Chapter 2 Lessons After Class

# Chapter 2 — Lessons After Class

I didn't text him.

For three days, I avoided his gaze during lectures, sliding into class at the last minute and bolting the moment he dismissed us. His business card burned a hole in my wallet. I told myself I was taking the high road, but the truth was more complicated.

On the fourth day, he called on me.

"Ms. Bennett, would you care to share your thoughts on the trolley problem as it relates to our discussion of utilitarian ethics?"

The entire class turned to look at me. My mouth went dry.

"I, um, I think the most moral choice is to pull the lever," I stammered. "Save five lives instead of one."

Dr. Hale's expression didn't change. "A textbook answer. But what if the one person was your mother? Your best friend? Does that change the calculus of your morality?"

My cheeks burned. "That's not fair. You're introducing emotional variables into what should be a rational equation."

"Is that so?" His eyes locked with mine. "Tell me, Ms. Bennett, where in life do you encounter ethical dilemmas devoid of emotional content?"

The classroom fell silent. Everyone could feel the tension, though no one understood its source.

"Nowhere," I finally admitted.

"Precisely." He turned away, continuing his lecture, but I couldn't focus on another word.

After class, I found an email in my inbox:

*Your understanding of ethical frameworks remains superficial. My office hours have been moved to the library's West Wing private study room 3B. Thursday, 7PM. Attendance strongly recommended if you hope to pass this course.*

I showed the email to Jada that night as she painted her nails black for her goth barista aesthetic.

"Sketchy as hell," she declared, blowing on her wet polish. "Don't go."

"If I don't, I'll fail his class. Again." I paced our tiny apartment. "And then I lose my scholarship."

Jada gave me a sideways look. "What happened to Mr. Mystery Rich Guy? The one who sent you running home early last weekend? You never told me the full story."

I'd given her a sanitized version—that he turned out to be someone inappropriate, so I'd left. I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth.

"Nothing happened. It was a mistake."

"Mmm-hmm." She didn't believe me. "Well, if you go to this 'private tutoring,' take pepper spray. And text me every thirty minutes."

"It's in the library, Jada. What's he going to do, assault me between the stacks?"

But Thursday evening found me hesitating outside study room 3B, clutching my ethics textbook like a shield. Through the frosted glass, I could see his silhouette—straight-backed as always, writing something.

I knocked, then entered before I could change my mind.

The private study room was small but elegant—oak table, two leather chairs, a window overlooking the campus quad now dark with early evening. Dr. Hale didn't look up immediately, finishing whatever he was writing.

"Close the door, Callie."

I did, my heart pounding.

"Sit."

I sat.

He finally looked at me, those green eyes unreadable. "You didn't text me."

"It would have been inappropriate," I said, trying to sound firm.

"More or less inappropriate than signing up to meet wealthy strangers for paid companionship?"

My face flushed. "Are you going to report me?"

"For what? Making economic choices in a capitalist system?" He leaned back. "I'm not here to judge you, Callie. I'm here to teach you."

"Ethics," I said pointedly.

"Yes. But not the sanitized version you've been regurgitating in class." He pushed a folder toward me. "I've prepared a series of ethical scenarios. Real ones, not the artificial constructs from textbooks."

I opened the folder cautiously. Inside were printouts of news stories—a whistleblower who lost everything, a doctor who lied to save a child, a woman who stole medicine for her dying husband.

"I want you to tell me what you would do in each situation. Not what you think Kant would do, or Mill, or any other dead philosopher. What would Callie Bennett do?"

I frowned. "How is this going to help me pass your class?"

"Your problem isn't understanding ethical frameworks. It's applying them honestly to your own life." He leaned forward. "Let's start with something more immediate. Why did you sign up for that website?"

My defenses rose. "That's none of your business."

"On the contrary. You made it my business when you agreed to meet me."

"I didn't know it was you!"

"Answer the question, Callie."

The command in his voice made me pause. Part of me wanted to walk out, but another part—a part I didn't fully understand—wanted to stay.

"Money," I finally said. "My scholarship covers tuition, not living expenses. I work part-time at the campus bookstore, but it barely covers food. My father died when I was fifteen. My mother's on disability. I have student loans already, and—" I stopped, realizing I was oversharing.

Dr. Hale nodded, his expression softening slightly. "And you thought this was your best option?"

"It seemed... efficient," I admitted. "Four hours of conversation for what I'd make in two weeks at the bookstore."

"Just conversation?"

I looked away. "That's all I agreed to."

"And if he—I—had wanted more?"

The room suddenly felt too warm. "I hadn't decided."

"Honesty. Good." He made a note in his leather-bound notebook. "Now, let's discuss scenario one. The whistleblower."

For the next hour, Dr. Hale pushed me harder than he ever had in class. Every time I gave a textbook answer, he probed deeper, forcing me to confront the messy reality behind each ethical choice.

"What about your own situation?" he asked as our session wound down. "Is it ethical for a professor to meet privately with a student he knows engaged in potentially questionable behavior?"

"You tell me," I challenged. "You're the ethics expert."

Something flickered in his eyes—appreciation? "The university has no policy against private tutoring. We're in a public building. The door has a window." He gestured to the glass panel. "By conventional standards, this is above board."

"But?"

"But ethical questions rarely have simple answers." He closed his notebook. "Same time next week. I expect you to come prepared to discuss scenarios four through six."

I gathered my things, oddly disappointed the session was ending.

"One more thing, Callie." He reached into his jacket and handed me an envelope. "Your understanding of ethical frameworks may be lacking, but your financial situation shouldn't prevent you from focusing on your studies."

Inside was $1,000 in cash.

I stared at it, then at him. "I can't accept this."

"Why not? Consider it payment for the intellectual labor you've provided tonight."

"This isn't—we're not—" I struggled to find words.

"We're not what? Two adults engaging in a mutually beneficial arrangement? You need money. I need intellectual stimulation beyond the classroom. The university pays me to teach thirty students at once. I'm willing to pay you for one-on-one discourse."

He made it sound so reasonable, so clean. But we both knew it wasn't that simple.

"I don't want to be bought," I said quietly.

"Everyone is bought, Callie. The only difference is the currency and whether they admit it." He stood, gathering his things. "Take it or leave it. But know that my interest is in your mind, not your body. Though I won't insult either of us by pretending I don't find you attractive."

The casual admission sent heat rushing through me. Before I could respond, he placed a book on top of the envelope.

"A first edition of Nietzsche's 'Beyond Good and Evil.' It might help you understand what we're doing here."

As I walked home that night, the book heavy in my bag and the envelope heavy in my conscience, my phone buzzed with a text from Jada:

*U alive or do I need to call campus security?*

I typed back: *All good. Just talking ethics.*

But when I got home and opened the Nietzsche book, a yellowed newspaper clipping fell out. My hands trembled as I recognized the headline:

*LOCAL MAN KILLED IN HIGHWAY COLLISION, DAUGHTER CRITICALLY INJURED*

My father's accident. My accident. The one that left me with a slight limp and him in a coffin.

How did Dr. Hale have this? Why did he have this?

And why, despite everything, was I already counting the days until our next meeting?