Sullivan stepped to the front and raised her voice for the first time all afternoon: "For the record, the Vandenberg Fellowship Selection Committee will be reconstituted before any decision is announced. Effective immediately," she paused, "Professor Walsh will not be on it."
Walsh stood at the lectern, his hand still on the wood. He did not look at the audience; he looked older than he had twenty minutes ago.
The hall emptied slowly. People did not leave in a rush; they walked out in small groups, talking quietly, looking back at the blackboard one more time before they reached the doors. Some stopped to shake Whitney's hand on the way out: she thanked each of them by name when she knew the name; she thanked them politely when she did not. A junior faculty member stopped at her desk: he did not say anything, just put his right hand over his heart, nodded once, and walked away.
Twenty minutes later, the hall was nearly empty. The only people remaining were Whitney, who was packing her notebook into her bag, and Edward Walsh, who was still standing near the lectern.
He walked toward her slowly. The few graduate students who remained went quiet. Walsh stopped two feet away from Whitney. He did not extend his hand; he spoke quietly:
"Miss Tate, I was wrong about your paper." A pause. "And I was wrong about you." He looked at the blackboard, then back at her. "I'm sorry."
Whitney looked at him for a long moment: she did not smile, she did not glare. She said one thing:
"Read it next time, Professor."
She zipped her bag, walked past him, and walked up the aisle. She pushed open the heavy wooden door of Killian Court.
The cold Cambridge afternoon hit her face. The sun was low; the wind moved through the trees on the lawn; a student on a bicycle passed her without looking up.
She pulled out her phone and dialed her grandmother. The line picked up on the second ring.
"Hello, baby."
Whitney walked across the courtyard. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them.
"Grandma, I think I did okay today."