by M. Billiter
I crossed my legs and started to bounce my foot when I realized it was a giant message to Shawn that I was either anxious or irritated. I quickly stopped the shaking motion and crossed my legs at the ankles. It was the body language equivalent to placing my hands in my lap; it seemed natural, relaxed, and signaled that I was neither attracted to nor afraid of him.
Shawn didn’t even seem to notice as he reached behind him and palmed a folder. “I was looking through your list of early admissions for next fall.”
“Class of 2020,” I said, thinking of my sons and the plan I'd put into place when their college graduation seemed a distant date in the future. Now as they were into their senior year of high school, it would be four short years to the fulfillment of my master plan for their life.
I almost laughed. Things are so not going as I imagined.
“As you’re aware, Dr. Cummins is having WSU participate in the college survey of student engagement,” he said, then handed me the memo I clearly had not read.
I skimmed it for the pertinent details. National survey. Fall semester. My eyes roved the page. Where is it? Ah yes. Retention in college. Bingo.
“Of course.” I placed the memo on the corner of his desk between us. “I know the president is concerned about our retention rate and how to improve the entire college experience,” I said, almost lifting word-for-word from the memo. If having four children had taught me anything, it was to read quickly for content and be able to multitask. And I was seriously multitasking with what I knew and what I needed to appear to know.
“Exactly. And the student learning and retention rate at WSU falls under our department’s purview.” Shawn opened the file folder. “So you can imagine my surprise when I read the short list of candidates for early admission. It’s hard to retain students when we enter in so few.” He glanced up from the folder, and his green eyes looked like the Ciaran Mountains in my mother’s home country of Ireland.
I softly smiled. I wish you were here, Mom. I swallowed hard.
“Is everything okay?” Shawn asked.
I playfully rolled my eyes. “Yes, just having a melancholy moment thinking of my twin boys graduating and joining the class of 2020.” Nice redirect. Shawn was nothing if not interested in two potential incoming freshmen.
“That’s right!” He slapped the file folder. “Aaron and Branson are seniors this year.”
“Yes they are. So I was extremely careful to make sure Rachel excluded their files from my early admissions selection process.” It wasn’t hard, because neither of them applied to this shitty institution. Neither Rachel nor Shawn knew that, though they would've if they'd bothered to read my book from cover-to-cover and not skim the chapter summaries. WSU did not align with my five-step process for locking down an Ivy League education.
“Tara, no one is questioning your credibility. You’re the finest director of admissions in Wyoming.”
That’s because I’m the only director of admissions in Wyoming. Community colleges didn’t count. Hell, community colleges were built for the candidates I rejected.
I looked at my Dean and smiled. “Thank you.” I was striking the right balance between too much and too little eye contact. Too much and he’d probably move to the other side of his desk; too little and he’d think I wasn’t interested in what he had to say. Shawn was always sending me to these seminars on body language that he couldn’t attend. Today I was exercising every tactic to appear open and not closed during a potential workplace confrontation. And it was just a matter of time before Shawn stayed on task and addressed why I was in his office.
“Tara, this list seems rather small,” he said. “I got a call from Fred early this morning, and he’s claiming that a vast majority of legacy candidates didn’t make the cut for early admission.”
I had two ways to play this: feign stupidity, which Shawn wouldn’t buy, or… “That can’t be right.” I allowed my rapid heart rate to come out through my voice. “Oh my goodness.” I reached toward the list of early admissions and stopped midway. “I’m sorry. May I?”
Shawn graciously handed me the memo I had sent Principal Stanley less than forty-eight hours ago.
“Well yes, that’s my memo, but I don’t remember forgetting any legacy candidates.” I purposefully pointed toward Wyatt Arn, Marybeth Sims, Gene Harpy, and Sally Grey. Four legacy candidates whose names I had committed to memory. “These are all legacy candidates from Wilson High School,” I said.
Now the thing that worked in my favor was that there was only one person who knew the exact number of legacy candidates who had applied for early admission: Rachel. And after Shawn gave her the verbal beatdown today in my absence, it wasn’t likely she was going to rat me out to the man who went all “bent” on her.
As far as Shawn knew, I had followed university protocol and granted early admission to all our legacy applicants from Wilson High School. And if that wasn’t a slam dunk, I looked up at him with my own bewitching green eyes and beguiled him with a straight-up lie.
“It’s possible that a legacy candidate slipped past me, but—” I slowly shook my head. “—it’s hard to imagine that the computer would've missed it.”
All applicants registered online, so there was a computer printout of everyone who'd applied. The beauty of having a machine involved was that technology errors happened all the time in academia, especially when I went back into the computer and purposefully changed Ashley’s status. Later I would change more Wilson applicants to even out the playing field, but for now, I'd covered my bases. Plus, by doing it from work, it would trace the last IP address to the university and not my home. Or at least that’s what I hoped.
“You think maybe some of the applicants got miscoded?” I asked when I clearly already knew the answer.
“That's quite possible,” Shawn said. “I’ll have the IT department look into it and send Fred an email telling him the same.”
“I am so sorry if this has caused unnecessary work for you.”
Shawn waved the file folder. “Don’t think anything about it. Now that you’ve pointed out the legacy candidates you did spot, I imagine the rest were miscoded. It’s an easy error to amend.”
“I agree.” I smiled, uncrossed my ankles and stood.
Shawn stood and held out his hand. I placed my hand in his, and he gripped it like it was the prize-winning ball. “Thank you for staying late to work this out,” he said.
“Of course.”
I walked away with my Kate Spade tucked beneath my arm and a smile across my face.
Maybe insanity is contagious.
17
Branson
“Dude, why are you late? Were you held up?”
I looked at my brother. Aaron had on my naval academy shorts that I had earned at the summer seminar institute and a tight black Nike shirt. I was in a mismatched purple Dri-FIT shirt and green Nike shorts. Aaron always said I looked like Barney, but I couldn't care less. “I was just hanging out with Trevor before practice and I lost track of time.”
“Who’s Trevor?”
“Oh, he’s just a buddy I have in pre-calc. He helps me with my homework sometimes.”
“Why haven’t I met him yet?”
“He’s just a buddy in math. I don’t hang out with him often.”
Coach Walker started the practice by sending us around the indoor track twice.
“If one lap doesn’t warm you up, two’ll fucking do it,” I said to Aaron, who was beside me and then sprinted ahead of me.
“Slow the fuck down. It’s not a race!” I yelled to my brother’s back. I didn’t worry about Coach hearing or even caring. There was only one thing Walker concerned himself with and it was the fitness of his athletes. During indoor season, he didn’t let us eat any sort of food that had chemicals you couldn’t pronounce or saturated fats anywhere in the ingredients, and sugar was off-limits. He wanted us strictly on a protein diet. My lunch of fried chicken burgers and barbeque chips didn’t fit into his pyramid.
&nb
sp; I fell farther behind Aaron with the shot putters and discus throwers who couldn’t run for shit. They were either really in shape and cut, or they were soft and heavy around the edges. There was no gray area with the throwers.
That’s okay. I can hang back until I catch my second wind.
“What’s up, Kovac?” one of the shot putters called out.
I cocked my head toward him. “Yeah, looks like I’m slumming it with the throwers.”
Aaron was about twenty meters ahead of me, maybe thirty. I wouldn’t let him lap me. I was always faster than my brother, plus I had a longer stride and a higher endurance that usually carried me through the season and into state. But lately with this stupid medication, I'd felt sluggish and hadn't been able to get the same rev as I used to. I glanced down at my shirt. It was clinging with sweat to my stomach that extended out a little more than it used to.
Maybe Trev’s right. Maybe I have gained weight.
The guys next to me all had loose bellies that jiggled when they ran. I shook my head. No fucking way. If other people wanted to be out of shape, that was their business, but I wouldn’t let any medication, no matter what it promised to do, make me soft and weak. Hell no.
I kicked up my feet and speed, rounding the corner on Aaron quickly and swiftly. The shocked look on his face was priceless as I sprinted past him toward the finish line of the first lap. I looked ahead of me, and the second lap seemed like it stretched farther than my legs could travel. My side hurt, my lungs burned, and for all of Coach’s lectures, I understood the necessity of solid protein before a workout. I had no fuel left—for anything. I pushed and my thighs stung with the awareness that I was carrying too much weight.
I drifted back to my original location with the throwers. My acceleration was slowly depleting, and so was my confidence.
Damn, I guess I need to get back in shape.
When I finally finished the second lap, Aaron was waiting in the circle stretch next to some of his buddies. Usually I liked Aaron’s friends, but the guy to his left, Jesse, was unbearably aggressive, and his former wrestler mentality that he had to beat everyone was obnoxious.
“You were going pretty slow on your second lap,” Jesse said.
Well fuck, this is going to be interesting.
“You all right there, fat ass?” Jesse was taller and easily outweighed me. Still, he was being a douche.
“Usually I’d take offense to something like that, but I’m just surprised you actually created a full sentence that quickly and succinctly with your low mentality,” I shot back.
Aaron and his other buddy James started snickering.
“You wanna go?” Jesse puffed out his chest and reminded me of a king cobra ready to strike.
“Sorry, I’m gonna leave wrestling for the gay porn industry,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could carry. “But maybe next time.”
Jesse took a step forward and I did too. Bring it on, douche. I may not be able to do much damage, but you haven’t fucked with the shadow people. And they don’t take well to being picked on.
Aaron intercepted Jesse before he tore my face off. “Okay, let’s calm down, guys. Branson’s just joking around.”
The great thing about being an identical twin was that there was no need for words. Twins could share a look between each other that said everything. And the stern look on Aaron’s face said I’d better knock it off before I got a beatdown.
When Jesse stepped back, I relaxed my fist, which I had unconsciously clenched. I glanced at Aaron and gave him a wry grin. He shook his head. If my look had words attached to it, it would've said, “See, brother, I can’t be crazy because it’s statistically proven that crazy people don’t think they’re crazy.” And I'd have to be crazy to challenge Jesse.
18
Tara
“Come on, Ma, trust me. Let’s have some fun.”
All my children had different names for me. For whatever reason, Aaron called me Ma and sounded like he was Brooklyn born and bred, not the California native he was.
I held onto the passenger door handle as my teenager barreled down the street in his 1996 Saab. The car was older than my son. “You know this is a twenty-mile-per-hour zone, right?”
“That’s a mere suggestion.” Aaron flashed me a grin.
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Just get us there in one piece.”
Carson was in the back seat with her nose in a book, and Jack was playing his DS. The Pokémon theme song played in the background.
“What’s Branson doing tonight?” I asked.
“He went to Dakota’s house, if you can call it that.”
I looked at Aaron. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not really a house, just a shitty apartment. But it does the trick for the two of them.”
“Dakota and her mom?”
Aaron nodded and flipped on his turn signal, which sounded like a fast heartbeat. “So you’ve been to Dakota’s house—I mean apartment?”
“Yeah. It was weird, but I had a girl there so it was all right.”
“What girl? Chelsea?”
Aaron shook his head and his honey-colored hair waved back and forth. “Before Chelsea.” He gave me a wry smirk. “It was just some girl I didn’t plan on sticking around with long.”
“Aaron, you can’t date girls. You only get guys,” Carson said. “I see you hanging out with that wrestling guy all the time.”
Aaron tilted his head back against the seat. “Shut the hell up, Carson.” His voice was light, whimsical and made us all laugh.
“Aaron doesn’t like boys,” Jack said. “He likes girls with golden hair, like Goldilocks.”
We all laughed.
“Nah,” Aaron replied. “Listen, little brother, you can always tell the dumb ones by their hair color.”
I wanted to elbow him, but I was afraid to do anything to distract my teenager from his driving, which was already questionable.
“So where are we going?” I asked, redirecting the conversation to something that wouldn’t distract him. If I’m not putting out fires at work, I’m doing it here.
“Ma, trust me. Let’s have a little fun.”
I shook my head. “I’ll have more fun if I know where we’re going.”
“You looked really stressed when you came home from work,” he said.
I stared out the passenger window. “I was.”
“Everything okay, Mummy?” Carson switched into English mode to lighten the mood.
I glanced over my shoulder and reached behind me to grab her bony knee. “Yes, baby girl. I just had a tense meeting with my dean.”
“You’re not getting fired, are you?” Aaron asked. The panic was evident in his voice. My children could not financially rely on their father.
I pulled my hand off Carson’s knee and gently placed it on Aaron’s shoulder. “I’m okay. We’re okay. My dean had some questions about a recent list of early admissions that my office released. I think I answered his concerns, but he’s going to go through the list, and I’m sure we’ll meet again.” I exhaled. “Nothing I can’t handle. I’m not worried.” I should be, but I have too much other crap to concern myself with.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” Aaron said.
I rubbed his shoulder. “Nothing to apologize for. The nice thing about my position is that I can always turn a rejection into an admission and call it a ‘computer error.’ Happens all the time.” So if I need to let Ashley, that skanky little bitch who's been bullying your brother, into WSU, I will. And then I’ll make sure she doesn’t get any of her designated classes. I may not win the battle, but I always win the war.
“So what’s the surprise?” Again I veered the conversation back to something else.
“I thought you could use a night out so I’m treating us for dinner,” Aaron replied.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Thank you.” I looked back out the passenger window and watched Casper blur by while my son blared music from his iPhone.
An auxiliary cord ran from the cassette player into his phone. I wasn’t sure how it worked, only that it did, and hip-hop and rap blared from the back speakers, reawakening my dulled senses.
Aaron pulled into the parking lot of the fifties-themed hamburger stand. “Big A” was plastered on a sign along with a dancing Elvis.
I smiled. “Aren’t you sick of eating here?”
Aaron grinned. “Only reason I brought you here is because I get an employee discount.”
“Yeah, hamburgers!” Carson exclaimed.
“Can I get a sundae?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, of course, buddy,” Aaron said.
I gently touched my son’s arm. “You’re not buying dinner. I don’t mind tapping into your discount,” I chuckled, “but I’m paying.”
We had missed the dinner crowd by at least an hour. Though I didn't think my kids ate dinner sooner than seven or eight each night. And thankfully it seemed they had conditioned their stomachs to stretch out their meals.
We slid into a corner booth with red vinyl padded seats, the tabletop was sparkled Formica with a silver band that wrapped around its base. Old 45s hung from the wall, and a jukebox lit up the corner like Times Square at midnight.
“Can I have a quarter for the juice box?” Jack asked.
Aaron almost spit out the water he had gulped down when we slid into the booth. “Buddy, it’s a jukebox.”
Jack shrugged. “Can I still have a quarter to play Mom a song?”
Aaron fished through his jeans pocket and handed Jack and Carson a stack of quarters.
When they were out of earshot, Aaron turned to me.
“So, have you noticed anything different about Branson?”
I was afraid to ask. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. He seems off.”
“How?” I unwrapped my straw and placed it in the cup of water.
“He seems more depressed and monotone, like no emotion. Or the complete opposite and he’ll flip a bitch on someone. He just seems like, I dunno, he acts bipolar.”
