Deferred Interest

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Chapter 1: Charles Chip Lockwood

THE BEST place in Lockwood’s less than esteemed academic career to pinpoint this tale’s beginning is around two a.m. on October the eighteenth of 2005. It was a Tuesday and Charles Lockwood was relaxing underneath a lilac ceiling, between bed sheets belonging to a girl who believed his name was Jia Xiong.

Earlier that night, Lockwood found himself not where the university wanted him, which was at a discussion section to receive the results of his latest midterm, but at an off-campus bar called Home Reading. As he’d chosen to fill out the exam with little regard for the correct answers, he felt no need to retrieve it.

The bar was a hot spot for PMU students, especially those who found humor in saying they spent a night at Home Reading as it sounded more like they were studying, not drinking pitchers of beer through garden hoses.

In an example of Lockwood’s extremely good fortune, the junior learned while at the bar that an attractive coed he had been eyeing was mutually interested. The young lady was a freshman who was convinced the very Caucasian Lockwood was the PhD student from China who was serving as her Teaching Assistant in Seventeenth Century European Conflict (EURP-180, offered FALL and WTR). As she believed she was failing this class, her goal was to find her TA at his favorite bar, woo him into bed, and coerce him into boosting her grade.

Even after the three rounds of a game called quarters he played (according to those who were present and later questioned by my staff), the young man was able to piece together the girl’s scheme without letting on that he knew something was awry. Upon realizing that she was coherent and perhaps just hard of sight, he proceeded to let the intriguing opportunity take him where it might.

In his first two years at Pemberton, Charles Lockwood did little academically or civically notable with the exception of being barred from ever again entering the state of Ohio.

When this story began, he was a man of twenty-one who lived by an untamable appetite for recreation and a carefree attitude that flirted with unflinchingly indifferent. In all, he would have been difficult to love if society didn’t encourage others to emulate his boldest qualities.

He stood about six foot three inches when not slouched over a coffee table piled high with beer cans. Accompanying his face’s strong features were pale blue eyes he inherited from his mother and surfer blonde hair that highlighted his southern California roots. His classic mid-20th Century good looks even landed him on the cover of an admissions packet his sophomore year, amid students joyously watching a PMU football game. In the picture, Lockwood was smiling at the camera with his perfect teeth, welcoming eyes, and strong chest visible under a PMU shirt emblazoned with an aggressive-looking butcher knife. (Incidentally, the Admissions Office later found out that off camera he was, in fact, not wearing pants.)

Either through courtesy of his upbringing, the freedom afforded by his wealth, or a combination therein, his cushioned existence’s protective coating preemptively brushed away life’s harsher circumstances at all times. Winds changed in his favor when at sea and consequences of any severity voluntarily altered themselves in his wake. It was almost as if fate herself not only existed, but she interacted with mortals solely to protect Lockwood.

From his first days at Pemberton, he did not use his powers to strengthen his business acumen, benefit charity, or help classmates realize their potential. Rather, Charles Lockwood was often busy using his abilities to be Charles Lockwood. He was not being asked to live in simple terms, so he naturally did not respect certain societal norms.

During his freshman year he grew famous for having convinced a yacht owner in South Beach to allow forty students onto the ship on a whim. (The party was halted before he managed to steer the boat to Havana.) His past also featured a visit to Chicago during which he became the only Pemberton student in history to spontaneously place a bid on and drunkenly attempt to sign a lease for the purchase of one of the city’s grand museums. He also gave the school an international first on a flight from Los Angeles to Sydney at the age of twenty when he became its first student to organize an in-flight beer pong tournament on a major airline.

His antics were the kernel of fraternity legend. His ability to avoid penalties was hurtful to anyone with a conscience. And to administrators who dealt with the costs he ignored and the students who felt they could sculpt their reputations in his image, Lockwood’s presence was, at times, simply destructive.

So it is no coincidence that his most storied misadventure at Pemberton begins here.

After thirty minutes of talking, during which the intoxicated Lockwood noted the freshman never once asked him his name or major, twenty of walking, and fifteen of what students in the mid-2000s considered courting, the couple made it into her dorm room. Not terribly long after that, two a.m. arrived.

Looking up at the lilac ceiling, Lockwood smiled and the girl giggled. Lockwood recognized it as a cue that a conversation might start. His eyes remained on the ceiling.

So I had a great time, she began, rolling onto her side and away from Lockwood, and I hate to bring this up now, but about the midterm…

Lockwood recalled who he was supposed to be. Should I have seen this coming?

I don’t want you think this was only about that, she replied insistently. I just really need to know that grade before class.

Had he been listening, Lockwood might have brainstormed a way to dull the agony of the pending moment when the girl discovered he was not Jia Xiong. He opted for a higher risk response. It’ll all work out, baby.

The girl laughed, signaling what sounded like a temporary truce.

So, what’s with the ceiling? he asked. I thought you couldn’t paint dorms.

The girl turned on her back. I heard that whoever had this room two years ago was some rebel who was sick of not being able to change anything here. She got fed up one night and painted it out of some sort of protest.

What kind of rebel thinks light purple makes a big statement?

I don’t know, the girl said with a shrug. But the school got upset and told her she had to paint it over or pay some huge fine.

What’d she do?

My RA said she refused and the school charged her a thousand dollars to clean it.

Lockwood tried to make sense of the story but couldn’t. But it’s still purple.

I know. Weird, huh? It’s like the school got the money and just forgot. Speaking of something totally different, she continued enthusiastically, can we talk about the midterm now?

Wow, really? Why?

Because I’m worried about it, Jia!

Despite being called a name that was not his own while nude in bed, Lockwood managed to simultaneously dodge the issue and offer support. Listen, it’ll sort itself out, believe me.

Although the topic of academic excellence was brought up under questionable circumstances, her concern was justified. For decades, Pemberton has been one of the most respected, prestigiously ranked, and selective universities in the nation.

Since its founding in 1857 as Pemberton Methodist University and Culinary Institute, PMU has enjoyed a reputation of the highest caliber. Cradled by the shoreline of one of the country’s greatest lakes, Pemberton has been a peaceful source of mental rapture and emotional growth for hundreds of thousands of students. By the time the culinary school closed in 1872 and Methodist was dropped from its name, Pemberton had grown from a notable yet quaint institution into a nationally renowned powerhouse of education, research, and civic significance.

In Lockwood’s case, worrying about classes was not an affliction he was capable of developing. It was not for a lack of intelligence, as results from the standardized test scores attached to his application showed, rather it was due to his mindset about academia as a whole. He decided as a child that learning class material strictly for a test or a grade wasn’t beneficial. The problem morphed when he learned he could find a way around anything he felt was superfluous to the learning process, namely lectures, course work, and often common decency.

What helped drive his reprehensible attitude was a theory he tested regularly: no teacher he would meet was really going to fail a student. Whether it was thanks to his privileged life or by accident, his theory typically worked for him. Even instructors who didn’t know his family’s history seemed to be hesitant to let him fail their class.

At PMU Lockwood regularly attended three sessions of any given course: the first day (to sign the university’s only official attendance form), the day of the midterm (to get through the questions as rapidly as he could), and the day of the final (to pass the exam using notes he pilfered from students he met while handing in his midterm).

During most classes he had been able to correctly deduce enough exam answers to pass. This led to a rarely spectacular GPA, but a passing one nonetheless. At one point the previous year his theory appeared to waver when he narrowly avoided a spot on the Provost’s Procedures Committee’s Watch List. An abnormally high score in American History 1914–Present Day (AMER 212-2, offered WTR) bumped his GPA enough to keep off the list by summer.

His lax attitude bled heavily into his early morning talk that Tuesday in October.

The girl offered: I’m sorry for making you talk class in bed.

Wouldn’t being sorry stop you from bringing it up?

I only want to know if I need to drop the class. You don’t have to change anything for me. You looked in class like you really wanted to help your students.

I’ve been told I’m a different person outside of class. He smiled at the thought of the next interaction between the girl and the real Jia Xiong. Now that’s a class I would show up to, he thought. His mind then drifted to the girl’s plan and its aura of oddity. Why are you pushing for this now? The drop date isn’t for three weeks. You have time.

Sure, if I want a D slapped on my midterm grade report. Law schools will see that. My parents will see that. I’d rather drop it now to make it disappear and make it up next semester.

The statement confused Lockwood. The suddenly observant girl noticed and continued. My RA told me if I wait for my midterm report to see I’m failing, the school will have an official record of it. If I drop it before the report comes out, then it disappears. The school doesn’t bother putting dropped classes on midterm reports. That’s why I need to know now.

Thanks to a somewhat outdated policy, the girl was correct. Early in the 1980s, a major student loan provider told administrators that PMU had some of their bank’s highest stability ratings in every category but one: the number of dropped classes seen on official documents. When PMU overseers set out to lower the statistic, an analyst offered two solutions. They could either invest heavily in instructors and support staff who could help struggling students early on or simply remove incompletes from documents wherever possible. The administrators went with the free alternative, and though the loan landscape changed greatly by 2005, the policy remained.

Her honesty impressed him. I like your style. If it were up to me, you’d get that C.

The girl’s head snapped in Lockwood’s direction. I thought the grade is your decision.

Opting to pretend he was drunk and rude instead of caring and attentive (which wasn’t hard), Lockwood replied, I can’t believe all that freaking beer I had, man.

What? the girl asked with a rapid headshake.

Lockwood let the back of his head put on an effective show to convince the girl it was bedtime. Eventually her eyelids and her questions begrudgingly agreed.

Around three a.m., long after his temporary roommate fell asleep, Lockwood crept out of bed and slid over to her desk, where he shook the mouse until the computer screen popped to life. As that semester had been particularly unruly, he decided to check on his grades.

He’d known for semesters he could check his grades online, and in following with tradition, he only did so to confirm he wasn’t in danger of failing.

With five pre-midterm scores revealing themselves on the monitor, the young man whose disposition rarely called for worry began feeling a quickening heart rate.

You see, as someone brought up amid infinite routes of opportunity, Lockwood also grew up with only one steadfast rule: he was not under any circumstances to fail out of Pemberton.

Despite the late hour, the five markings launched him into persuasive letter writing mode.

It had been a difficult term due to his work with the End Gun Violence blood drive, one section of the note explained. Donating blood twice that semester to keep the drive going forced an enormous strain onto his body. This extra stress prompted flashbacks to injuries he sustained as a semi-professional school athlete the year before, exacerbating his ability to focus on schoolwork.

His words conveyed that he would hoist his grades after the midterms if the letter’s recipient could kindly tweak the score in the meantime. An uncharacteristically low mark (his best fictional prose of college) might prevent him from leading the upcoming spring break volunteering trip he had been planning for months, and so on.

After editing the letter to ensure it looked nothing like previous versions he’d composed, he sent out five nearly identical copies to five professors. Then, out of admiration for the only careful work he’d submitted all semester, he sent an edited copy to the real Jia Xiong from the young lady’s email account. He then set an early eight a.m. alarm and got back into bed.

Though confidence helped him assume his situation would not worsen, he still treated it with care. He was not yet in danger, but at that moment, Charles Lockwood could still see the ominous truth shining back at him: he was on pace to fail all five of his classes.

Chapter 2: Alistair Lockwood III

THE UNION between the university and the Lockwoods began in 1873 when Connecticut shipping magnate Alistair Lockwood III decided his eldest son Calvin would attend the still young Pemberton Methodist University. It didn’t take long for the tradition of sending Lockwoods to Pemberton to grow and evolve. As the Lockwood flock widened, their impact on campus became more noticeable. For instance, there was the era during World War I when three brothers led PMU to Debate, Fencing, and Chemistry Association national prizes in a single year. During Prohibition, four Lockwoods led the university’s football team to back-to-back perfect seasons.

The family’s most prominent time came between 1958 and 1967 when they helped boost the school’s academic reputation and also broaden its civic outreach by founding two sororities and one fraternity. Charles Lockwood’s own father attended during this era, as did his father’s younger brother Arthur, who was the family’s sole attendee during the tail end of the acme. (In addition, I have been told the first few years of the 20th Century hosted several notable Lockwood Pemberton Pact anecdotes, but as my official records from that time are regrettably spotty, stories from that span will not be included here.)

By the 1960s, the family’s name was so embedded in the campus that when the dormitory August P. Lockwood Hall was erected it had to be referred to as August Hall or AP Hall to reduce confusion with PMU’s central Science building, Lockwood Family Hall.

The family’s prominence at Pemberton did not always sit well with Charles Lockwood. At times while growing up he felt as if he existed only to be assailed by facts about PMU. It was not just the tradition, relatives explained, but the ability to contribute to the school in a greater way than anyone else.

When he arrived in 2003, though, it seemed there was nothing new to bring to life at PMU thanks to a longstanding, sturdy saturation of overachievers. Even worse, the only other Lockwoods on campus graduated at the end of his sophomore year, leaving him as the lone torchbearer in the autumn of 2005. Somehow, of the eight branches of the Lockwood line, only Charles Chip Lockwood was available to continue the ritual as an undergraduate during his (scheduled) junior and senior years.

Given his penchant for extracurricular activities, it was odd that he was left alone at Pemberton even for a single day. But by 2005, the only relatives who could take up graduate studies were too focused on bond trading and financial analysis to consider a provisional career halt for the benefit of keeping their cousin company. This itself was a sign that the bond was not as strong as it once had been. But the Lockwoods knew the union would inevitably return to a spot of glory at some point, namely after Charles Lockwood left campus and took with him his contributions of pranks and poor marks. No national academic records would be broken by the boy who once glued quarters to the change bins of every vending machine in the student union and who once handed in an essay-based midterm having only written: Is this shit going to be on the final?

Another one of his infamous practical jokes came his sophomore year when his girlfriend of two months left him over questionable reasons. Shortly after her departure, late one night he went to her sorority house, which decades earlier had been dubbed the Monterey House by its founder (a Lockwood, incidentally), and he silently pumped three feet of water into its uninhabited basement dining hall. No one in the sorority was laughing after waking up to find dozens of bits of sugary cereal floating atop feet of standing water.

As he did elsewhere, he lived free from worry at Pemberton, save the one problem he was forced to recall regularly: the Lockwood line had never been sullied by failure or expulsion.

Lockwoods had transferred or had willingly chosen other universities for study, but as long as there was another present at the time, such actions were acceptable. But there was to be no failing at Pemberton. Underage drinking, promiscuous sex, or disheartening the proletariat were markedly lower on the list of sins.

At this point some readers may conclude that his family must have been willing to tolerate failure.

Charles Lockwood’s lax view of academia was not due to a lack of trying on his parents’ part. Though not the strictest of disciplinarians, they did consistently remind their son of his duties. With help from his entire family, refreshers were offered at each stage of his childhood.

Since these lectures came from his least favorite relatives, like the mother of his pompous cousin Craig, as well as from the ones he adored the most, like Uncle Arthur and Great Aunt Adelaide, young Charles Lockwood didn’t know how to handle the negative reinforcement, so he shifted his attention to alternate solutions. This led to his first great discovery, which was mentioned in part earlier: most instructors had little desire to fail him.

The idea worked well through grade school and some of high school. During this time, his parents assumed that silence from Lockwood’s teachers signified progress. This would later haunt them as their son continued for years to lean on his well-built crutch.

In high school, he encountered some instructors who required more coaxing to align with his mantra’s goals. The issue intensified at the end of his sophomore year when his parents had to wring a barely passing grade out of a macroeconomics instructor who also had close ties to Pemberton.

The grade and the battle that led to it startled his parents’ resolve. The lectures the boy hated so much returned, and he grew angered that only one slip up turned him back into a pariah. He later translated this example’s message into another misaligned lesson: only register for courses with instructors he knew he could influence.

The family sermons, which he ritualistically ignored, continued through his junior year, ultimately leading to what he should have seen as a denunciation of his flawed life view: his failing of Advanced American Literature. He’d known this outcome was possible, but instead of tending to altering the grade, he affixed his attention on an upcoming eight day trip to Valencia, Spain with his best friend. What’s more, as he knew the resoundingly excellent grade he would receive in French History would boost his GPA, he opted to not worry.

When his grades arrived in his parents’ mailbox the day he flew to Europe, the pair was intolerably livid. This behavior would not be abided. What they needed, they decided, was a lesson so severe that their son would never again deviate.

Their rebuttal began while Lockwood was on his way to Spain. First his mother cancelled all of his credit cards. Then his father called his travel partner’s parents to explain that Lockwood hadn’t followed through with booking his trip and he failed to inform his friend. The friend, at Lockwood’s father’s insistence, should fly elsewhere instead.

By the end of his first night in Spain, the only night he pre-paid for a hotel room, Lockwood realized something catastrophic had happened. He called his parents to hear a less than endearing reply. After letting the phone ring a few extra times, his mother answered and read aloud his full grade report. She then informed her son that he was cut off until he returned. His parents would accept only one collect phone call from Valencia that week, and if their son wanted assistance, during that call he would have to offer a detailed outline of the steps he would take to ensure he would never fail another class. If he didn’t like feeling stranded, they added, he should think hard before any repeat performances.

The marooning left Lockwood shattered, if only for a moment. Although only seventeen years old (or nineteen based on his fake ID designed to get him into Valencia’s bars), he empathized with his parents’ desire to educate him. As opposed to the lesson they wanted to teach him, though, he felt it would be more valuable to demonstrate to them that he was growing smarter thanks to skills that were more valuable than homework. With this in mind, he opted to showcase his ingenuity to his parents instead of cowering with halfhearted repentance.

He first asked his hotel’s concierge which beaches American students used. He then found the beach and located a group of students who had a guitar. With his charm and his fake ID as collateral, he would ask to borrow the guitar to earn some beer money (a portion of which would go to the guitar’s owner). Then, he would busk to entertain passersby until his hat was full of euros. Once this happened, he would return the guitar, enjoy drinks with his new friends, and find a hostel for the night before repeating the steps the next day.

The plan, though inventive, did not sit well with his parents. This wasn’t just because he’d avoided heeding their message again, but because he didn’t contact them at all until the seventh day of his trip. (Also, he arrived back in Los Angeles intoxicated.)

After Valencia, his parents spent the summer before Lockwood’s senior year bluntly stating that he was too unintelligent for college. As they did in his younger years, Lockwood’s favorite relatives weighed in on the matter. Arthur played the role of peacekeeper all summer and Adelaide unexpectedly excoriated the teenager. Whether she’d grown weary of his indiscretions or was standing up for the whole family, she delivered to him one final, acerbic speech before refusing to see or talk to him ever again.

It was Adelaide, then, who helped at least temporarily push Lockwood in the right direction. His senior year’s report cards saw straight A’s due to a combination of a less intensive course load and a minimal amount of added effort.

College then began and with it came extra temptations, looser schedules, and a set of what looked to Lockwood like entirely malleable rules. Ruefully for his clan, the reward of playing the role of Charles Lockwood remained too grand to focus on anything else.

His relatives’ lectures did not come to mind while he was ditching classes by the dozen, spending nights gift-wrapping animals scheduled for dissection in pre-med classes, or covering red hand rails with ketchup. The talks, however, did stick out vividly while he was checking his preliminary grades that night in October.

His mother’s stern words were the first thing on his mind when he awoke minutes before his alarm, careful to not stir the person who would be distressed to discover he wasn’t Chinese.

The morning began like many of Lockwood’s mornings in freshman dorms, with an examination of the resident’s medicine cabinet for signs of prescriptions linked to sexually transmitted diseases. After feeling confident with the lack of findings, he flicked the computer’s mouse and opened his email account to see five new emails.

All five notes began with I regret to inform you (a phrase he’d never seen before). He glared through a dumbfounded haze as he sifted through his professors’ undeniable rejections.

Lockwood, who was almost never rebuffed, was having difficulty with the five refusals staring back at him.

For comparison’s sake, he signed out of his email and opened the girl’s account that was winking at him from a row of minimized windows. He found a reply from the real Jia Xiong, who altered her score thanks to coercion provided by the man pretending to be him.

As his grades painted a darker portrait, the boy who often lived without care finally realized the weight of being the only Lockwood on campus after one hundred and thirty-two years.

Chapter 3: Madame E.D. Grafe

DESPITE THE opinion held by many with whom she had dealt, PMU junior Edie Grafe did not rise each morning desiring to make someone’s day miserable. Truthfully, though, she was always innately happy to know it was bound to happen at some point in the day.

Edie Grafe, whose last name was pronounced like graph paper and whose first name was not really Edie, awoke early to pangs of discomfort behind her eyes courtesy of the vodka diet sodas she consumed the night before. Rolling over in her bed, she looked around for clues about why she set an alarm more than three hours before her first class.

On her dresser, atop a small mirror sat a delicately cut yellow wristband, reminding her that Charles Lockwood, her best friend running on two years, chose their Monday night plans. The sight reminded her that her alarm was set early so she could rush to the Freshman Quad and mock Lockwood face to face as opposed to the convenient electronic options at her disposal.

She did not know where he would be simply because he was conventional. Rather, Edie knew he slept at a freshman’s dorm because she helped facilitate his rendezvous.

I can’t tell if that’s him or not! Edie recalled hearing over the thumping music at Home Reading the night before. The speaker was a pleasant looking brunette who was leaning up to a lankier female companion. Both were clearly freshmen, despite their yellow wristbands. It better be him. I have to get that grade up! The brunette stood on her toes and bit her lip for a better look across the room.

Her interest instantly aflame, Edie scanned the room until her gaze landed on the owner of the room’s only white and blue shirt: Lockwood. She then turned to the girls with a stunning smile. The cutie by the pool table? Good choice, she purred in a polite tone.

The girls somehow decided she was trustworthy. You don’t know him do you? He kind of looks like my European History TA. And I kind of need to…talk with him.

Edie pursed her lips sympathetically, denoting she understood without judgment.

The girl gave a timid look. Does this make me a bad person?

Of course not! Edie insisted warmly. Tons of students every day ask for better grades. Why should you get punished for being direct? She nudged a laugh out of the girl.

Yeah, the girl replied, squinting out of uncertainty. But he looks a different in class.

He’s friends with my roomie but I’m really bad with names. What’s your TA’s name?

Jia Xiong, the brunette noted.

The comment forced a fraction of a giggle out of Edie, who pretended to sip her cocktail. Not wanting anyone to realize the absurdity of the statement, she declared, "That is his name!"

Staring at her gratified face in the mirror that morning, Edie was again happy to have a friend like Lockwood who not only shared her love of mischief but whose actions seemed to brew it. He kept her quite entertained even when she wasn’t toying with the campus herself. (Her favorite prank in her arsenal was executed whenever she could find any female’s unguarded cellular phone. She would pick up the phone as if it were her own, locate a male’s phone number among her contacts, type in the message A little friend is 3 weeks late and send the message before leaving the phone where she found it.)

Her personality wasn’t much more endearing than her shenanigans, as those acquainted with the 21-year-old Business major from a