22. Shakespeare Fangirl

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Shakespeare Fangirl

I keep my head bowed as I cross the campus, not wanting to be recognized.

Now I understand why Carlisle spends so much time in her suite. The little box in Hathaway is my only refuge. I would have gone straight there after leaving Mayfair, except for the curt email from Professor Thorne telling me to meet in her office.

Nothing good will happen there, that's for sure.

I've gotten some texts from Daisy, who has no doubt heard the news. I can't talk to her now, because I'd have a complete breakdown. And I'd like the relative comfort of my lumpy bed to do that.

I'm so focused on trying to become one with the pavement that I nearly collide with a solid form. My heart leaps into my throat before I manage a muttered, "Sorry," and move to sidestep the obstacle. But then I look up.

Brandon is there, his expression hurt before it hardens into an icy mask. "My mom told me girls love guys who're into Shakespeare, but I thought she was bullshitting. Apparently not."

"It's not what it sounds like."

"That's why you were with me, wasn't it? To get close to my father."

"What?"

"You were willing to fuck both of us to get what you wanted."

My stomach twists. "I understand why you're upset, but it wasn't like that. I didn't even know Professor Stratford was going to be teaching here until after…"

Until after I had sex with him for money at a hotel.

Somehow I don't think that will soothe Brandon's anger.

He laughs, a bitter sound that feels wrong from someone his age. "Sure, and I'm supposed to believe you, a freaking Shakespeare fangirl, had no idea who he was?"

"I swear I didn't—"

His eyes rake over me with contempt. "You're pathetic."

His words are like a slap across the face. I feel my cheeks burn with humiliation and a surge of anger. "You don't get to talk to me like that."

"What are you going to do about it? Run and tell my dad?"

Before I can respond, he stalks off, leaving me standing there, exposed and vulnerable. There are whispers. A confrontation isn't exactly the best way to stay anonymous. I look up just in time to see a student pointing their phone at me. The flash goes off, capturing my misery for the world to see.

Another post for Tanglewood Tea, maybe.

They haven't yet posted that I'm the one who had sex with Professor Stratford, which is strange since it would be extremely hot gossip. No one picked up on the fact that I dated Stratford's son…until now.

Tanglewood Tea would have already known, though, since they reported on him cheating on me last summer. That's why we even broke up. Maybe they weren't able to confirm that it was me? Or maybe they do know, but they think I'm the victim like Carlisle does, so it's some kind of journalistic integrity about it. If that's the case, it's a little too late.

I continue on my way to Professor Thorne's office, ignoring the stares .

The door to her office is ajar when I arrive, and I can see her sitting behind her desk. I knock, and she looks up, her cold gaze assessing me.

"Have a seat, Ms. Hill." Her voice is cold, devoid of any sympathy.

I obey her, wondering if she's going to question me. If I'm going to have to say no comment. So far, I've gotten no summons from Dean Morris.

I take the chair opposite her desk, my hands clasped tightly.

Professor Thorne leans back in her chair, a self-satisfied smile playing on her lips. "It seems your academic career has taken a bit of a tumble, hasn't it?"

I'm taken aback by her bluntness, but I struggle to hide it. If she wants to get a rise out of me, she'll have to do better than that. "What do you mean?"

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying my act. "Don't play coy with me. The entire university is buzzing with the news of your little affair. Is that what people are calling it these days? I feel like that implies some emotion, but I think you and I both know it wasn't about that. It wasn't even about sex. No, it was a transaction."

My cheeks flush. She's closer to the mark than she thinks, considering how Stratford and I met. I keep my voice even, though. "Is there a reason you asked for this meeting?"

"Oh, yes. I wanted to be the one to tell you the sad news…for supportive reasons, of course. As your professor this semester, I'm so very sorry to inform you that your entry for the Tempest Prize has been disqualified."

My breath catches. "Why?"

She leans forward on her elbows. "The board of the award was shocked to learn that you were sleeping with your mentor."

Anger makes my fists clench at my sides. "Even if I did it, which I'm not saying I did, why would that impact my entry?"

"You slept with Stratford in order to get him to write your paper."

I stare at her in disbelief. "What? That's not what happened."

She snorts. "I read your entry. Your arguments were far too sophisticated for an undergraduate. It's clear he wrote it for you. Mentors are allowed to provide advice and support…up to a point. Not create the entire argument from scratch."

There's an irony here. It's almost a compliment that Thorne believes my paper was too good to have been written by me. Because the fact is, I did write it. From the original concept all the way to the final draft, it was mine.

There's no way to prove it, however.

It occurs to me that sometimes people accuse others of their own sins. "I wrote my paper," I say. "Which is more than I can say for Matteo."

A dismissive wave of her hand. "Don't try to turn this around."

"It's not hard to guess that you were going to choose Matteo to mentor regardless of what we'd written that day in class."

Her expression hardens, and for a moment, I see a flicker of guilt cross her features. Then she laughs, a harsh, bitter sound that fills the room. "Matteo was always going to win that prize. You never had a chance."

It's basically an admission.

One that doesn't help me at all.

"So he won?"

"They haven't announced the winners yet, but as his mentor I was told privately to clear my calendar for the award ceremony. It will look nice on my wall, don't you think?"

Her walls have almost no room for new accolades. They had seemed impressive when I first met her, but now I have to wonder how many were earned on merit—and how many she manipulated.

"You cheated," I whisper, knowing she's the one who called the board. The one who claimed I hadn't written my paper.

"And you lost." Her voice is flat, her eyes almost reptilian.

"That's your problem. You think someone else has to lose for you to win."

"That's how the prize works. More importantly, that's how the world works. I think you've found that out the hard way, Ms. Hill."

She's right about one thing. I've lost. More than my reputation, I've lost the bright-eyed innocence that Carlisle found so adorable. "I may have lost the Tempest Prize, but at least I still have my integrity."

I leave, both defeated and reaffirmed.

Because she's wrong about the most important thing.

This isn't a zero-sum game. It's not a resource we need to hoard.

Knowledge is the one thing that we can share without diminishing ourselves. That may seem simple, but that doesn't mean it's not true. And I'll float down the river, my skirts wide like Ophelia, singing that song even as I drown, even as she watches me sink.

I'm basically numb as I make my way back to the dorm room.

Lying on my thin mattress in the dorm room, I stare at the ceiling, finding gruesome scenes in the clumpy, yellowed popcorn texture.

My hands fold on my stomach.

I look like Ophelia in her death scene—if I were wearing a gorgeous, flowing dress instead of jeans and a T-shirt, if I were holding a sheaf of flowers instead of my phone, if I were a tragic beauty instead of a ruined co-ed.

It's all very melodramatic in my head, but those are the perils of reading that much Shakespeare. My mind is a whirlwind of betrayal, disappointment, and a future that seems to be crumbling before my eyes.

I don't know how much time has passed before the door creaks.

Daisy walks in, her arms laden with bags. "I hate every single one of those fuckers. But don't worry, I brought reinforcements." She dumps a brown paper bag upside down on her bed. "Super cheap alcohol that's one step above Windex, a THC gummy, and something even harder if you want a real trip."

They don't tempt me .

The weird thing about the pain is that I want to feel it. I want to wallow in it, let it consume me. It's a twisted comfort, a reminder that I'm still alive, still capable of feeling something, even if it's misery.

Daisy sits down on the edge of my bed. "What the actual fuck?"

The harshness of the words isn't directed at me. It's at the world. If she had come to me with sympathy or pity I would have had to reject it. The hard words allow me to speak, to tell her about Brandon's confrontation and Carlisle's PR plan. And the most painful part: losing the Tempest Prize.

She fumes for me. "I'm literally going to kill someone. Probably this Professor Thorne lady. But also Brandon. That little fucker cheated on you, and he called you a slut?"

I think that cluster of popcorn ceiling looks like a skull, like the symbol of the Society. I can't believe I never noticed that before. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters because it's an antiquated sexist slur. And because it's not even true. You've literally had sex with one person."

"Which is now public knowledge."

"And fuck the prize. You're the smartest person I know."

"You programmed a robot dog to fetch."

She rolls her beautiful blue eyes. "Yeah, I can make wires and code. Big deal. You're going to change the world, Anne. I knew it as soon as I met you."

A snort.

"I'm serious. This Tempest Prize can go to hell. For them to believe Thorne, as if she's possibly unbiased when she's competing against you. They don't deserve to publish your piece."

"Yes, I'm sure it's a great loss to the academic community."

"You're going to win a Nobel Prize someday, and when you do, you could call out people like Thorne, but you're going to do something even better. You're going to have forgotten about her completely. But she'll still think about you until she dies, feeling jealous, fading away, turning into an old crone who lures small children with candy before eating them alive."

"That got dark."

"I got a little carried away, but you know what? I stand by it."

I can't even feel pleasure at the fantasy future.

There's a knock on the dorm room.

Our residential advisor, Lorelei steps inside. She's usually strict about the rules. And not exactly gentle about it. I'm half expecting her to tell me that I'm being expelled from the dorm, kicked out for being a super slut.

Her brown eyes are surprisingly soft. "This note came for you."

Our mail usually gets put in the cubbies for us to take out. Not exactly secure but then again no one is sending anyone in Hathaway large chunks of cash or anything people would want to steal.

I have no idea why she's hand-delivering this.

Though I can't bring myself to care.

Daisy's the one who takes the note with a thanks. They murmur at the door about who-knows-what before she returns to me. "Do you want me to open it?"

"Whatever."

There's tearing. "It's from Stratford."

I blink, trying not to care.

"At least, I assume that's who it's from. It's signed W.S. You don't know William Shatner, do you? I mean you may not know him from that small gig he did in Star Trek, but he was a trained Shakespearean actor."

My lips curl into a smile despite my best efforts.

She cheers for herself, making the sound of a touchdown or some other ballgame that I don't understand. "You know, I just realized he has the same initials as Shakespeare. Do you think he was destined to study him?"

I sit up and accept the note.

We need to talk. The usual place. Room 516.

There's also a hotel key card. It doesn't say the Pinnacle on it. Instead there's an art-deco design of emerald and gold geometric lines.

"Anne," she says softly, her hand reaching out to still mine as I clutch the note tightly. "You don't have to go. You can ignore it. You get to choose."

I nod, knowing she's right.

Except this is my choice.

He is my choice.

I want to know whether he's okay, how he's faring in the scandal. I even want to know if there's some way I can help, unlikely as that seems. Love is deep water. We put the chains on ourselves. And God help me, I want the weight of them. I've fallen for my professor. I love William Stratford. There's no triumph in it. No relief. Only the awareness of a long way down in inky depths.