"Fine, alright, it's a long shot but it makes sense," Ford said. He tugged me away from the door and stood in between me and the exit. "You can stay here while I go and get a copy of it."
"You?" I snapped. "How do you suppose you're going to get into my father's files? As his daughter, I've gone into his office to pick something up for him dozens of times."
Ford crossed his arms. "How do you think you're going to when your father's files are under review?"
"I'll figure it out." I tried dragging Ford away from the door but he was too solid.
"No," he said. "You haven't thought this all the way through. People are going to stop you all over campus to ask about what happened with your father. The president of Landsman is still looking for you too. Let me go for you."
It was too much. I couldn't leave it alone and pretend it meant nothing. "Why do you care so much?" I cried.
"You don't need to be bombarded with questions or good wishes or whatever. You should call your father and tell him that everything's alright. At least tell him we've been talking it out. He's probably worried sick about where you are," Ford said.
"So you're doing all of this because you like my father? I know you chatted and he invited you over for Thanksgiving, but now you're willing to risk your job and run all over campus just so I can call him and he won't have to worry."
Ford leaned back against the door and let his hands fall loose at his sides. "I like your father. It's been awhile since I've had anyone like him to talk to. He's a good man and he doesn't deserve to be routed for a mistake. Especially when he only made the mistake in order to help you."
"Are you sure that's it?" I asked.
I couldn't believe I was so bold. The heat and the connection had been surging between us since he answered the door, but I had no idea if I was reading any of the signs right. Ford wasn't just a college boy with underdeveloped conversation and over-eager hands. Just one glance from him could tumble my heart while I couldn't be sure what I read in his fathomless eyes.
Ford stood up and rolled his shoulders back. "No. There's more to it than that," he said.
I crossed my arms and eyed the door. I couldn't back down because behind him was the only exit to his apartment.
He saw my nervous glance and took a deep breath. "There's more to my feelings for this, for you, than the honor code allows. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if I got a new job. One less complication to something that seems so obvious."
I readjusted my purse on my shoulder and then dug through the contents to find my keys even though my car was blocks away.
"Clarity, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Ford said. He stepped aside and open his front door.
"No, it's not that," I said. My cheeks flared but I raised my eyes to meet his. "This is just a little detour. They don't have those on trains, you know."
"Who knows," Ford smiled, "maybe I like road trips better."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ford
By the third inspirational quote, I lost my patience. Jackson's students took a long time to leave his classroom. The smaller, more intimate room featured two rectangular tables of dark wood pushed together and ringed with chairs. Jackson sat at the head of the immense table and the students filtered by and asked for feedback. I prowled the far wall of the classroom and ground my teeth, but it didn't hurry them along.
I paced back and forth at the foot of the tables as the last student asked if she should change the tense of her story. "Readers are most comfortable in past tense, but if you feel the need to highlight urgency, go ahead and try present tense," Jackson said.
"Oh, yeah, I hadn't thought of the readers," the student blinked a few times, then she walked into the hallway in a daze.
Jackson shuffled the papers in front of him into one large, neat stack. Then he began perusing the first one, his hand reaching for a red pen.
"How can you stand looking at these quotes every day?" I asked.
Jackson didn't even look up. "The students like them," he said.
I paced to the narrow, lancet window and back. My students were taught to research the full motivational quip and read the quote in context. I wondered what would happen if my students did that with Jackson's literary gems.
"You know, you could put all that nervous energy to good use," Jackson said.
Clarity's image jumped to mind, her long arms bare in the formal dress. "What? What do you mean?"
He looked up and gave a dry laugh. "Obviously not what you were thinking about. I just thought you could run down the hall and get us some coffee. Make yours a decaf."
"Very funny," I said. Then I whirled around and hammered both hands onto the end of the tables. "How can this not bother you?"
"I don't know. I think it's disgusting, but people of privilege have always secured the education of their offspring no matter if they are deserving or not," Jackson said.
I growled. "It's obvious corruption. It drags down the student population. What if you have Junior in your class and the only thing he can contribute is juvenile heckling?"
"Then I follow protocol," Jackson leaned back in his chair. "Once this kid is at Landsman his father won't be able to save him from academic probation."
I stalked around the long tables but stopped before I left the classroom. "Dean Dunkirk isn't totally innocent, but he doesn't deserve to be used just to get some unmotivated student into a good school," I said.
Jackson hooked his hands behind his head and leaned back farther. "Can you imagine what it must be like to be Junior? Being an unmotivated student is the least of his worries. Living the rest of your adult life knowing that daddy had to buy your place in college is going to leave some damage. Ugh, and imagine if his peer group found out."
"Are you done feeling sorry for this over-privileged, spoiled, and most likely uncaring kid?" I snapped.
"You want me to worry about Dean Dunkirk," Jackson said. He loosened his hands and sat up. "I do feel bad for the guy. He's between the figurative rock and hard place."
"I am literally going to punch you," I said.
"That's not the right usage," Jackson said. He faked a flinch before I even moved. "So, when are you going to tell me what's really bothering you about all of this?" he asked.
I unclenched my fists and let my hands drop to my sides. "What do you mean? You know exactly why casual corruption like this bothers me." I yanked out a chair and threw myself in it.
"You don't have to get involved," Jackson advised.
I glowered at him. "Macken's got my termination letter all ready to go, so what's the point of playing it safe?" I asked.
"You could keep your job. She can't just fire you without her decision getting reviewed. I, for one, would be willing to stand up and admit you're a good professor."
The air rushed out of me. "Thanks." I slumped in my chair and drummed my fingers on the dark polished table. "I just think this is a story that's worth pursuing. And what kind of newspaper editor and example would I be if I didn't pursue it? I am trying to inspire future journalists, right?"