Thank goodness she’d gone back to the club, to get this last dose of inspiration before the final push. After she finished editing, she put a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter and retyped the last few pages, incorporating the new sections. After a thorough proofread, she placed the new pages at the bottom of the stack and sat back, smiling. Her thesis was complete.
Three weeks later, she sat next to Gretchen outside Professor Wakeman’s office on the seventh floor of the journalism school, waiting their turns for his critique. After this hurdle came final exams, and then graduation, which was to be held on the lawn in front of the university’s library. She imagined her father’s face in the crowd, finally proud. Her mother, crying and flapping her arms about like a pigeon.
“Last year, only a third of the class graduated,” said Gretchen. “That’s only nine of us.”
“I know. But we’ve both turned in consistently good work.” As the semester had progressed, Laura and Gretchen had relied on each other, figuring out ways to circumvent the professors’ sexism and comparing notes, and formed a respectful camaraderie. They’d come a long way from that first, tense week.
“Miss Reynolds?”
Gretchen gave Laura a quick smile and disappeared into the office.
Laura thought of the stack of paper that was her thesis, now sitting on Professor Wakeman’s desk. She’d created that from nothing, and even if he didn’t like it and gave her a low grade, she knew in her heart it was a valuable piece of reporting and writing. The school had taught her well, and had given her a confidence that would serve her for years to come.
Around fifteen minutes later, Gretchen emerged, a huge smile on her face.
“It went well?” asked Laura, relieved.
“Yes. He thought my profile of the mayor’s wife was ‘elucidating.’ I’m over the moon!”
“Good for you.”
Laura had to wait another few minutes before Professor Wakeman intoned her name.
“Mrs. Lyons. You may enter.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
New York City, 1914
Professor Wakeman’s office window offered a lovely view over an oval patch of grass where several of Laura’s classmates lolled in the April sun. Laura peered out before taking a seat in the battered wooden chair beside his desk and waiting for him to speak. She wasn’t nearly as nervous as she’d been at their first meeting, when he’d initially scoffed at her idea of profiling a women’s club for her master’s thesis.
He leafed through a couple of pages before looking up at her over his spectacles. “You took my advice and tightened up the middle, which I approve of. I like what you’ve done there, and the women’s points of view are much stronger than I expected. You brought them to life.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
“I don’t agree with all of their ideas, of course. But you’ve presented the issues clearly and thoughtfully. The narration flows.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I also admire the way you included a section that gives the reader some historical perspective on the club.”
“I thought that might help. You see, what these women think and say is quite different from their mothers’ ideas, or their grandmothers’. With the surge of interest in the life and rights of the common man, the worker, there’s been a similar surge in the rights of women, as an oppressed class.”
He shuffled the stack of paper until the edges were perfectly even. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Lyons, your grade is an F.”
She must have heard wrong. “I’m sorry?”
“As I’ve said since the first day of class, a journalism degree is not one to be handed over lightly. Just as the law school students must pass the bar, we demand that any graduates of the journalism school pass a similar bar. You, sadly, have not.”
For a moment she wondered if he had mistaken her for another student, or mixed up her thesis with someone else’s. But no, the pages in front of him were the very ones she’d typed up in Jack’s office. “I’m sorry? How? You’ve said only kind things, and I made the changes you asked for.”
“Your conclusion reads like an editorial in one of Hearst’s slimy broadsheets. It’s shrill, and even though it’s just words on a page, it hurt my ears. This is not what we teach at this institution. You are not here to tell me what to think. Has that not been hammered into you in every class?” As he spoke, splotches of pink emerged on his cheeks.
Laura thought of Amelia and the pushback she got for standing up for herself and her work. This was no different, and she refused to step down. “You mean it offends your sensibilities? You don’t like what you’ve read, and it doesn’t agree with your morals, and so you fail me? That’s not fair.”
If Laura received a failing grade on her thesis, she wouldn’t graduate. She wouldn’t be one of the students standing out on that fine lawn; she wouldn’t get a degree; there would be no job. The whole point of going to graduate school was to be able to land a decent job right off, not fetch tea for the top brass for five years and hope to land a scoop that impressed them. She sat back and clasped her hands on her lap, a ladylike gesture that seemed to mollify him slightly. “Professor Wakeman, you’ve seen that I can report and write and edit just as well as the men. You know I can. Just because I showed some feeling at the very end of my thesis, I’m being punished?”
Professor Wakeman tugged at his collar. “Believe me, it hurts to do this, as you’ve been a promising student up to now. I know this is upsetting, but the school must maintain its high standards.”
She laughed out loud, not caring about her rudeness. She’d been stupid, taking this risk. She’d known about the low graduation rate but had figured it wouldn’t be her. Couldn’t be her. All that money, gone. Wasted. She thought of her mother’s engagement ring; of Dr. Anderson at the library, who’d gone out of his way to secure her a scholarship. She’d disappointed all of them, including Harry and Pearl. Pearl, who she’d hoped would see that women deserved satisfying careers, just as men did. Jack, who’d be overly kind and understanding in a way that would make her squirm.
She tried again, leaning forward slightly in her chair. “You’ve said my work’s been good and consistent. I’ve been out in the trenches with the best of the boys. Please.”
He gathered up her master’s thesis and placed it on the desk in front of her. “I’m afraid not.”
“Let me ask you, how many other women who are under your tutelage did you fail?”
“That has no bearing on your case.”
“Tell me. Otherwise, I have the investigative chops to find out myself, you see. I know Gretchen passed. How many others besides me did not?”