Early in December, I received an email from the dean of the materials department, requesting that I meet with him as soon as possible. My stomach dropped into my toes when I read it. Although Dr. Calvin didn’t allude to the reason why he wanted this meeting, it didn’t take a genius to figure out.
I’d met Dr. Calvin on a few occasions. He’d been a quiet, almost stodgy man, who dressed exactly as you’d expect a professor to dress. Tweed jacket, elbow patches, oversized glasses, and a pocket protector for his fanciest pen. He’d seemed almost fatherly, and I hoped he acted that way in this meeting.
Then again, what could he do? Kick me out of the program? Too late for that.
I stood in front of his office door for what felt like hours, gathering my courage. Finally, I knocked, telling myself that all I could do was stay calm and answer his questions as best I could.
“Come in,” called a voice. I pushed open the door to find Dr. Calvin digging through his briefcase. “Oh good, y
