Page 121 of Boiling Point
“And the identity of the alleged student?”
“I can’t disclose that either. I have a responsibility to protect their confidentiality.”
“How very convenient for them,” I said. “And for you.”
She blinked, unruffled. “We take all allegations seriously, especially those which could bring harm to the institution or its students.”
“Dr. Hawthorne,” said Dr. Lemke, shifting forward, “this isn’t personal in any way. You and I have always gotten along great. But you have to understand, we’re in a tough position here. Priority number one—we have to look out for our students.”
“Of course.”
“So, help us out. Is there any truth to these claims?”
“What claims, exactly?” I asked, keeping my voice even. Dr. Lemke’s eyes darted to Dr. Singh, waiting for her to take the lead.
She gestured to the printout. “The ones enumerated in the email. The ones you just read.”
“A heavily redacted, nameless complaint absent credibility or context?” I tapped the table, the sound louder than I expected. “How am I supposed to respond when I don’t even know what I’ve been accused of—by whom, with whom, or when?”
“You understand the need to protect student confidentiality,” Dr. Singh said, her tone almost chiding.
I matched her tone. “Of course. But surely you see that asking me to respond to a redacted, anonymous tip is not only improper—it’s legally dubious.” I folded my hands in my lap. “You haven’t even told me which student I’m meant to have…ensnared.”
Dr. Lemke leaned in, speaking like a coach addressing a promising but difficult player. “Cal—may I call you Cal? We’re not trying to trip you up. But this is serious. We want to give you a chance to clear the air before it escalates.”
“Michael—may I call you Michael?”
He bristled a bit but didn’t back down.
“Do you have corroborating evidence, or is this strictly an exercise in creative reading?”
He looked to his colleague and then back at me, but didn’t answer.
“No? Then I’d say the air is clear. As is my conscience.”
Dr. Singh turned the full weight of her scorn on me. “Dr. Hawthorne, this is not a negotiation. We’re asking you plainly: have you, at any time, engaged in an inappropriate relationship with a Page College student?”
Silence thickened. The HVAC grumbled as it kicked on, blasting frosty air across the room. The printed email—more thick black ink than white space—fluttered to the floor in the artificial gust. I met her gaze, then Dr. Lemke’s.
“No,” I finally answered. “I have not engaged in an inappropriate relationship with a student.” I chose my wordscarefully, echoing her exact phrasing. I should have left it there. But pride or ego or sheer stupidity got the better of me. “If this is about optics, then what I’ve done—or haven’t done—is already irrelevant. But I will say this. At no point have I exploited my position, nor have I coerced, endangered, or manipulated anyone. Are we finished?”
Dr. Singh pressed her lips into a pale seam of distaste. “Dr. Hawthorne, it is the determination of this office that there is sufficient cause to refer this matter to a formal disciplinary review. You will be notified of the date, and your full cooperation is expected.” She glanced at Ms. Jennings, who rustled a folder open without looking up. “Ms. Jennings will brief you on specifics.”
“You are hereby placed on paid administrative leave, effective immediately,” she began, her voice as flat as a spreadsheet cell. “You are not permitted on campus except when specifically requested by the review board. You are not to have any contact with students, and you are prohibited from engaging with any faculty or staff regarding this matter, except through approved channels.”
She opened a second folder—copies, no doubt, of the same bureaucratic terms she’d just recited.
“Further,” she continued, “until this inquiry is resolved, you are not to represent the college in any public or professional capacity. Any public statement, including those made to media or on social platforms, will be considered a violation of the terms of your leave.”
She handed me the top sheet—a crisp printout on university letterhead, its paragraphs already numb on the page. “Do you understand?”
I nodded, resisting the urge to laugh. Even the language was a performance.
“Then please sign at the bottom. You’re only acknowledging receipt and understanding. This is not an admission of guilt.”
I signed, the gesture crisp, and slid it back with a flourish I hoped read as final rather than fatalistic.
Dr. Lemke folded his hands like a vicar leading a funeral prayer. “No one wants this to turn ugly, Cal. Least of all me.”
