Better Deeds Than Words (Words#2) (30 page)

Her strange warning to Aubrey was another twist in the plot. And now she was dating Shawn Ward? What a fortuitous turn of events—one which would hopefully put an end to Shawn’s persistent effort to win Aubrey’s affection.

I spun around in my chair, sliding Cara’s independent study essay out of the folder on my desk. No, if she knew anything, she wouldn’t tell anyone, even if she did harbor some secret resentment toward Aubrey. As long as I played my cards properly, I could be assured of her silence.

Chapter 19

Secrets

It becomes thy oath full well,
Thou to me thy secrets tell…
(
The Winter’s Tale
, Act IV, Scene 4)

M
Y
C
ONFIDENCE
C
RUMBLED
at precisely five minutes to twelve on Wednesday. After sending Aubrey several reassuring emails throughout the day on Tuesday and another one before she’d left for work Wednesday morning, I had us both convinced that Cara was not the slightest threat. But when Cara bounced into class on Wednesday, Shawn in tow, she made a beeline for Trina Collins and proceeded to whisper in her ear. Trina looked directly at me, eliciting a hissed response from Cara. Unless I was mistaken, it sounded an awful lot like, “Well,
don’t
look at him!” or something along those lines. Jesus.

When Aubrey walked in with Julie a minute later, I tried not to betray my mounting anxiety, but I felt certain my guilty expression would tip off everyone in the room, revealing my misdeeds in all their sordid glory. Every day, it became clearer to me that I was not cut out for subterfuge. My conscience couldn’t hold up under the pressure.

As usual, Julie waved before sliding into her seat. Aubrey stole a quick glance at me, offering up a small, reassuring smile. I didn’t want to worry her, so I composed myself, settling back in my chair and breathing deeply a couple of times before jotting the date and the title of the final play for study at the top of the page.

All’s Well that Ends Well.

Please, God, make that true
.

I thought of the folder in my bag—the file that contained information which would hopefully guard me against any damning accusations Cara might be planning to make.
Might,
I reminded myself.
This is all speculation. Nothing is certain. For that matter, she might not even know anything
.

My paranoid musings were interrupted by Martin, who hurried into the room, apologizing for keeping us waiting and quickly getting the class underway. As usual, my mind wandered. It was virtually impossible not to think about Aubrey when she was sitting right in front of me. At one point during the lecture, my eyes met Trina’s, and I realized I was smiling, probably inspired by some wayward love-induced thought. My spine stiffened, but then she smiled back at me. It was a genuine and friendly smile. There was nothing veiled in her expression—nothing that said “I just heard the most disgusting secret about you.”

Was I was losing my mind? Just because Cara had spoken to Trina, that didn’t mean they’d been discussing my misdemeanors. A guilty conscience was a frigging scary thing. What had Macbeth said when he’d started coming unhinged in the weeks after his terrible crimes? “
O full of scorpions is my mind…”

I pretended to read my notes, snapping back to attention as Martin ended his lecture and people started approaching the front of the room to toss their
Much Ado
analyses and sonnet papers haphazardly across the desk.

“That should keep you out of trouble for a few days,” Martin said, gesturing to the papers piling up in front of me.

“Yes, no doubt.”

I leafed through a few. There were no names—just student numbers. Perfect. Glancing up, I saw Aubrey and Julie coming forward. I purposely looked away from the pile and continued to chat with Martin so that I wouldn’t even see the title of Aubrey’s paper, or Julie’s for that matter. I didn’t want anything undermining my objectivity.

“Once you’ve finished those, bring them in to the office,” Martin said. “If I’m not there, leave them with the secretary. Give me a call if you have any issues.”

I shuffled the papers and slid them in the side pocket of my bag, watching as Aubrey and Julie walked out of the room without a backward glance. I knew Aubrey was pouring on the pretense of disinterest in light of Cara’s recent threat, but watching the person you love leave without a hint of a goodbye was fucking heart-rending. But then Cara was there, distracting me from my disappointment, rushing toward the front of the room with Shawn.

“Are we still on for two fifteen in the Arbor Room?” she asked.

“Absolutely. See you then,” I replied, watching as they left, holding hands and whispering conspiratorially.

What are you up to?

I took a moment to compose myself and then went to the seminar room.

Two more classes and three more tutorial sessions. I just have to survive until Monday without completely losing my shit.

As I sat across from Cara later that afternoon, I contemplated my circumstances. If she thought Aubrey and I were together, then she must have figured Aubrey would have told me about their conversation. And yet there we sat, drinking coffee and exchanging fucking pleasantries. The situation was beyond screwed up. It was frigging surreal.

What I wanted more than anything was to fire questions at her.

What do you know? What was that warning to Aubrey all about? And what was with all the whispering in class today? Are you planning to ruin me? What the hell is going on?

But I wasn’t about to reveal my hand—or my fear. No, I had to go about this carefully, maintaining the upper hand without showing any malice or giving her cause for defensiveness. I had to keep up the friendly but professional demeanor I’d used in all of our previous meetings.

“So, you and Mr. Ward are an item now?” I asked, trying to start things off casually before launching into full academic mode.

She blushed to the tips of her ears, taking me completely by surprise. I didn’t know she had it in her.

“Um, yeah, I guess so,” she said, playing with her coffee cup.

“That’s great.” I hid my amusement behind my mug and took a long swig. “He’s a good guy.”

“I know, right? He really is.”

I crossed my hands in front of me. It was time to get down to brass tacks.

“And how did things go with your mom this weekend?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, it was super awkward, but she understood, I guess. I told her what you said—that thing about preparing the child for the path, not the path for the child. Remember?”

I nodded. What else do you tell a student whose mother insists on being
so
involved in helping her daughter revise an essay that she renders parts of the paper incomprehensible to the one who’s supposed to have written it?

“I’m sure your mother meant well, but Professor Brown would have noticed the unique writing style of those two paragraphs. I don’t know how understanding he would’ve been if he’d discovered your mother’s involvement. This was a form of academic dishonesty, even if it wasn’t your intention to deceive. He might have questioned your other course work or even pursued the issue with your other profs. I must admit, that thought even crossed my mind…”

I was embellishing, mainly for effect. I’d never had any intention of reporting her. I genuinely wanted to see her learn something from the process. I, of all people, understood the significance of second chances. But now there were new parameters to consider. I wanted her to feel the tenuousness of her situation and see me as her redeemer. The timing of her academic misstep couldn’t have been better.

“My mom honestly hasn’t done anything like this before,” she said. “She helps me study for tests—like, talking about the books and stuff. But I think she could tell I was totally freaked about this essay. I let her get too into it. When I told her how stupid I’d looked when I couldn’t even answer your questions about what those two paragraphs meant, she felt really bad. She told me to thank you for giving me this chance and not reporting this to Professor Brown.”

“Tell your mother I have no desire to see someone lose their entire academic career over one mistake,” I said. “Now, let’s take a look at what you’ve come up with in your rewrite.”

She sat back, ill at ease, while I read the new draft of her essay. It was an interesting paper, very different from her previous drafts.

“I like this angle,” I said. “You’ve almost entirely reworked your thesis. It’s got a sociological feel to it.”

She shrugged self-consciously. “Remember you said I should write what I know? I’m not great with Shakespeare and the imagery and stuff, but I know sociology, so it kinda made sense to me to treat the characters and their problems like case studies, you know what I mean?”

“Absolutely. No, this is good.” I turned to the third page of the essay. “I like what you’ve done with
Romeo and Juliet
—the way you’ve drawn analogies with contemporary issues. The conclusions you’ve drawn here are interesting too—your observations about the way love is often impeded by social norms.” I looked over at her. “You believe what you’ve said here?”

“Yeah. I guess I’m a stupid romantic or something.” She turned crimson again.

I smiled. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a romantic, Miss Switzer.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course I don’t. I happen to agree.” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “Love is elusive at the best of times, don’t you think? If you find someone with whom you might be happy, it’s hard to accept the notion that, as you said in your paper, social codes—rules—might stand in the way of people pursuing that happiness.”

“That’s exactly what I meant,” she said.

A beat passed as we looked at each other. A moment of silent understanding.

She knows. No doubt about it.

I cleared my throat and flipped through the last few pages.

“Well, I’d say you’re in good shape to upload this to the plagiarism detection web site in plenty of time before Friday.”

She sighed in relief. I reached over to my laptop bag and pulled the folder out, sliding the photocopied pages onto the table.

“It’s very satisfying to look at this now and see how you’ve improved.”

“What’s that?” she asked, leaning over the table.

“Oh, it’s just a copy of your last draft. I kept one for my files. One of the most rewarding things about being a TA is seeing the growth of students. Those light bulb moments—when students come to an understanding of something? Those are my favorite.”

She looked at the essay, panic darting across her face. I continued to gaze at her impassively.

I really do love a good epiphany
.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said, striving to keep my tone warm and reassuring and not at all threatening. “I have no intention of sharing any of this with Professor Brown. I think you’ve dealt admirably with this dilemma. It’s been a real learning experience for you. Had you followed through with the submission of this draft—” I tapped the papers in front of me “—we’d be having a different conversation, but you’ve worked hard to do the right thing. Please don’t worry.” I slipped the essay back into the folder.

Insurance.

“Well, um, okay,” she stammered, watching as the damning evidence disappeared into the side pocket of my laptop bag.

“Really, there’s nothing to worry about. I won’t tell anyone about this. Not
anyone
,” I said, emphasizing the last word and looking at her intently. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s no harm done. This’ll be our little secret. Deal?”

She looked across the table at me and stuck her hand out. She wanted to shake on it. I played along, more than happy to oblige. I grasped her hand firmly and held her gaze as we shook hands.

“So, this will all stay between us?” she asked.

I nodded. “Absolutely. All of it.”