Learning Curves

Chapter Thirteen





A little before one o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, Leanne hurried down the crowded corridor toward the Office of Graduate Studies, the staccato rap of her heels marking her rapid progress through the halls. A burst water main two blocks from her apartment had delayed her commute to campus by nearly twenty minutes and today of all days was not the time for running late. Today was the first day of the rest of her life, as the guidance office posters used to tout, and she felt ready and eager to forge ahead.

Easing a newly manicured hand over the front of her chic suit, she grinned and pulled open the heavy door. In less than half an hour, she would be sitting before the Walters committee, answering their questions about her research and her academic goals and she was stoked.

In between bouts of sensual gluttony, she’d spent every remaining hour boning up on her presentation. She’d rehearsed her answers with Julia and Cassandra Sunday night. She’d met with her department chair again on Monday between classes, so they could nail down her closing statement, making it as note perfect as humanly possible. She’d even found a few minutes to steal away and shop for her new suit—its sharp tailoring hopefully conveying her serious professional qualifications even as its stylish cut and rich color reflected her newly discovered inner energies too.

And it was all thanks to Brandon, she thought smugly. Due to his talents and his faith and his amazing lovemaking she’d discovered the woman who’d lain dormant inside her for far too many years. With a confident flip of her hair, she walked into the reception area.

“Hello, Judy. Are Deans Kessler and Rose ready for me?” she asked the receptionist.

Looking up from her computer, the other woman shook her head. “Not yet. But they haven’t forgotten your big interview this afternoon, don’t you worry. They’re in with a student on a disciplinary matter but they should be done any minute. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll let you know as soon as they’re free.”

Tucking her satchel beneath the waiting room chair, Leanne sat down and crossed her legs. Resisting the urge to take out her closing statement and rehearse it one last time, she had just picked up an information packet on travel opportunities overseas when the frosted glass door swung open to reveal Milton Kessler, Dean of Graduate Studies, her longtime mentor, Dean Rose and…

“Brandon?”

Leanne was stunned. What was he doing here? Judy said the dean was dealing with a disciplinary matter but what did that have to do with him? A swarm of apprehensive butterflies took flight and her confidence began to seep away.

Ignoring Leanne’s outburst, the dean spoke to Brandon. “Mr. Myles, you’ll need to speak with my secretary to schedule a date to appear before the Senate’s academic review committee. I’d like the matter resolved before the end of term.”

“Academic review committee?” Leanne gasped. Only the most serious cases were referred to that committee—plagiarism, criminal misconduct, fraud. There had to be a mistake. Somehow, somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong. She expected Brandon to protest or argue but he simply nodded as if the instructions were to be expected.

“I’ll do that today,” he agreed grimly.

“What are you talking about?” Leanne insisted. “I don’t understand what Brandon could be accused of that would merit this level of response.”

Dean Kessler turned and said, “Don’t worry, Leanne. This matter doesn’t concern you. We’ll be on our way to your interview shortly.”

She dropped her briefcase on the floor. It thudded and fell on its side.

The dean expected her to just walk away after dropping the bombshell that Brandon’s academic career hung in the balance? She looked at Brandon, hoping his expression would give her some clue, but his eyes were fixed on the carpeting at his feet.

“Surely there’s been some sort of a misunderstanding,” she said. “What about mediation? Or the university ombudsperson?”

The dean looked grim. “There’s no mistake, I’m afraid. We only learned of the infraction yesterday, when a concerned alumna contacted the department to share her suspicions. We met with Mr. Myles today and he’s admitted that the charges were true. He has violated two separate clauses of his fellowship funding agreement with the university.”

Funding agreement? This was about money? None of it made any sense.

“Are you saying this is about Brandon’s fellowship?” she pressed.

Every graduate student at Wellington received some degree of monetary support during their studies. It wasn’t much, but topped up by teaching assistantships, research grants and student loans, it made life as a student possible. The dean’s charges were serious but she couldn’t imagine Brandon doing anything underhanded with the money he received. And he lived so modestly—a shoebox apartment, no car, no fancy clothes or electronics.

“Brandon, what are they talking about?”

He stepped forward and touched her arm, the heat from his fingers traveling along her icy-cold body like a molten torch. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dean Kessler stiffen, his disapproving gaze taking in the intimate gesture.

“Leanne, don’t worry about this right now. About me. Focus on what you need to do today to win that prize,” Brandon said. But his words only confused her further and provided no reassurance at all.

Focus on what she needs to do?

How could Brandon imagine she could focus on herself at a time like this? His academic and professional life hung in the balance and he was just standing there, acting as if it didn’t matter, as if he didn’t matter. Well, he was wrong. He mattered to her.

“No,” she said resolutely, “I’m not going anywhere until someone explains these ridiculous charges to me. If you won’t defend yourself, then I will.”

His mouth tipped up in a ghostly shadow of its usual brilliance, one lone dimple making a fleeting appearance. “Trust you for that.”

“Leanne—” Dean Kessler spoke now, his narrow face creased with concern and displeasure, “—are you and this student involved?” He asked it as though the very thought was distasteful.

“Yes.”

“No.”

The administrators looked perplexed by the discrepancy but Brandon’s mouth was set in a tight, implacable line that said he was in no mood to expand on the inconsistencies in their positions.

Turning to Dean Rose, Leanne pleaded, “Please tell me what’s going on.”

She sighed. “Brandon admitted that he has been working a second job in direct contravention of his signed fellowship agreement. Someone—a former Wellington student—informed the university yesterday that in addition to working as a teaching assistant here and taking a tuition scholarship, he was also working as an exotic dancer.”

Leanne’s jaw dropped. Somehow, someone had connected Brandon’s work at the Foxe’s Den to his studies here at the university. But who would be so cruel as to expose him and set in motion such serious repercussions? Her mind boggled even as her anger flared at the university’s unsympathetic response. They had no interest in the extenuating circumstances of Brandon’s case or working toward a solution that would allow him to continue on at the university. Instead, they were going to throw him under the bus without so much as a how do you do. It was ridiculous.

“But it has nothing to do with his work here,” she insisted. “You’re threatening to put a permanent mark on his transcript and derail his entire academic career because he exceeded his allocated work hours?”

Dean Kessler scoffed. “It has everything to do with his work here. We are an institution whose continued success rests largely on its august and longstanding reputation for scholarly excellence. In addition to explicitly contravening the funding agreement he signed by working at an additional, undeclared job, this student’s actions—the job he’s been working!—seriously threaten to bring that excellence into disrepute.”

Contravening the funding agreement was a technicality. It was less about the rules and all about the university’s reputation. They were worried about the possible embarrassment that would ensue if Brandon’s out-of-hours job became widely known.

“It does nothing of the sort,” Leanne argued. “You’re blowing this issue out of proportion. He could promise to quit. To leave the club behind him. Why would anyone else ever make the connection? Or care?”

The dean looked at her in disbelief. “One Wellington alumna making the connection is one too many in my opinion.

“I know half a dozen students who do work under the table. They need the money too, and I don’t see you throwing the book at them. Just Brandon. It’s unfair and I won’t let you do that to him.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have any standing in the matter, Leanne.”

“Dean Rose, surely you don’t agree with this,” she pleaded.

The Dean of Humanities sighed. “I was overruled.”

“Brandon, you’ve got to fight this.”

“Leanne,” he said stiffly, “I appreciate your concern but I can handle this on my own.”

On his own.

The phrase echoed through Leanne’s mind like a death knell. He’d been on his own his entire life and with a blinding burst of insight, she realized that to someone like Brandon, this moment would seem like the inevitable final move in a game he’d been playing since he was young. One step forward, two steps back. He’d fought and clawed his way from the chaos of his childhood to this point. He’d wanted to succeed but in the back of his mind, there would always be voices telling him not to bother, to give up now, that his efforts were futile.

But she knew him so much better now and knew how much he could accomplish. He wasn’t a failure. He was a survivor. One who thought he had to fight every battle alone. But he didn’t. She would fight beside him. He’d given her the chance to find her own strength; the least she could do was lend him some of it when he needed it most.

“No,” she promised, “we’ll fight this together.”

For a brief moment, a flash of happiness raced across his face, but then it was as if a shutter dropped and his smile disappeared beneath a fierce wave of despair.

He stepped close and she could smell his unique scent when he wrapped his strong arms around her. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he whispered into her ear.

She tipped her head back. “Why? Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Because helping me would only hurt you. And I won’t let you lose your dreams too.”

He looked down at her and she could see herself reflected in his troubled eyes. His arms dropped away and he stepped back. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. And you’re a fool to try helping someone like me at your own expense.”

A wrenching jolt of pain struck Leanne’s heart. “Is that what you think I am?”

He looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. “What we had was never going to last, Leanne. So why are you standing here, trying to rescue me? You’re trying to hide behind me and my failures as a way of justifying your own,” he said harshly. “And I won’t let you use me as your excuse. Ever.”

As she listened to his words, Leanne realized she’d never truly appreciated how much the simple act of breathing could hurt. Every short, shallow gasp sent a lancing pain through her chest. He was wrong. She wasn’t hiding behind his failures. She was done hiding from her life. But nothing she could say would ever convince him of that, would it? It would never be enough—there’d always be something that would act as proof of his shortcomings.

And hers.

The connection she’d felt had all been in her mind. Because if he felt anything for her, he’d never speak to her this way. The fling was over. Their time was done. And it was time for her to get on with her life. Because no one else would do it for her.



Dean Kessler’s deep voice carried into the hallway outside the auditorium, the volume rising and falling as latecomers hurried past Leanne. As the heavy doors swung open and closed, disjointed snatches of his introductory remarks came through like a badly played game of Telephone: “exemplary,” “noted journals,” “future star.”

Yet Kessler’s speech, as predictable as it was, still felt surreal, as though the person he spoke of was merely a compendium of parts and skills.

Of course, given her emotional state, it was entirely possible she was projecting.

At this point in the day, anything seemed possible.

The door to the auditorium opened once more but this time, instead of admitting another audience member, someone exited the room instead. Leanne turned, expecting to see the dean telling her it was time to take her place at the podium.

But it wasn’t Kessler at all.

It was Gillian, a tailored winter coat slung gracefully over her arm. Letting the door close, she stood in front of Leanne.

“What are you doing here?”

Gillian smiled. “How long have we known each other? Did you think I’d miss the biggest day in your academic career?”

It sounded less like a compliment and more like a threat.

“Yes, actually I did. After all, we’ve never liked each other. Why start now?”

“I couldn’t miss it,” Gillian explained gleefully. “I had to be here in person to see it happen. It just gives it so much more poignancy.”

Leanne straightened and looked her foe in the eye.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me? Because if there is, I suggest you spit it out. I’ve got more important things to do right now,” she snapped, her patience for Gillian’s cloak-and-dagger tactics wearing perilously thin.

She braced herself for Gillian’s next volley but instead of flying off the handle, she simply smiled and admired her flawless princess-cut engagement ring. “So, how’s Brandon these days?”

“B-Brandon?” Even saying his name was difficult, but she’d withdraw from the Walters Prize, drop out of university and flip burgers for the rest of her natural life before she’d ever let Gillian see the pain her question inflicted.

“I enjoyed meeting him Saturday night at our dinner. And he certainly seemed attentive to you. Very affectionate.”

Leanne couldn’t summon an answer. Her chest ached too much, keeping her short of breath so she contented herself with a dark and hopefully quelling glare.

“Surprising I didn’t see him inside then,” Gillian said, gesturing at the auditorium’s closed doors. “I wonder that someone so seemingly devoted would miss such an important day for you. But who knows? Maybe he wasn’t as in to you as he appeared to be at the dinner. Or maybe he just couldn’t get time off from his other job.”

“His other job?” The odd phrasing caught Leanne’s attention and her eyes narrowed.

“Come on, you know all about his other job. That’s how you met him, after all, at the Foxe’s Den.” She shook a finger in Leanne’s direction, admonishing her in a playful tone. “I should be angry at you for stealing my thunder. And let me tell you, it took me most of Saturday night to figure out where I’d seen that beautiful body of his before.”

The implications of Gillian’s revelation burst through Leanne’s brain like a mortar shell.

“You were the one.”

“Who revealed his moonlighting to the university? You betcha. The dean was very receptive to my concerns about the threat to the university’s reputation, should news of Brandon’s less than salubrious career choice leak out.”

“You bitch.”

“Sticks and stones, Lee, sticks and stones.” But suddenly the saccharine smile disappeared from her face and the true ugliness revealed itself, no less dark for all it was delivered from someone with perfectly white teeth and flawless skin. “You were so sure you could get away with ruining my chances with the sorority, weren’t you? Bet you thought I’d let it slide, especially after all this time?”

“This is about your sorority? But that was years ago.”

“I don’t care how long ago it was. You ruined all of my plans when you ratted me out. I was blackballed. Marginalized. And it was all your fault.”

“Let me spell this out for you. You cheated. You plagiarized. You terrorized those poor pledges into writing those essays for you and it was wrong. The consequences were always on your shoulders,” Leanne said unflinchingly. “All I did was try to stop you.”

If she’d hoped her speech would have any effect on Gillian, she was sadly mistaken.

“Spare me another lecture,” Gillian spat. “You turned me in because you were jealous. You wanted to ruin my chances because you never had a chance yourself.”

Gillian’s words were a perverse echo of Brandon’s charge and they rocked Leanne to the core. Adrenaline coursed through her. Her knuckles were white against the smooth leather handle of her attaché. She had never wanted to hit another human being as intensely as she wanted to right now.

Consciously slowing her breathing, she exhaled. “I try to live my life with integrity and self-respect. Concepts you know nothing about.”

Gillian laughed long and hard at Leanne’s self-defense. “Where did the dignity and self-respect come in when you were screwing the stripper?”

“Brandon has more worth in one finger than you’ve got in your entire body. He’s decent and kind and hardworking and—” She struggled to keep her voice from echoing through the hall.

“And he’s completely screwed,” Gillian crowed. “Well, you keep thinking all those nice things about him and about yourself if it gives you comfort.”

The auditorium doors opened and Dean Kessler gestured for Leanne to come in. Gillian stood aside and Leanne could feel her pale eyes marking her back as she walked, step by step, toward the waiting podium. At the dais, she stopped and looked back into the hall. Gillian was still there, but she’d put on her elegant wool coat and was buttoning it.

“Good luck,” she mouthed, hers eyes alight with a vicious glee, leaving Leanne standing in front of a room full of spectators, wondering just what havoc her rival had planned. Because if Lee had learned anything in more than twenty years of their forced acquaintance, Gillian never did anything nice. There was always an ulterior motive.

But there was no time to consider their altercation further, because the judges were preparing to give their opening remarks.

“We want to thank everyone here today for coming out and showing their interest for higher learning. The Walters Prize has been awarded annually since 1926 and counts among its recipients two Supreme Court justices, five Nobel Prize winners and more. Ms. Galloway represents the finest that this university and our academic system can offer and we recognize her accomplishments in becoming one the final five graduate candidates in the running for this year’s award.”

A polite smattering of applause followed this platitude and Leanne took a moment to peer round the lecture hall. It was surprisingly crowded. Near the front, a group of graduate students from the English department, Julia and Cassandra among them, were there to cheer her on. Dean Rose, Professor Armstrong and many chairs from across the humanities department were there, as well as other professors she’d worked under and studied with. Even, she was touched to note, a few of her undergraduate students, looking ill-at-ease and out of place in the company of such university heavyweights. And in the third row, next to the dramatic bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, sat her parents.

Her mother gestured with the tips of her fingers, mouthing broadly “Smile.” Leanne wasn’t sure just what her mother expected her to do—burst into a warbling rendition of “Tomorrow” or sashay past the judges in heels and a bathing suit?—but it touched her that Mom and Dad had made the effort to come out and support her today, on the biggest day of her academic career yet.

“We will begin,” the judge continued, “with the judges’ questions, which will be based in large part on the written responses on her academic field of interest that Ms. Galloway provided. After that, we will open the floor to the audience and individuals will be able to submit their questions for the candidate to the proctor, who will collect and read them randomly. And then finally, the candidate will be asked to provide her prepared closing remarks. Ms. Galloway, are you ready to proceed?”

The proceedings were being called to order. Gillian was gone. There was nothing she could do to disrupt the interview process now. She’d obviously thought her mere presence would throw Leanne off her game. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not today. Not ever.

“Yes, I’m at the panel’s disposal.”

It was showtime and she was ready to give the performance of her life.



By three o’clock, Leanne was feeling confident. She’d sailed through the first half of the interview, certain she’d answered the judges’ questions to the best of her considerable abilities.

It seemed as if her painful confrontations, first with Brandon and then with Gillian, had actually served an unexpected purpose. Far from unsettling her or leaving her emotionally vulnerable, they had served instead as a crucible of sorts, reducing her focus to the purest instinctual elements and removing the extraneous matter—emotions, doubt and regret—from the mix. She’d answered each question thoughtfully, her certainty and determination building as each response saw the judges jotting down their comments and nodding in agreement to the points she made. She was in her element and she knew her answers were winning over the Walters selection committee, impressing them with her academic prowess and intellectual commitment.

Smothering a premature smile, Leanne took another small sip of water and prepared for the second half of the evaluation—the public question-and-answer period. Audience members submitted their questions about her presentation and her research on slips of paper, handing them to the front, where they were read aloud by the committee members.

The first question was an easy one, word for word a topic she’d rehearsed with Cassandra during their intensive practice sessions. With a quick flash of gratitude to her best friend, she responded. Other questions followed, and Leanne found herself sketching out details of her research in clear, comprehensible English for the listening audience.

Thirty-five minutes later, there were only two slips left on the judges’ table. Unrolling the second to last slip, the lead committee member read it. A look of consternation passed over his face.

A murmur rose in the gallery as the delay stretched on. The selection committee conferred behind their hands. Uncertain what the problem might be, Leanne felt tension curdle her stomach. Reminding herself to breathe deeply, she could do nothing but wait until the panel read the next question. Finally, after an agonizing wait, they settled back in their seats, their faces studiously blank in the face of Leanne’s concerned scrutiny.

The judge cleared his throat and held the white slip aloft. “Ms. Galloway, the committee has just now received a very serious accusation against you about a matter that did not come to light during the application process. I would like to give you a chance to respond to the charges leveled by this audience member. However, given the nature of the charges, we would be willing to offer you the opportunity to respond in a private session. Is that how you wish to proceed?”

Privately? Leanne’s mind whirled. What on earth could they be talking about? There was nothing in her academic life that would warrant this level of concern. She certainly wasn’t going to slink away and give the impression that she’d done anything wrong. She hadn’t.

“Dr. Bernier,” she said, pitching her voice to carry to the farthest corners of the room, “there is no avenue of my professional life that I feel will not stand up to the most active scrutiny. I have no qualms about any question you might ask.”

He cleared his throat. “While I’m sure that’s the case, this issue actually pertains to your personal life,” he said. Glancing at the remaining panelists, he reluctantly elaborated. “Ms. Galloway, please tell the committee if you have ever engaged in the solicitation or hiring of a male escort during the course of your enrollment at Wellington University.”

Leanne froze.

“I beg your pardon?” she croaked.

Gillian. She’d naively thought Gillian had been satisfied ruining Brandon’s chances and ensuring that any connection between them was decimated, that torpedoing their burgeoning relationship was her goal. Now Leanne saw that her revenge was much more far-reaching than that. She hadn’t come today only to see Leanne’s reaction to Brandon’s destruction; she’d come to lay the seeds for Leanne’s downfall too.

If she didn’t give the answer of her life, it would derail everything she’d worked for. She had to stall, give herself time to work out a solution.

“I’m afraid,” she said carefully, “I don’t understand the relevance of the question in this context. Any relationship I may or may not have with the individual in question is wholly unconnected to my abilities as regard the Walters Prize, is it not?”

The second judge spoke up. “Of course they are. We value diversity of experience and pride ourselves on the inclusiveness of the selection process…”

Her voice droned on, dancing around the heart of the matter, trying to dress up their revulsion as a matter of academic integrity. Platitudes, Leanne thought ruthlessly, nothing but platitudes. Armstrong had been right. The committee cared less about academics than they did about the absence of scandal. In their minds, few things were more scandalous that being involved with a stripper.

The dean’s reaction should have made that clear but she hadn’t thought through the ramifications of Gillian’s attack. If she had, Leanne would have realized the charges would impact every facet of her life that mattered. The mere accusation, true or not, had effectively poisoned her professional future.

The irony of course was that she was no longer involved with the “individual in question.”

Because he knew this would happen.

Not that Gillian would exact her revenge like this, but Brandon understood as that his continuing presence would put her academic advancement in jeopardy. That was why he’d been so adamant about distancing himself from her when they’d clashed in the Graduate Office.

He’d done it for her.

He’d capitulated without argument. He’d sacrificed his chance at a defense in order to give her the best possible shot at the prize she wanted more than anything.

Her heart bled.

The interview process was a sham. They weren’t looking for the next great mind. They were looking for the next great mind that was just like theirs. Dry. Contained. Uncontroversial. If she wanted this prize, she would be trapped by the chains of expectation forever.

She tried to focus. In the audience, the faces of her colleagues and peers swam before her. Kessler was apoplectic. She could see her mother’s face, pale and wide-eyed, but she looked away. This had to be her decision to make. No one else could make it for her.

The Walters Prize was everything she’d ever worked for.

Except…

She’d been working toward the wrong prize.

Brandon was the prize she needed. Because she loved him.

Because with him, she could embrace all the pieces of her life.

It was too late, though. She’d thrown it all away in pursuit of a prize that didn’t really matter.

With her back against the wall, she couldn’t deny the overwhelming impact he’d had on her life. He’d freed her and—despite the personal heartbreak she knew was waiting for her and the professional chaos she would certainly unleash—she couldn’t turn her back what she felt for him.

The buzzing in her mind intensified. On the table in front of her lay her meticulously crafted closing statement. It was a masterpiece of public speaking. It had taken her days to perfect.

It wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.

Licking dry lips, she finally spoke. “My personal life has…It has…” She slowly found her stride. “My personal life should have no bearing on my reception before this committee. Clearly, it does. Yes, I have been seeing a man who works as an exotic dancer. I have not, now or ever, paid for his sexual services. I will not apologize for how I spend my life outside of this university or who…I love. Life is too short for dishonesty. If my achievements can be so easily overshadowed, I’m not interested in defending them.”

She stood, her voice carrying clearly over the chaos in the room. “Therefore, I respectfully withdraw my candidacy in this competition. I no longer wish to be considered for the Walters Prize.”

Picking up her satchel with deliberate care, she walked across the lecture hall. She stepped carefully, keeping her head high and her shoulders back, gliding across the tiled floor. She ignored everything—the tumult, the shouts, Dean Kessler’s angry tirade, her mother’s tears—and walked through the door, into the bustling hall beyond.

As she was swept away by the crowded flow of students, the irony was unmistakable. It had taken more than twenty-five years but she had finally mastered the elusive pageant walk.