, and rattle off the rest of your questions at nearly impossible speeds, scoring them perfectly. Too perfectly, in fact."