You had to do something to save your friend's dog, but hitting the moving rattler was probably beyond your ability, given your limited target practice. Fortunately, Brett dispatched the snake before it could hurt his dog.
While ascending the stairs, you remember your best friend's words of encouragement when you said you'd fight this injustice. He's the only person in your life who knows about your secret project to build a time machine. You and Brett have been inseparable since grade school when you played together with toy dinosaurs.
You finally reach the dean of students' office, which is guarded by a receptionist who purses her lips at you and pointedly glances at the wall clock. She tells you to take a seat as she heads into the dean's office. You wait. She comes out, closes the door, and leaves you cooling your heels. Through the closed door, you can hear the rumble of the dean's bass voice pronouncing your name, which is:
Unfortunately, the mention of your name behind that forbidding mahogany door provokes laughter. You wince. Who's in there with the dean? Forcing yourself to listen more closely while trying to be unobtrusive, you can make out the distinctive accent of Professor Thorne, who teaches temporal physics. She's the one who flunked you. You hadn't expected her, but it makes sense that she would be here. There's a third voice—male—that sounds familiar, but you can't quite place it.
They make you cool your heels some more. How do you spend your time?
Your mouth feels dry, and you've left your mints at home. Isn't this the way all actors feel as they wait to go out onstage? You'll do fine. "Break a leg," you whisper. The receptionist gives you a puzzled look. You pretend you didn't say anything.
At last, you are summoned. You check that your camera is still recording and enter the dean's office. Behind an outsize dark wooden desk sits a big bald man, frowning at the rumpled paper before him. It's your letter protesting your failing grade in temporal physics. The brass nameplate on the desk reads "Dr. Emory Green." Disgust curls the dean's lip as he throws his monogrammed pen down at your letter. You begin to understand why everyone calls him "Dean Mean."
You look to the side. There's Professor Thorne seated in an overstuffed brown leather chair by the window. Her cold eyes narrow, and so do her lips when she looks at you. And then you notice the other two people in the room.
Oh No
Sitting next to the glass-fronted wooden bookcase is your nemesis, Darien Vance. He's the bastard who lifted a copy of your temporal-physics notes containing your nearly completed proof of concept and turned it in to Professor Thorne as his own work. And she refused to believe you when it was your word against Vance's. You heard through the grapevine that Vance bragged about getting an A, while Thorne gave you an F.
Why is everyone bamboozled by Vance's thoughtful-and-charming act? You learned the hard way what a glib, lying, conniving schemer he is. Worse yet, he's here with his wealthy father, a major booster for the football team. They named the stadium after him last year. From their comfortable seats, father and son favor you with nearly identical displays of contemptuous confidence that does nothing to mar their blond-haired, blue-eyed good looks.
You hate the catch in your voice, though you're inwardly pleased at how the Vances' expressions show that you've managed to annoy the overprivileged pair.
Dean Mean lets an uncomfortable silence fill the room. You look away, your eyes alighting on the pretentious photo of the dean with the university president, the state's governor, and other bigwig politicos. After an eternity, he points to an unpadded wooden chair. "Sit down, Ana Cruz."
You do.
You're about to open your mouth when the dean's next words pummel you. "You stroll in here forty minutes late after having the audacity to ask for a passing grade! You were caught red-handed turning in your classmate's work as your own." He gestures to your enemy, who smirks at you. "Ana Cruz, you've committed a grave violation of our academic code of conduct. What do you have to say for yourself?"
He's wrong! His unfair accusation unleashes a storm of indignation within you.
You've never had as good a poker face as you'd wanted. You worry that you'll give yourself away, or maybe you already have. How can Vance look so sure of himself after pulling a brazen stunt like this?
The office suddenly feels dreadfully hot. Silence reigns as everyone stares at you. Vance Sr.'s face has turned into a mask of smug contempt, though Darien's expression is one of curiosity.
"We're waiting," says the dean.
Your academic career hangs in the balance. So does your hope of obtaining an entry-level job in your chosen field.