by Frankie Bow
“...our biggest problems are Larry Schneider, Dan Watanabe, and Molly Barda.”
I stopped and listened as the crowd jostled around me. Who was talking about me? And whose problem was I? I looked around, but I only saw my glum colleagues, shuffling out into the hazy afternoon.
A different woman spoke next, her voice as polished as a radio announcer’s: “I think we’re going to need to show a stronger outcome than one additional graduate, if you want to justify scaling up.”
Emma was way up ahead by this time. When she realized I was no longer walking beside her, she stopped and pushed her way back. I held my finger to my lips and pointed at the pillar.
“Marshall Dixon,” I whispered. Emma’s eyes widened, and we both listened.
“You’re so right, Marshall. That’s why we were thinking, now that we’ve done proof of concept in a small major, the College of Commerce should be next.”
Emma punched my arm hard at the mention of my college. Iker had continued walking ahead. Just as well. He wouldn’t be interested in eavesdropping anyway, and he’d probably disapprove of our doing so.
Then the voice—not Marshall, the other one—said, “Schneider’s a dinosaur. Very inflexible. Hopefully he’s retiring soon. Watanabe is department chair, so we can’t really do anything with him. But I think we can work with Molly. She doesn’t have tenure yet, so she’ll be receptive.”
Emma made a rude hand gesture. I shushed her and strained to listen. I wondered if Emma and I looked conspicuous, standing in a nearly-empty ballroom with our ears pressed against the pillar. Probably.
Marshall said something I couldn’t quite hear.
“Marshall,” wheedled the other woman, “the Foundation doesn’t want to see any failures. Remember, it’s not the students who are failing here. It’s the teachers.”
“Teachers,” Emma mouthed, and at that moment we knew who the second speaker was. It was Linda from the Student Retention Office. Sure enough, Linda’s chair at the reception table sat empty. The young man in the oversized aloha shirt was manning the table alone, gamely thanking each of the dazed attendees as they drifted out.
“I’m not saying Molly’s completely irrefixable,” Linda said. “She just doesn’t understand our culture. She actually admitted she won’t let a student pass her class if they don’t write.”
“Don’t you teach business writing?” Emma whispered to me.
“Doesn’t Barda teach business writing?” we heard Marshall Dixon ask Linda.
“Oh Marshall,” Linda chuckled, “could you imagine what would happen if everyone was such a stickler?”
“If everyone were,” I whispered to Emma.
“Shh.” Emma punched my shoulder. I rubbed it and glared at her.
“You shh.”
“...due one week from today,” Linda was saying. “We need to demonstrate positive action to increase student success.”
Marshall’s reply was too quiet for us to hear.
After a long silence, Linda said, “We’ve both seen next year’s budget cuts.”
“And the ledge turned down our request to increase tuition. I hope it works out with Skip Kojima.”
“Well, until it happens, Marshall, remember the Foundation’s keeping the lights on.”
“What about learning outcomes?” Marshall asked. “How did the seniors do on the subject test?”
“Oh, we discontinued the subject test,” Linda said. “But our other results are excellent. Student self-efficacy is up two percent, and self-esteem is up three percent.”
“Someone should tell the Foundation about this,” Emma whispered. “Molly, you should do it. They should know how these idiots are wasting their money.”
“Me? Why me? You’re the big do-gooder who likes to send in anonymous tips to people. Why don’t you—”
“Shh.” Emma’s shush reverberated in the quiet ballroom.
Suddenly Marshall and Linda were standing in front of me. I sprang away from the pillar as if it were made of bees.
“Hi Marshall,” I said brightly. “Linda, hi.” I looked around, wondering why Emma wasn’t saying anything. I caught a glimpse of her disappearing into the Lehua Lounge.
“Molly.” Linda gushed so sweetly you’d never guess she had just tried to get me fired. “Did you get enough to eat?”
“Yes, the buffet was wonderful. The Student Retention Office did a lovely job putting this together for us. Thank you.”
I looked from Linda to Marshall and back again, an idiotic smile pasted on my face.
“Well,” I said. “This was a wonderful retreat. Except for what happened to poor Kent, of course. I hope he recovers. I can’t wait to put all these useful ideas into practice. In fact, I should probably get back to my office right now—”
“Molly,” Marshall said. “I need to talk to you and Iker. Excuse us please, Linda.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Iker hadn’t gone far. He was by the door of the Lehua Lounge, talking to Kent Lovely’s buddy, Rodge Cowper. Rodge looked like a mess. His thick gray hair was disheveled, and the buttons of his rumpled aloha shirt strained over his belly. Marshall caught Iker’s eye and beckoned him over. Iker nodded and patted Rodge’s shoulder. Rodge cast a longing look at the dark doorway of the bar and then plodded away toward the parking lot.
Iker greeted Marshall with a little bow, managing to convey respect without being obsequious. I have figure out how to do that without making people think I’m mocking them.
“I read your report.” Marshall Dixon didn’t believe in small talk. “Very thorough. You must have worked quickly. Thank you for your hard work.”
“Oh, Dr. Dixon, that was not the final report.” Iker’s plump fingers fluttered with dismay. “It was the draft only. Our work is not complete. I have requested copies of the purchase orders, but those have not yet—”
“I appreciate your diligence,” Dixon interrupted him, “but it’s not necessary to pull the purchase orders.”
I watched the last few stragglers file glumly out toward the parking lot. I wished I could escape too. After seeing that affectionate interlude between Marshall and Kent, I did not want to discuss the irregularities we’d found in the Music Department. Now that Emma’s brother Jonah was gone, Kent Lovely was the Music Department.
“It was Molly who suggested we should look at the Music Department—” I heard Iker say.
Marshall whipped around to address me directly.
“I just gave you that file. What in there points to the Music Department? Did you have advance knowledge of Island Confidential’s allegations against Kent Lovely?”
I shook my head no. Marshall Dixon glared at me as if I had done something wrong.
This was completely unfair. Iker and I had been doing Dixon a favor, volunteering to investigate the complaint to her office. The only reason I’d agreed to this thankless project was number one, I wanted to help Iker out, and number two, working for free over the summer is the kind of thing you agree to do when you don’t have tenure yet, to show the administration you’re a “team player.”
“Perhaps you can explain why you focused on the Music Department.”
“Kent Lovely was showing off a brand-new sound system,” I said. “According to our charge, we were supposed to flag unusual purchases. I have some familiarity with these types of setups. I told Iker we should probably follow up on it. That’s all.”
“Showing off?” Now Dixon was looking at me as if I were something she’d found stuck to the bottom of her handmade Italian leather pump. “Kent Lovely was showing off for you?”
“Not for me, personally, no. Definitely not for me.”
“Showing off in what way, then?”
Geez, she really wasn’t going to let this go, was she? I felt a trickle of perspiration run down my left side. I probably had sweat stains the size of dinner plates by now. Good thing I was wearing a busy print.
“Rodge’s office is right next door to mine,” I explained. “Kent is in there a
ll the time. The walls are pretty thin, so I hear all their conversation. And those two love to talk. You wouldn’t believe some of the private—um, anyway, one day there was music coming from Rodge’s office. It was really loud. I mean, so loud my books were inching off the shelves with every beat. I’m sure everyone in the building could hear it. I went next door to ask Rodge to turn it down.”
“And did they?” Marshall demanded. “Turn down the volume?”
“Uh, eventually, yes.”
“And on the basis of that single incident, you directed Iker to investigate Kent Lovely.”
“Well—”
“Isn’t it likely that Kent’s playing music was related to his professional responsibilities as a music instructor, and interim chair of the Music Department?”
“Oh, certainly,” I agreed.
I did not tell Marshall the minute I was in Rodge’s office, Kent seized the opportunity to brag about his new high-end sound system, making sure to work in a few tiresome double-entendres around the “power” of his components.
“Molly was very dutiful,” Iker said. “She was right to alert me. And her suspicion was correct. The procurement of that system appeared to have been—”
“Iker,” Marshall interrupted, “The current draft of your report will be sufficient. You can cancel any outstanding requests to pull additional documents. We can save the taxpayers a few dollars in copy fees.”
“The inconsistencies were not only in the Music Department,” Iker protested. “You will see in the draft that there was insufficiently documented activity in Biology—”
“I’m sorry Iker, we don’t have time right now.”
Marshall checked her watch. The ostentatious diamond-and-steel model seemed at odds with her elegant style. Not that she needed my fashion advice.
“You’ve done enough for now. Please remember this matter is confidential. You must understand we have a very sensitive situation right now, with these public allegations and Kent Lovely’s medical situation. I need to know this information won’t be leaked anywhere. That it will be kept safe.”
Marshall Dixon was still glaring at me, her stern expression damning me in advance as a blabbermouth.
“Oh yes,” Iker assured her. “As safe as a house on fire.”
“Fine.” Marshall Dixon turned away and then glanced back. “We can touch bases later. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m meeting Skip Kojima at the airport.”
“The Skip Kojima?” I asked. “Kojima Surfwear? He’s coming here? We talk about him in my class. His company is a great example of—”
“Yes,” Marshall spun back and cut me off. “That Skip Kojima. We may have an opportunity to name the College of Arts and Sciences.”
“Oh,” I exclaimed. “Well, good luck, then. Really.”
Marshall nodded curtly, shook Iker’s hand, then mine, then she was gone. I flexed my fingers and winced as I watched her leave.
“Touch base,” I said quietly. “Not touch bases.”
“Pardon?” Iker asked.
“The expression is touch base. It’s from baseball. Touch bases means, I don’t know what it means. I hope we didn’t just torpedo our entire music program.”
“Yes.” Iker looked mournful. “The music is important. It would be a tragic thing for our students to lose the music.”
Our legislature had long ago decided the taxpayers of Hawaii should not fund “useless” degrees in disciplines like art or music. Our university responded by cutting music funding to the bone and beefing up the engineering program. The push to graduate more engineers hasn’t actually resulted in more engineers, but the College of Commerce, widely seen as the soft landing of choice for the casualties of calculus, has been enjoying record enrollments ever since. Naturally the College of Commerce is a big supporter of the engineering program.
“Iker, did you say there were irregularities in biology? Emma’s department?”
“Yes, that is what my investigation showed.”
“Is there a question about Emma? Is she in trouble?”
“I do not know.” Iker spoke carefully. “Further investigation is required.”
“So that’s it? We’re done with this thing?”
“That is Doctor Dixon’s wish, yes.”
“Well, good. It’s not like I don’t have classes to teach and textbooks to review and crazy students to worry about. Oh, that reminds me, I need to get back to campus. I have an appointment with our dean.”
Iker didn’t seem to share my relief. At all. In fact, he looked downright unhappy.
“Are you okay, Iker?”
“I do not like to do a slap-shod job,” Iker said. “I do not believe this thing is finished.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Why does Marshall Dixon wish to ‘name’ the College of Arts and Sciences?” Iker asked. “It already has a name. It is the College of Arts and Sciences.”
“It means Mister Kojima would give Mahina State a big donation, and in exchange it would become the Kojima College of Arts and Sciences.”
“Ah, yes. Now I understand. As I say, my English is not so good. I hope that she enjoys success in this endeavor.”
“I agree. It would be nice to have someone besides the Student Retention Office calling the shots around here. Now where could Emma be? Just kidding. I know where she is.”
The Lehua Lounge smelled like decades of cigarette smoke, with a whiff of chlorine bleach. When my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I spotted Emma seated at the bar. Except for the dark koa paneling, the décor was undistinguished. The duct-tape-patched red vinyl booths had been there for a generation or more. The dark industrial carpet was a recent replacement.
Emma tried, and failed, to get up to greet us.
“Emma.” I rushed to catch her before she toppled over. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she slurred.
“All right.” I maneuvered her back onto the rattan bar stool. It squeaked under her weight.
“Did I really say I hope he chokes?”
“On a waffle.”
“What?”
“You said ‘I hope he chokes on a waffle.’ But you were provoked. Kent took the last of the haupia cake. Emma, it’s not your fault. Is it, Iker? Tell her that what happened to Kent is not her fault.”
“Emma.” Iker was stern. “You must not try to escape your conscience by drinking yourself into Bolivia. That only makes another problem.”
“Problem? I do not have a problem. You have a problem.”
“It’s time to go,” I said. “I have to get back to campus.”
Iker and I struggled to ease Emma into a standing position.
“I’ll drive,” I added.
“Aw, man. Molly, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I hope Kent’s okay.”
“Emma, you are not responsible for what happened to Kent. If you really had that kind of power? The entire Student Retention Office would be a mass grave.”
Iker winced.
“Sometimes bad things just happen,” I added quickly. “And we don’t know exactly what happened to Kent. Oh, Iker, wait. Let’s get Emma some water first.”
I started to look around for the bartender. But to my horror, Emma grabbed a half-empty water glass sitting on the bar, and gulped down the contents.
We parted ways with Iker at the hotel entrance. He went left, to the covered parking area. Emma and I hurried out to the open lot as raindrops splattered on the asphalt around us, evaporating in little puffs of steam. Even in her impaired state, Emma outpaced me easily. Emma is an avid canoe paddler, and very fit. Becoming very fit is on my to-do list, but it’s near the bottom.
I maneuvered Emma into the passenger seat and then drove us back to campus. I found a shady parking spot in the science building lot, reclined Emma’s seat as far as it would go, locked up, and left her to sleep it off.
I got down to the College of Commerce building in time for my appointment with Bill Vogel. I checked in with Serena, and then stood at the front counte
r of our main office and waited. I could see Vogel through the glass partition, feet up on his koa wood desk, leafing through a magazine. When fifteen minutes had passed, Vogel put his feet down and picked up the phone. Serena answered her phone, and then ushered me back to Vogel’s office.
I seated myself in the plush chair facing his vast desk. Had the shark’s tooth club incident happened only this morning? This had been an eventful day.
“Well, Molly.” Vogel glanced at his watch, “What’s all this about?”
“There was an incident this morning in class,” I said. “A student pulled out a weapon when I asked him for his homework. It was very unexpected. Well, of course it was unexpected. I mean who expects—anyway, sorry, let me start over.”
I related the morning’s events, willing myself not to stare at Vogel’s obvious hairpiece. He’d selected a dark purplish-brown shade I associate more with German punk rock divas than with business school deans. I wondered where in Mahina one would procure a toupee. I’d never seen a wig store in Mahina. Do people buy hairpieces online?
I realized Bill Vogel was talking to me, and I was, despite my efforts, staring at the top of his head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, whatever issue is between you and this student, you should try to work it out among yourselves.”
“No, please. Listen.”
I scrambled to recall the wording from our most recent campus safety workshop.
“I believe that this student poses an immediate danger to me and to the other students,” I blurted desperately. “I’m asking you to remove him from my class and refer him to counseling.”
“Oh. Poses an immediate danger.” Bill Vogel sounded peevish now. “Looks like you said the magic words.”
“I’m simply describing the situation to the best of my ability.” I found my eyes wandering back up to his hairline, so I stared down at my folded hands instead.
“I don’t have the authority to remove a student from the classroom,” he said.
