Dean Ingram glanced briefly at a folder on his desk before answering, and Joe noticed, though she said nothing, that the folder looked thin, thinner than a semester’s worth of real concerns should look. “There have been some questions raised about the accuracy of information on your financial aid application,” he said. “I want to stress that this is simply part of a routine review process.”
Joe felt something cold settle in her stomach, recognizing immediately the rumor she had refused to dignify with a response earlier, apparently now dressed up in official language and given a seat at the table. “That information is accurate,” she said. “My father’s death benefits and my survivor’s pension are public record. You’re welcome to verify them.” “We intend to,” Dean Ingram said. “As I said. Routine.”
“When is the hearing?” Joe asked. Dean Ingram checked a calendar on his desk. “Friday, six o’clock in the evening. The boardroom in the administration building.” He paused, studying her for a moment, something almost apologetic crossing his face, though he did not let it linger. “I’d encourage you to bring anything you feel is relevant to your case. Character references, documentation, anything that might help clarify the situation.”
Joe nodded once, the same careful, controlled nod she had given Coach Marsh weeks earlier. The nod that revealed nothing of the storm settling underneath it. “I’ll be there,” she said. She rose to leave, and had nearly reached the door when Dean Ingram spoke again, quieter this time, almost as though the words had escaped him before he could decide whether to say them.
“For what it’s worth, Miss Callaway,” he said. “I’ve read your file, your grades, your record from before you arrived here. None of it looks like someone who needs to cut corners.” He hesitated, glancing briefly toward his own desk phone, the one that had carried two calls that weekend from a name he did not particularly enjoy hearing. “I hope Friday clears things up. I truly do.”
It was not much. It was not an apology and it was not protection, but it was honest in a building where honesty had grown thin over the past two weeks. And Joe carried it with her out into the hallway, filing it away alongside everything else she was learning to notice.
She walked out of that office with four days standing between her and a hearing that could end her time at Asheford before it had really begun. A hearing built on a lie planted by someone who had never once had to face real consequences for anything in his life. She did not go back to her dorm right away. She walked instead toward the football field where afternoon practice was already underway. Players running drills under Coach Reyes’s watchful eye. Whistles cutting through the September air.