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MidReal Story
She Wants Extra Credit
Scenario:I am a professor. At the end of my lecture, Jessica Johnson waits for the other students to leave before approaching me.
"Hey, Mister, I have a favor to ask. Is there any way I can get extra credit? I really don't want to fail this course."
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Jessica Johnson
student seeking extra credit, relationships with Professor Thatcher and classmates, petite with curly brown hair, determined and resourceful.
Professor Thatcher
the course instructor, mentor to Jessica and other students, tall with glasses and a stern demeanor, wise and slightly sarcastic.
Rio Collins
Jessica's classmate and potential study partner, friend of Jessica and acquaintance of Professor Thatcher, athletic build with short black hair, loyal and competitive.
"Professor Thatcher? May I see you for a moment?"
I stood in the doorway of his office, my heart pounding.
I had never spoken to him before, but I had to try.
This was my last chance.
He looked up from the paper he was grading and peered at me over the top of his glasses.
"Yes?"
His voice was stern, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
But I stood tall, determined to make a good impression.
"My name is Jessica Johnson," I said, holding out my hand.
He took it briefly and then gestured to a chair.
"Miss Johnson? What can I do for you?"
I sat down, trying to collect my thoughts.
"I'm having some trouble in your class," I said, my voice steady.
"I was wondering if there's any way that I could earn some extra credit."
He looked at me skeptically.
"Extra credit? What makes you think you deserve it?"
I took a deep breath and launched into the story I had prepared.
It wasn't entirely true, but I had to make him understand.
"My high school didn't prepare me very well," I said.
"I've been falling behind in your class, and I need to bring my grade up if I want to stay in. I'll do anything."
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, eyeing me.
Anything?
The word hung in the air, leaving a hint of promise and possibility.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks.
I hadn't meant it like that.
But the way he was looking at me made me wonder if I had said something wrong.
The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock on the wall.
I gripped the edge of my seat, trying to keep from squirming under his gaze.
"Anything?" he repeated, his voice low and husky.
I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice.
"Yes," I said finally.
"I'll do extra assignments or help with research. Anything you need."
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded slowly.
"Very well," he said, his voice still measured.
"I have a project that I've been putting off. If you're willing to help me with it, I'll give you the extra credit you need."
I let out a sigh of relief, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders.
"Thank you," I said, standing up.
"That's very kind of you."
He stood too, towering over me with his height.
"It's not kindness," he said, his voice firm.
"It's a business deal. You'll be helping me with my research, and in return, I'll give you the extra credit you need."
I nodded, feeling a flutter in my chest.
It wasn't exactly what I had expected, but it was better than nothing. "Good," he said, nodding back at me.
"I'll send you an email with more information. In the meantime, I suggest you focus on catching up on your coursework."
I nodded again and turned to leave, feeling a sense of hope that I hadn't felt in weeks.
As I walked out of his office, I couldn't help but feel grateful for this chance to turn things around.
And who knows?
Maybe working with Professor Thatcher would be exactly what I needed to get back on track.
Professor Thatcher
I watched her go, her long legs striding confidently across the hallway.
She was a beautiful young woman, and I couldn't deny that she had caught my eye more than once in class.
But this wasn't about attraction—it was about getting what I needed done.
And if she was willing to put in the work, then so be it. The door closed behind her and I sat back down at my desk, running a hand through my hair as I stared at the stack of papers in front of me.
"Professor, are you sure this is a good idea?" my colleague, Dr. Evans, asked from the doorway, having overheard part of our conversation.
I glanced up, surprised to see him there, and nodded.
"Jessica's eager and capable; besides, I need someone who can dedicate time to this project," I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
He nodded, but his expression still held a hint of skepticism.
"Alright, I'll let you know if I hear anything," he said before leaving.
I sighed and shook my head, turning my attention back to the project at hand.
It was a long shot, but I had to try.
I had no other choice.
The project was one that I had been working on for years, but it required a lot of data collection and analysis, which was proving to be difficult for me to manage on my own.
I had tried to enlist the help of some of the other professors in the department, but they were all busy with their own projects.
That's when I remembered Jessica from my class.
She was smart and eager, and she seemed like the perfect candidate for the job.
I pulled out my laptop and opened up my email account, typing out a message with the details of the project and what I would need from her. The email was short and to the point, outlining the project's objectives and what was expected of her.
I hit send before standing up from my desk and walking over to the window.
It was late afternoon by now, and the sun was beginning to set over the campus.
I watched as students hurried across the quad, laughing and chatting as they went about their day.
It was a beautiful sight, and it brought a sense of peace wash over me.
I stood there for a moment, taking in the view, before turning back to my desk and sitting down again.
The sound of my computer dinging alerted me that an email had arrived.
I looked down at the screen and saw that it was from Jessica, responding to my message about the project.
I clicked on it and read through her response, nodding as I read.
Everything seemed straightforward enough—data collection, analysis, writing up results—and she had agreed to meet with me tomorrow to discuss further.
I smiled as I shut down my laptop; maybe this would work out after all. Back in my dorm room later that night, I opened up Professor Thatcher's email on my laptop, scrolling through it quickly.
It seemed like a pretty standard research project—data collection and analysis for his psychology research—and he wanted me to start right away.
I scanned through the attachments he sent along with it: standard PDF forms for informed consent, guidelines for data collection, etc. But then something caught my eye as I scrolled through them—a file with an odd name: PT_Protocol_7X.dat.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I clicked on it and waited as it opened.
The file was a spreadsheet, and as it loaded, I saw that it was filled with rows upon rows of data.
The columns were labeled with strange names like "SubjectID," "Behavior," and "Frequency."
I scrolled through the data, trying to make sense of it.
It seemed to be tracking some sort of behavior in students, but there were so many different variables that it was hard to pinpoint exactly what.
The numbers themselves were all over the place too—some were high, some were low—and there didn't seem to be any discernible pattern.
I leaned back in my chair, wondering what this file had to do with the research project Professor Thatcher had assigned me.
Was this his data?
And if so, why was it such a mess?
I glanced at the clock on my computer and saw that it was getting late.
I needed to get some sleep if I wanted to be sharp for our meeting tomorrow. But something about that file kept nagging at me.
I stared at it for a moment longer, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Then, without thinking, I clicked into the first cell and started typing new values into the column labeled "Frequency."
It was a risk—I had no idea what kind of consequences this might have—but something about that data just didn't feel right.
And besides, who would ever notice?
It was late at night when I sat down at my desk in my office, staring at the screen in front of me.
The glow of the monitor illuminated my face as I typed away at my laptop, working on the latest iteration of my research project.
I had been working on this project for years now, pouring over lines of code and data entry in an effort to finally crack the code.
But despite all my efforts, I still hadn't gotten anywhere. It wasn't for lack of trying.
I had spent countless hours studying psychology and behavioral patterns in students, pouring over research papers and conducting experiments in an effort to understand how they ticked.
But every time I thought I had finally figured something out, another variable would pop up and throw everything off kilter again.
Frustration welled up inside me as I stared at the screen in front of me.
I had been working on this project for so long now—years of blood, sweat, and tears—and yet I still hadn't gotten anywhere.
It felt like I was banging my head against a brick wall over and over again.
"Professor Thatcher, have you considered that maybe the data is flawed from the start?" Dr. Evans asked, stepping into the office with a concerned look.
I glanced up, surprised by his sudden appearance. "Flawed? What do you mean?"
Dr. Evans leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "I've been reviewing some of your earlier datasets, and there are inconsistencies that suggest manipulation."
I sat up straighter, my mind racing.
"Manipulation? What are you talking about?"
Dr. Evans sighed, shaking his head.
"I'm not saying you did it, but the data doesn't match what I've seen in other studies. It's almost as if someone has been tampering with it."
I stared at him for a moment, feeling a knot form in my stomach.
Tampering with the data?
That was impossible.
I had been so careful with this project—every number, every variable accounted for.
But then again, Dr. Evans was right.
The data didn't make sense.
And if someone was tampering with it, that would explain everything.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," I said finally, standing up and walking over to the window.
"I'll take another look at the data and see if I can find anything."
Dr. Evans nodded and left the office, leaving me alone once again.
I stared out the window, watching as the sun set over the campus.
I knew I had to get to the bottom of this—I couldn't let my research be ruined by some rogue variable. But as I turned back to my desk and sat down in front of my laptop, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.
I opened up the spreadsheet again, comparing it to an earlier version from a few weeks ago.
At first glance, nothing seemed different—the same numbers, the same variables.
But then I noticed something—a small spike in one of the frequency values.
It was only a tiny bump, but it stood out against the rest of the flatline data.
I scrolled through the rest of the spreadsheet, looking for any other anomalies.
And then I saw it—a pattern of spikes in certain frequency values, all clustered together in a short span of time.
It was unmistakable—a manipulation of the data.
But who could have done this?
And why?
I looked at the timestamp on the file and saw that it had been altered late at night—long after everyone else had left for the day.
A cold feeling ran down my spine as I realized what must have happened.
Someone had accessed my computer while I was away and altered the data. But who?
And why would they do such a thing?
I thought back to all the late nights I had spent working on this project—alone in my office until well into the early hours of the morning.
Anyone could have accessed my computer during that time—anyone who wanted to sabotage my work.
I picked up my phone and dialed Jessica's number, my mind racing with possibilities.
"Hello?" she answered, her voice sounding groggy.
"Jessica, it's Professor Thatcher. I need to ask you something important—did you access my computer last night?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and I could hear my own heart pounding in my ears.
My hands were shaking as I gripped the phone tighter, waiting for her response.
Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I...I don't know what you're talking about."
I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my anger in check.
"Jessica, I know what happened. I have proof. So don't lie to me."
There was another long silence, and I could almost hear her thinking over the phone.
Finally, she spoke again, her voice filled with a mix of fear and defiance.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said, her voice trembling.
"You can't do anything to me."
I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.
"Jessica, listen to me. Whatever reason you had for doing this, it wasn't worth it. You've ruined months of work—years of research gone down the drain because of your actions." There was a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment I wondered if she had hung up on me.
But then she spoke again, her voice filled with tears.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice breaking.
"I didn't mean to hurt anyone. It was just...I needed to get good grades. And I knew that if I could alter the data just a little bit, it would make it look like I was doing better than I really was."
I sighed heavily, feeling a mix of disappointment and anger.
"Jessica, that's not how science works. You can't just change the data to fit your needs. It has to be based on facts and evidence."
She sniffled on the other end of the line, and I could tell that she was crying.
"I know," she said quietly.
"I'm so sorry. What can I do to make it right?"
I took another deep breath, trying to think of what to say next.
"First things first, we need to figure out how much damage has been done," I said slowly.
"Can you meet me in my office tomorrow morning? We'll go over everything together and see what we can salvage." Jessica nodded on the other end of the line.
"Yes, sir. Thank you for understanding."
I nodded too, even though she couldn't see me through the phone.
"It's okay," I said softly.
"Just try to learn from this experience and move forward."
The next day, I arrived at Professor Thatcher's office thirty minutes before our scheduled meeting, my hands shaking as I gripped my laptop bag.
The hallway seemed longer and colder than usual as I walked towards his door.
Through the frosted glass, I could see his silhouette sitting at his desk.
I knocked softly on the door, and he called me in without looking up from his computer screen.
The room was dimly lit, with only a few slivers of light peeking through the blinds.
The air was thick with the smell of coffee and old books.
I took a seat across from him, pulling out my laptop and the printed data sheets.
I laid them carefully on his cluttered desk, trying to keep my hands from shaking.
Finally, he looked up at me, his eyes piercing through the dim light.