Sorry I Worried You

The Serial Plagiarist

85 TheSerialPlagiarist Lou Rhoads was sitting as far from the door as his office would allow , but Susannah Grau stood in the doorway as if she meant to declare something important from across the room. “I’m in your class,” she said. “Tuesdays and Thursdays.” “I know who you are, Susannah,” Rhoads said. “The semester’s more than half over.” “I have to talk to you,” she said, not moving. “That’s something we agree on,” Rhoads said. “But first you might want to close the door to hear what I have to say.” “Oh.” She closed it at once and sat down so quickly and so close to him Rhoads thought she’d taped a suicide bomb around her waist and was about to blow them up. 86 “You’ve plagiarized a second time.” Susannah seemed confused, as if she’d come to confess and now the drama had been deflated. “I came to explain,” she said, “why I’ve been missing class.” “Let’s start with that then.” “I had blood tests done a few weeks ago. The doctor told me I have leukemia, and my parents have been making me have another set of tests done by a second doctor.” “And so you copied another story,” Rhoads said. “I know what you said before, but I didn’t have a choice. I copied one that wasn’t as good this time. I thought you might think it was bad enough to be mine.” Rhoads stifled a dramatic sigh. Susannah Grau looked so pale she might have applied leeches to herself to acquire a pallor. When she inhaled, she produced the enormous wheeze of the bedridden. “I think I’m going to be sick, Dr. Rhoads,” she said, dropping her head between her knees. Rhoads counted to twenty, watching the part in her hair. “Come in tomorrow at 1:00,” he relented. “I’ll tell you my side of the story, and then we’ll work on this.” She raised her head and stood up simultaneously. “The new test results are due in three days,” she said, opening the door. “Do you think this can wait?” “No,” Rhoads said, but she was already closing the door behind her. Rhoads called the dean of students and explained the situation. “What’s the procedure if I want to kick this one upstairs?” he asked. “Let me check her file,” he heard, and while he was waiting he walked to the door and opened it, looking into the empty hall. “She 87 doesn’t have a history,” the dean said. “It’s still your call on how far you want to pursue this.” When he left the office, Rhoads walked the length of the hall to take the door farthest from his car because the walk, though longer, was flat. Ever since his knee surgery, nearly five months before, he avoided stairs. The first three months, on crutches, taking them one by one had brought sympathy from students who waited to open doors and stood patiently to the side while he struggled past. Now, without the crutches, the stop and start of climbing stairs one at a time made some students turn their heads. The rest jostled by, and he was happy for their indifference because his condition was getting more difficult to explain with each passing week. The day before, during what had been planned as his last appointment , Rhoads had argued with his surgeon about the state of his repaired knee. “It’s five months now,” he’d pointed out, “and it’s worse than it was the day of the operation.” The surgeon, whose office walls sported three framed, oversized photographs of him completing marathons, said, “Progress is still possible. Knees can improve for up to a year.” Rhoads, during earlier visits, had compared the times displayed above the finish line as this doctor, arms extended over his head, broke the electric eye: 3:11.26, one read. 3:10.35, said another. The best one announced 3:09.48. He wondered if the surgeon had a goal of cracking three hours, whether he believed minute-by-minute progress was satisfactory. “I’m not optimistic,” Rhoads said. “You had significant bone and cartilage damage, Mr. Rhoads.” “But in the recovery room you said four weeks of crutches, two months of rehab.” 88 Dr. Feeman looked past him as if he were evaluating wall sites for his...