A Golden Opportunity

Will You Deny Anything?

Victor was the last one to step into the classroom, and the last of his footsteps to his desk were matched by the tolling of the bells, a generous two minutes later according to the clock on the wall. The class was speaking together in low voices, whispering about their weekends with the tone of voice of someone with a secret. Someone secretly drinking, or kissing, or falling in love. Someone with a normal college weekend, with a normal college life, with normal college secrets that no one cared enough about to spread. No one else seemed to have crawled through their professor's window, though Victor was not feeling too talkative to one up them all. He wanted to hide in his desk; hide with his head down, trying to pretend there was not another man in the room, one who was perched upon a desk stool, trying to get comfortable, his eyes full of pain and his leg firing the ghosts of German bullets into his muscles.
"Right, welcome back everyone," Professor Holmes began, his cane tapping to the floor to get the class's attention. Victor forced his eyes up, having done his best to busy himself with his bag and his notebooks, his coat and his pens. He tried to focus as much as he could on anything but the man now standing in front of the class, though he could hardly keep himself entertained for long. He had no choice, no choice but to rise his head. He looked up, up towards the Professor, and to his horror the man was looking right back at him. Knowingly.

Victor had always been under the impression that time moved slower when one was miserable, though the duration of that calculus class may have been one of the most drawn experiences of his life. Somehow each minute had extended itself into two, each second multiplying exponentially, each quarter hour gaining the infinity symbol next to it so as to make sure Victor had to sit in that seat as long as humanly possible. He had to sit and stare, to feign innocence, while a gleam of intelligence sparkled in his Professor's eyes, one that seemed to know everything about the subject matter and even more about Victor's newfound secret. And perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Sherlock Holmes always looked like this, always wore a glance of suspicion, of understanding. Perhaps Victor had just never been guilty before, and never had reason to believe it was directed at him.
Though if the Professor had not suspected him to be guilty of something before the class began, he certain must have suspected something by the time the final bell finally, finally rang. Victor felt white as a ghost, he could see his hands sink into a ghoulish paleness as he wrote his notes as neatly as he could with shaking fingers. His entire body was trembling, and nearly any time he accidentally caught eye contact with the man he felt vomit creeping up his throat, the sort of bile that reared its head when one was so viciously anxious it felt like a life or death situation. He could hardly handle the mere forty five minutes he had to endure in Professor Holmes's presence, and before long the man's drawing voice began to sound less like calculus and more like accusations. More like love letters, hidden in the math. How that voice would sound as it cooed words of affection began to haunt Victor like a banshee's scream, though at the moment he feared more the words the man would use to accuse him of his crimes. To punish him, and to blackmail him into staying quiet.
As Victor endured the class period he almost began to wish it would never end, realizing the rest of the students had made a sort of protective barrier around him, here in this vulnerable time. As long as they were around the Professor could not say a word, though once he was exposed, once the rest of the class had trickled away...what power did Victor have? He had to run, he had to collect his things faster than the speed of sound itself, he had to be the first one out the door before he felt that pointer stick come smacking down on his head, the man's rage having boiled past mere inconvenience and into a place of hatred. The chalk was down, the pointer stick had dropped to serve as a backup walking stick, Professor Holmes turned to the class and when he opened his mouth...the bell came out. Time to go, time to run...
"Homework is chapter 5.3, all of the odd questions," Professor Holmes announced, his words lost to Victor's veracious shuffling as he threw his entire notebook into his bag, caring not for the state of it since all that was left on the lines were the scribbles of anxiety his twirling wrists could manage. The pens went after; their caps falling off in the fray, his coat went onto one arm...
"And Mr. Trevor, if I can have a word after class?" Professor Holmes followed, his words cutting like knives as the boy had already risen to his feet, stopped dead in his tracks and feeling the blood rush back into his veins in humiliation, in defeat...in defense.
The rest of the class shuffled out in their usual manner, not thinking anything of their classmate who had to linger behind, who was standing like a deer in the headlights, faced with the colossal force that was a professor who knew too much. Who was too much.
"I uh, I'm sorry sir. I didn't manage to read those book chapters, if that was what you were wondering about," Victor muttered, turning to face the man while there were still stragglers in the room, those who would modify their conversation, who would keep it tame. Victor attempted to look normal, though it was hardly possible now that his bag was getting visibly stained with ink, his notebook papers hanging from the corners, his coat slung over his shoulder like a Viking's pelt.
"I was not wondering about that," Professor Holmes admitted, his gaunt face looking particularly peeved as his hands curled around his walking stick, the bronze designs sinking into their usual crevices within his palms. "I wonder if you could step into my office for a quick chat?"
"That's...that's fine." Victor had to swallow his fear; he had to put up a veil of politeness. What would the man do if he said no? "I'm sorry sir, but this is all rather vague."
"I'm sorry if it seems frightening, though my conversational topic is a sensitive one," Professor Holmes admitted. He gathered his book with one hand and held his cane in the other, his skeletal frame leading the way down the narrow row of desks at a pace that was near pathetic. Victor knew he could outrun the man; he could avoid this if he merely walked at a normal human pace...though in some ways he felt relief. He didn't want to be scolded, though he feared more this strange game of secrets. In some ways it would be better to know, better for them both to know, and to share in the consequences as their sanities would allow. In the end, Victor wasn't the only one in the wrong. In the end, his secrets were merely there to protect Professor Holmes's far more volatile one.
As he followed the Professor through the hall, Victor felt the crowds looking at him. He couldn't tell to what extent the curiosity stretched, if they wondered why he would follow Professor Holmes, if they could smell the guilt, if they could smell the blame. Perhaps they weren't staring at all, and what he felt was the overwhelming pressure of his situation, the eyes of God following him now. He could only wade through the crowds using the glacial professor as his guide, allowing the man's tapping walking stick to part the seas, his crooked frame slowing more and more as they approached the door, not gaining momentum but instead gaining pain.
It was surprisingly easy to get into the office today, in fact the door had been left unlocked while Professor Holmes had been in class, he simply twisted the knob for entry. Nothing had been touched since Victor had last left; in fact even the closet door was still open, wide open. Left there, it would seem, by someone who had forgotten themselves in their escape.
"Sit down, Victor." It was more of a command. Victor obeyed. The old man shut the door behind them, his fingers hesitating by the lock but deciding against it.
"I won't play games with you, young man. Which I believe is a higher courtesy than you allowed me," Professor Holmes began, hobbling his way across the office before sinking heavily into his office chair. The thing creaked with the weight, and even in his authoritative state the old man could not help but sigh in relief, pulling his injured leg into a more comfortable position and allowing the muscles a chance to relax.
Victor sunk his head into his hands, happy at least for the opportunity to avert his eyes. At least he didn't have to lie anymore.
"The grounds crew came for your ladder today, Victor. This morning, when they noticed it propped against the side of the building." Professor Holmes twisted his cane, the slow and methodical rolling of wood upon hardwood. Victor recognized the sound, even if he could not stand to see it. He didn't want to watch the man's expression; he didn't want to watch his gaze harden with aggression, with the feral nature of a man guarding his very life. Victor struggled to think of the worst case scenario, and in a horrible scene imagined a knife entering into his mouth, the old man holding him by the jaw as he struggled to cut out his tongue.
"Will you deny anything?" the Professor wondered, seeming legitimately puzzled as to why Victor had not yet opened his mouth. The boy shook his head anxiously, his face still buried in his hands, now relying more on the neck movement to communicate his acceptance.
"I had thought better of you, Victor. Though you made mistakes, terrible mistakes...and I see you may be worse at burglary than you are at calculus."
"Burglary, sir?" Victor wondered abruptly, his head rising out of his hands as he saw the first disconnect between the man's presumption and Victor's understood truth.
"The stealing of knowledge is as good as the stealing of personal property. And the result is bound to be a stolen grade, considering the nature in which the answers were understood."
"Professor...I..."
"I don't want excuses, Victor. I saw you and your roommate, that drunken actor, celebrating your victory under the street lamp. That night, Victor, you truly disappointed me."
"Sir..." Victor couldn't help but let his amazement show through his face, his eyes blank and his mouth agape, seeing now before him the first sliver of true idiocy he could ever recognize in the man. No, perhaps this was another game, perhaps this was the man's way of working them both out of a situation they didn't want to be in. Perhaps he wanted to cloud the entire thing as an academic theft, so as to hide his own secrets between themselves. Or maybe...just maybe...Victor's plan had worked. Not all the way, certainly, but enough to hide his involvement and knowledge of the letter. Could it be that he had been caught, but not with the very thing he was trying to hide?
"I know I have no proof, Victor, though what I saw with my own eyes cannot be discounted. You had seen my office, seen my records, undoubtedly you were tempted by the answer keys I keep in the filing cabinets. Though I am still a human, a man with a heart...I don't want to ruin your life. Your reputation," Victor couldn't help the look on his face, the absolute amazement that Professor Holmes may have been mistaking for relief. "I'll make you a deal, so as to keep this hushed. Give me your notes, those you made on Saturday night, and I'll destroy them as I see fit. I'll rewrite my tests, so as to make sure you have no more advantage, and I'll stay quiet about this whole affair."
"That's...that's a good deal," Victor whispered, deciding he ought to play his way out of this in the method Reggie would recommend. Go as far as possible, as far as possible, in the lie that was protecting you. So long as it was being spoon fed, it would work. "Though I'm sorry to say I don't have them."
"I can give you time to get them from your dorm, or from wherever you thought to hide them."
"No, no I don't have them at all. I committed...I committed the tests to memory."
"Certainly not," Professor Holmes insisted, shaking his head doubtfully. He might have leaned forward in that moment, though his leg would not allow such motion. Instead his glare only got more intimidating, making up for the lack of physical interrogation his body would allow.
"I swear to you that I did not take notes," Victor assured, nodding up and down and using the truth now to his advantage. He knew he looked convincing because he wasn't trying to hide anything. If he could lock into this truth, this one truth, perhaps he could get away with it all.
"Victor, the consequences of this will be damning. If you don't take my offer now, I will have to open an academic investigation."
"You must believe me, I didn't take any notes," Victor assured, his voice leaking with as much truth as he could manage.
"You leave me no choice but to contact Mr. Hall," Professor Holmes warned. "Victor, that could mean your very status at the University. If you are found guilty, and the evidence is clear, you will face unbearable setbacks in your career and in your life. Do not throw up your hands so easily!"
"Professor, I...I have a better memory than you would believe. I couldn't climb the ladder with my hands full of pens and paper, it would have been too much!"
"Tell me a question on the exam, then. The first one on Exam 2." Sherlock Holmes folded his hands, watching with tired eyes as Victor struggled to comprehend his situation. How could he fake this, this of all things? Was the truth better than academic investigation, was the truth more valuable than his college education?
"Uh...well, I think it started with x..."
"You are either the worst liar or the worst cheater, though it is not my job to decide." Professor Holmes grabbed for the phone, a warning sign that he was serious. "Last chance, Mr. Trevor. Give up your notes, or I will call the registrar and have you put on prohibition."
"I didn't take notes, sir!" Victor couldn't help the panic in his voice, now that the man's finger was punching upon the first number for Mr. Hall. Victor's truth sat like a lump in his throat, pushing to be revealed by panic while all of his humiliation was trying to force it back down, back to where it could fester in his stomach, where it could rot. If he was investigated they would of course find nothing, though was the process biased in favor of the accuser? Would the empty hands of the registrar lead to accusations that Victor was simply good at hiding papers? It would be a stain on his record, an embarrassment to his parents...a humiliation by a man he had actually grown to appreciate. Oh, like it or not he felt connected to Professor Holmes in the way only a secret sharer could. Could he really sit here and let this man ruin his life, here when they both knew that the old man suffered more than any academic prohibition could ever inflict? Perhaps what he needed wasn't a lie, wasn't the eruption of his student's life in favor of secrets...perhaps what he needed was a friend.