—Remaining at Rawlings, the old man interrupted again, is the fastest way we can see you overcoming these deficiencies.
The balding man and Dean Geller shifted in their chairs, and Dean Geller fixed her eyes on the old man until he met her glare. She seemed embarrassed for me, but I felt humiliated enough on my own, though I didn’t really understand why. When whatever passed between them was over, Dean Geller leaned to her left and produced some papers from somewhere beside her near the floor, then placed them on the table. She slid them my way, said they stated the terms of my probation.
I fanned them out: four sheets of that same beautiful onionskin paper, three of them covered with lines and lines of what looked like a list of instructions. The last page had just a couple sentences near the middle, and then five signatures stacked near the bottom left. Another signature—belonging to the school’s president—was next to these, alone in the middle. On the right was a blank line, my full name typed in all caps beneath it.
—It’s a kind of contract, she said.
They each went around the table and said something about this probation, about how my offense had actually provided an opportunity for them to address other serious concerns about my performance so far at Rawlings. Your performance, they kept saying, and so I pictured Leidy in her camera-ready outfit working her way into the frame, my mom’s face on the TV before I’d turned it off and run down the street, and I nodded at the things they told me: some conditions about my fall grades, how they would factor into what happened next; something about possibly being placed in remedial classes in the spring; an unfortunate and unforeseen complication those remedial classes would pose on my credit hours that would impact a grant in my financial aid package, causing it to be replaced by an unsubsidized loan (this portion sounding so complicated and terrifying that I must’ve looked physically sick, because the woman interrupted the person covering it and asked me if I was all right, if perhaps I had a question). When I asked what the difference between a subsidized and an unsubsidized loan was, they all looked at each other, something seemingly reassuring them as they met each other’s faces. Dean Geller answered and then said she’d have my financial aid officer contact me soon. The old man ended discussion on this point by saying there were plenty of deserving students in line for this money, and if anything, the committee felt that this complication would motivate me to reach out to the academic resources available on campus over the next three weeks.
—The letter makes all this very clear, Dean Geller eventually said. We’d like you to read over it. Your signature indicates you understand the committee’s decision and that you accept the terms of your probation.
—Okay, I said. I sign it here then?
—On the line above your name, she said.
That seemed obvious; I’d meant here as in, in that room, right at that moment. Instead of clearing this up, I asked for a pen, slid the top three pages to the side, and on the fourth signed my name. When I looked up, the same grim faces watched each other, again sharing some secret. Then I realized my mistake: they’d expected me to read it through first. I’d signed something without reading it, made a commitment without knowing what was expected of me—something else Rawlings would have to teach me not to do.
I slid the pen away, and the man who’d attempted to explain the financial aid problem asked me, Do you have any questions?
I had so many, but most were not about the hearing’s results. I wanted to ask: Where was everybody before that day? Why did it take this plagiarism hearing to get someone to notice that I was in major trouble in a whole other subject? If things were as bad as this letter indicated, why hadn’t I seen my advisor since orientation? When he’d asked me what classes I planned on taking and I told him—bio, chem, calc, using those shortened versions in the hopes of sounding ready for it—why did he only say, Sounds hard for a first semester. You sure? Of course I was sure: I took six classes senior year of high school, all of them honors or AP, and I’d been an extracurricular junkie, so it made perfect sense to me that I could downgrade from six to four core classes—classes that didn’t even meet every day!—and be fine. The Office of Diversity’s mandatory meeting had warned us against that exact sentiment (it was, I think, number three on the list of “The Five Biggest Mistakes You Can Make Right Away,” a handout I left on the floor of that auditorium). Yes, I was sure, and he signed some paper—without really reading it!—saying I was good to go. Why had I found the handout insulting? Why did I feel like I’d tricked Rawlings into letting me in at all? How could I make that feeling go away?
—Can I – Is the meeting over? I said.