WHO: Carter Gray and the Dean. WHAT: Carter gets a final talking-to from the Dean herself. WHEN: Monday afternoon, after lunch. WHERE: Dean’s office. WARNINGS: It’s Carter, so a lot of cursing. STATUS: Complete!
“We simply ask that you apply yourself, even if that application is minimal, Mr. Gray,” the dean said, her face a mask. Hands steepled over her desk, she leaned forward. “Otherwise, the only option we have is to send you to solitary.”
Carter rolled his eyes. “Solitary? For not paying attention in class? Boy, you guys really like waving that threat around like a fucking flag, don’t ya?”
He refrained from stating the obvious: that not even solitary, whether a week or a month, was going to get him to actually put in any effort in class. There was a reason he’d dropped out of school, and even more importantly, a reason he’d never felt the least inclined to go back: books and education just weren’t Carter’s thing. He hated being cooped up for long hours, staring at page upon page, listening to teachers drone on and on. What the fuck was the point? He didn’t want to be a lawyer, a doctor, a professor (god fucking forbid).
He didn’t want to be anything, except free from here.
The dean sighed, breaking eye contact to glance down at Carter’s file. Shuffling through the papers, she commented, “Sleeping in class, throwing paper airplanes, distracting other students?” She looked at Carter. “You aren’t a juvenile, Mr. Gray. If nothing else, at least attempt to conduct yourself with a modicum of maturity.”
Shrugging in response, Carter grinned. “Haven’t you heard? I’m as immature as they come.” It wasn’t, in the strictest sense, true: Carter knew how to carry himself, but the fact of the matter was, he didn’t see the point. He didn’t care enough to not fuck off in class - and more than that, he wasn’t about to let himself become a slave to The Man.
Even if, in this particular case, The Man was a woman.
The dean frowned. “Kindly treat this situation with the gravity it deserves, please, Mr. Gray. I hope I am expressing myself clearly? If you do not shape up and start taking your education seriously - or, at the very least, pretending to - you will be punished. With,” she raised her eyebrows, “Solitary confinement.”
“Oh, you’re expressing yourself clearly,” Carter said, locking eyes with the dean. “And I hope you get that I’m not gonna pretend to give a shit about something I don’t care about.” He leaned forward. His tone was light, but his eyes were steely. “You got me here, isn’t that good enough? Don’t tell me you really care about my education.”
The dean dropped the file, staring at Carter with her brows furrowed. “Of course we do.” Picking up a paper, she continued, “Would you be more willing to put in effort, Mr. Gray, if we switched around your schedule? Replaced your standard core classes with additional independent study?”
“Not particularly,” Carter muttered. And it was true - although he did try slightly harder in his independent studies (in other words, he didn’t use them as an opportunity to squeeze in another nap), he wasn’t into the idea of working harder. Or working at all, if it came to that.
Glancing down at his watch, he shrugged. “Oh, look. I’ve got training to get to!” He grinned again. “At least you’ve got no reason to complain about me applying myself there.” Standing up, Carter continued, “That’s it, right?”
The dean peered up at him, her frown deepening. “Yes, Mr. Gray. That’s it.”
Carter winked. “Great chat. We’ll have to do it again sometime.” And with that, he strode towards the door, his shoulders only slightly weighed down by this development. Carter had lived his life in near-constant rebellion: against his aunts, against his foster families, against the NYPD. He wasn’t about to stop because of a vague threat or two. Solitary? He’d spent months in a lab with nobody but doctors for company. This was nothing.