each with a glimmer or two of earnest intelligence, but predominated by overbaked platitudes. When I got to Rachel Weismanâs paper, I began to slow down to the point where I was rereading for the sheer pleasure of encountering her words again. The ideas were exciting, and the sentences exceedingly lucid, even mesmerizing. It didnât matter to me that it was substantially shorter than what Iâd asked for. I actually preferred it. I read a few of the paragraphs aloud, and then it struck me that something was off about them.
At first I couldnât tell what, and then I recognized that Rajiv had written the paper. It was in his vocabulary, and it reflected closely his thinking. But then I considered, Wasnât it perfectly possible and even likely for them to talk about the subject? And wouldnât she hear some of his ideas and agree with them, and then be unable to avoid them for purposes of forming her own thesis?
I simply heard Rajivâs tenor voice as I read it, and when I tried to hear hers, the voice wouldnât come forth. I considered simply asking her to write a different paper, but her response, I knew, would be justifiable outrage. They would both hate me.
The bottom line is I accepted Rachelâs paper, but I only gave her a B. She stormedâor maybe just walkedâinto my office saying sheâd never once in her life gotten a B for a grade; that her worse mark had been a B+. I said: âThereâs always a first time, isnât there?â
Somehow that came out more, well, sexual than I wanted it to, and I realized that we were standing quite close at the time, and I backed away.
She was studying my birthmark again, or maybe my eyes.
âHeâs right about you, isnât he?â Rachel said.
She held her mouth in an ill-mannered smirk.
I said, No, Rajiv wasnât likely to be right about me. There was much about me my son didnât know but that was not a conversation I felt like having with a student. The paper was good but I had questions as to its authenticity, I said. She could write an addendum, or she could write a paper on how sheâd arrived at her ideas, and Iâd certainly have a look.
Â
I thought that afternoon and evening about that lineâ Heâs right about you . And I tried to think of what that might mean. I have never done anything to compromise my position as tenured professor at a first-rate liberal arts college. And even if I had, I couldnât imagine why my son would report such a thing.
I began to believe that Rachel might bring the matter up with a dean and so I mentally prepared for such a confrontation.
Had my door been ajar?
âIt was,â I said in practice.
Did I have any burning reasons for questioning the authenticity of the paper, and was there any reason I had to stand virtually on top of her while I had been having this discussion?
âI wasnât on top of her, and the paper simply didnât sound like her.â
And how was it that she knew so much about the inside of my home?
âWhat did she say about it?â
âWhat did you mean by thereâs always a first time?â the dean would ask me.
âWe were talking of her grade,â I would say.
âYou were flirting with her while you were talking of her grade?â
âSheâs sleeping with my son,â I would say.
âWell, how did that happen?â he would then ask, and Iâd have to say, âThey met at my house.â
âDid it occur to you that that wasnât a good idea?â
âHow can you stop a couple of horny kids?â
I actually said this aloud.
âIt would be best if you refrained from describing a student under your supervision as horny, â the dean would say.
âIâve done nothing,â Iâd say, but neither of us would believe that was true.
But it never came to that. Ultimately I gave her an A.
Â
Rachel stopped by my room the night after