by Cynthia Kuhn
“Perhaps,” I said, through clenched teeth, “for the time being, we could address the volunteer issue.”
Her face took on a sympathetic cast. “Yes, it was really too bad you dropped the ball on that. I know the students were disappointed.”
Beneath the table, my hands tightened into fists. I counted to five—I couldn’t make it to ten—and responded as coolly as I could manage. “Simone, we both know you offered to organize the students, so it’s very unfair of you to inform everyone otherwise.”
Simone tittered—there was no other word for her tinkling, condescending laugh—and looked around the table to enlist support. No one moved.
“You were in the meeting, right? I never volunteered to take on the responsibility.”
“No,” I agreed. “You came up to me at the library the next day and told me you would handle it.”
She tittered again. “I don’t think so.”
“Don’t, Simone,” I said grimly. “Enough of this.”
She smoothed her shining blonde hair back and arranged her mouth into an amused smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lila. It’s not even that big of a deal. Everything’s been sorted out. Just admit your mistake, and we can all move on. My goodness, what a fuss.” She sounded like a prim relative who had been called in to remedy an etiquette lapse.
A server brought a large silver tray. Simone stepped away to allow her to deliver our entrees. As the others picked up their silverware, she moved in right next to me, lowering her voice. “By the way Lila, Stephanie Barnes is very upset.”
“Oh. Is everything okay?”
“Silly me. I said that wrong.” Simone produced her tinkly laugh again. “Let me try again. She’s upset with you.” Simone leaned closer and hissed into my ear. “Because you accused her of plagiarism.”
I leaned away until she stood up again.
“She’s a darling student,” Simone said, reverting to her usual chirpy style. “From an awfully good family. Her uncle has donated oodles of money to the football team.”
“And?”
I understood the implication, but I wasn’t about to give in.
“Maybe you could give her another chance. Let her rewrite the paper.” The way she cocked her head was oddly birdlike.
“It’s not going to happen, Simone,” I said firmly. “Stephanie cheated. End of story.”
She gave me an adorable pout. “I’m terribly sorry you feel that way. I guess I’ll have to advise her to fill out a complaint after all.”
A complaint would certainly make an unwelcome addition to my official file. But right is right. I couldn’t—make that wouldn’t—give in to blackmail, however politely it was worded.
I met her cold blue eyes. “Do what you have to do, Simone.”
“You can’t say I didn’t try to help you, Lila,” she said sadly, wrinkling her perfect nose and patting my shoulder.
It took all of my power not to swat away her elegant hands.
After she walked away, I put my hands on the table and took several deep breaths. The table was silent for a long moment.
“She’s kind of a piece of work, isn’t she?” Calista said. I wanted to hug her, but I settled for smiling appreciatively across the table. Francisco shot her a look and she rolled her eyes. “C’mon Fran. She’s a liar.”
“She lied about organizing the students, yes. And did you hear her just now?” I asked, so angry I was almost yelling.
“No. What did she say? And Lila...” Calista patted the air to indicate that I should take my volume down a notch.
“She encouraged someone to put in a student complaint against me.”
“She what?” My cousin put down her fork. “Why?”
“The student plagiarized and didn’t receive any credit for the assignment. Simone was pushing me to allow a rewrite, and I refused. Then she said the uncle of the student is a big donor, as if that makes a difference. And she’s probably going to report all of it to the chancellor right now,” I said, glancing across the room at their table.
“That’s ridiculous,” Nate said.
“Absurd,” Calista agreed.
Francisco just shrugged.
Then Calista did the most surprising thing: she threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Babe, you have got to snap out of this funk.”
Babe?
I looked at Nate in surprise, then back to the couple now snuggling across the table from us. Francisco’s smile changed his whole face—he looked years younger. And happier.
“You’re together?” I pointed, moving my finger back and forth between them. “How did I not know this?”
Calista grinned at me. “We’ve been keeping it on the down low. But we’ve been together since the week after New Year’s. Was that it?” She glanced at him for corroboration. “We bumped into each other at the grocery store after I came home from New York. We got to talking and decided to go to a movie we both wanted to see, and that’s when it all began.”
Francisco’s gaze softened when he looked at her.
“Well,” I said, turning to Nate, “first Mina and Jasper, now those two. Are we the only single people left on campus?”
“But Nate’s not single either,” said Calista, beaming at him.
I looked into Nate’s eyes, stunned. “You’re not?”
“No,” he said, looking away.
“Lila doesn’t know about...” asked Calista, sounding surprised.
“No,” he said. “It never came up.”
“Whatever,” I said, though my heart raced as I willed him not to say he was seeing Simone.
“I’m dating Amanda Prescott.” Nate said—shyly, it seemed. “She teaches in Fort Collins. We broke up for a while, but we’re back together.”
“Nice,” I said automatically. “That’s really…nice.”
“She was on a Fulbright last year,” Nate said. “In France. Just got back last week.”
“Oh.” I said. My mind was busily trying to assimilate the unexpected information. Suddenly, I had become the only single person at the table. Not that there was anything wrong with that.
“Will she be coming to visit soon?” Calista asked. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“She’ll be here for the reading,” Nate turned to me. “And you can meet her then.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe we could go out for drinks afterwards and you could get to know her,” Calista said. “You’ll love her. Everyone does.”
Awesome.
Chapter 13
As I prepared for bed that evening, I thought about Nate’s revelation. I ripped back the purple down blanket so hard it flew off the end of the bed. I sighed and walked around to reposition it. I didn’t understand why I felt so irritated with him for not telling me about having a girlfriend.
Maybe because he didn’t tell me until now.
Maybe because he didn’t tell me until Calista practically forced him to.
Maybe because he kissed me last semester and didn’t tell me.
I shook the thought out of my head. It wasn’t all up to him. I could have made it a point to talk to him about the kiss, and I hadn’t. I’d just let it linger there unaddressed, uncertain of its meaning. Sometimes talking about things made for awkwardness, and I definitely didn’t want to risk losing our friendship.
I smoothed down the blanket and removed the cheerful lavender, yellow, and red suzani accent pillows, stacking them neatly on the window seat.
It was decided, then. I would never mention it. And he could enjoy his life with Ms. Fulbright Scholar.
I climbed into bed and opened up the paranormal mystery I’d borrowed from the library. It was all about a teacher who takes a position at a secluded boarding school and discovers that some of the other faculty members are secretly monsters of one kind
or another.
One didn’t need to go too far into the symbolism to understand the satisfying parallels in that.
Saturday night, I was back on campus, almost to the doors of Brynson. I’d slept in for the first time in forever, and the extra slumber had done wonders. I was even looking forward to the reading. I wondered which version of Damon we’d see tonight: the calm, charismatic literary lion or the exasperated grouch who might yell—or disappear—at any moment?
The hall was filled with people chatting in groups. I edged around them and went into the auditorium, hoping to find a good seat. At the bottom of the main aisle’s gentle slope, I came upon Gilles Valmont and Alonzo Ferrara leaning against the stage talking.
“Hi, Lila,” Gilles said. “Care to sit with us?”
I had hoped to find Calista, but she was probably with Francisco anyway. I didn’t want to intrude.
“Sure,” I said. “Thank you.”
He gestured in his oily way toward two seats in the front row, close to the center aisle, where they had placed their coats. I put my own coat over the empty seat nearest me and turned back to face them.
“We were just talking about finally seeing Mr. Von Tussel in person,” he said. “Neither of us have been to one of his events before.”
“I’m psyched,” said Alonzo, flushing. That was easy enough to guess from his gleeful face. His brown jacket hung loosely on him, as if he had borrowed his father’s suit for a special occasion. “And tweeting about it.”
I smiled at him.
“I hope we get to meet him.” Alonzo added.
“We should try, though it might be hard to get access to him,” Gilles said. “According to Jasper, Damon is going to announce something important—”
“Speak of the devil,” said Alonzo.
Jasper strode down the aisle confidently as always. His gelled blond hair looked sharp enough to cut glass. He saluted us jauntily and pulled himself up onto the stage, looking around the room for a moment before squatting down and perching on the edge. I noticed he tended to position himself higher than others in the room, if at all possible. Echoes of the chancellor.
“What was that about a big announcement?” I asked Gilles.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Jasper mentioned—”
A coughing fit covered Gilles’s next words. Jasper stopped coughing and shot him a warning look. “I don’t know what the announcement is either,” he said loudly. “I guess we’ll all find out tonight.”
“Where’s Mina?” I asked him.
“She’s backstage with Damon, the chancellor, and Tally. You know his agent, right?”
We all nodded.
“How’s Damon doing? Is he nervous?” I asked.
“He’s terrific. We spent the day together,” said Jasper. The two scholars visibly deflated at that. “Mina said he was nervous about the reading—though he would never admit such a thing to me—so we tried to keep his mind off of it. We went to the Denver Art Museum for most of the day, then had a quick dinner here in town at the place with the...” He traced a half-circle in the air with his finger.
“Silver’s?” I guessed. Silver’s was a popular Stonedale restaurant. All bright light and ferns, it also had an outdoor patio surrounded by a rock fence with a number of arches decorating its upper half.
He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Yes. Great food.” He paused for a moment as if savoring the deliciousness. “We talked about his new book,” he added casually, for the benefit of Gilles and Alonzo. They were obviously hungry for more information, hanging on his every word.
“He’s going to read from it tonight, right?” asked Alonzo.
“Of course. He doesn’t read from The Medusa Variation anymore,” Jasper said.
“Right, right,” said Alonzo, typing on his cell phone distractedly. Tweeting again, no doubt.
“He asked me for input,” said Jasper, attempting and failing to sound modest.
“Cool,” said Alonzo. “Can you give us any hints?”
“You’ll have to wait and see, bro,” Jasper said to him. Then he addressed me. “Anyway, we came early so he’d have time to get situated before the reading.”
Gilles remained quiet. He looked, if I had to put a word on it, resentful. Scholars were extremely protective of their topics. It had to be difficult to have to compete with another scholar who has the inside track to your author. And now Jasper was about as “inside” as it got—before too long, he would be Damon’s son-in-law. Gilles and Alonzo hadn’t even met Damon. Not that meeting your author was necessary to write well about them. But when you spend so much time and effort honoring the work of an individual, you can’t help but be interested in them. I could understand why they might be jealous of Jasper.
“I’d better go find them,” said Jasper, turning to me. “Have you seen Francisco? He was supposed to meet us. I already took Damon backstage because I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Sorry. I haven’t. I could call him if you like.”
“No, I have his number,” said Jasper. “I’ll just go take a look around outside first.”
As he hopped down and hurried up the aisle, I noticed the room was filling quickly. We all took our seats and settled in. The energy of the crowd was soothing, I thought, letting it wash over me. All of these people intrigued by books and the power of words—this was my tribe. From where we were sitting, I could see Tally and Mina waiting in the wings with Damon. It was almost time.
Just before seven, two men in green Stonedale Facilities uniforms went up on stage and relocated the wooden lectern with the crimson-and-silver crest on the front. Hopefully that would foil any catwalk-attack plots. Fingers crossed. Finally, the house lights lowered and the crowd fell silent. Francisco walked out from the wings and stood at the lectern, his glasses reflecting the spotlight for a moment when he looked out over the audience. He looked calm and polished in a blue suit, white shirt, and turquoise bolo tie, but I wondered if he was nervous after his last time onstage. I half-expected him to crane his neck toward the catwalk above, just to make sure nothing was about to plummet downward, but he kept focused on the page in front of him.
“Welcome,” he said, “to a very special event. I’m Francisco de Francisco, an assistant professor in the department of English. Before I introduce our guest speaker, please allow me to present Chancellor Wellington, who would like to say a few words.”
The chancellor never missed a chance to sprinkle a few bon mots and elicit donations. He strode out on the stage, stepped up to the lectern, and spoke in a hearty, commanding voice. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for attending this event in our popular Twenty-First Century Arts and Culture Series. We here at Stonedale University strive to serve the community by bringing an array of esteemed writers, artists, and other performers to campus. Such activities are made available of course by your generous support—”
I tuned him out, taking the opportunity to scan the crowd for my colleagues. It was too dark to make out facial features, so I wheeled back around, defeated.
He relinquished the microphone to a polite round of applause, and Francisco stepped back into the spotlight. “It’s my honor to introduce to you a man who, quite single-handedly, changed literary history. His first book, The Medusa Variation, was a brave and insightful novel about the price of war. It was a bestseller and won numerous literary prizes. His latest book, In Medias Res, came out last year to great acclaim. It has been on top ten lists of all kinds around the world. Critics are already discussing the new literary form demonstrated by this latest effort—a collection of stories without beginning or endings. The author has discussed these pieces as ‘medions,’ or literary catapults, stories intended to force you into an active listening mode. We are most honored to have him here tonight to read and discuss some of his work with you. Please join me in welcoming award-winning author Damon Von Tussel.”
Francisco initiated the applause by clapping gently. He turned to his left, where Damon was moving slowly across the stage, his white beard centered between the lapels of the black coat he wore over a blue dress shirt and black trousers. The tapping of his mahogany cane on the stage echoed through the room, and I felt almost mesmerized by the sound. He seemed to weave at one point, and Francisco quickly went to his side—presumably to hand Damon the book from which he would be reading, but perhaps also to steady him. A few steps later, Damon paused, looking confused, and Francisco whispered to him. He nodded and, finally, Damon reached the lectern and gripped it tightly, hanging the cane carefully on the right side. That was strange. I was used to seeing Damon blast through the world like a rocket.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his reading glasses, which he unfolded and settled on his nose. He sniffed. He opened the book, deliberately turning pages until he reached the one he wanted. He laughed to himself, then looked out at the audience and covered his mouth as if he’d said something shocking.
“Evenin’,” he said, his upper lip moving around the word as if it were unfamiliar.
All signs pointed to the likelihood that Damon Von Tussel was very, very drunk.
I saw Francisco hovering on the edge of the stage. He must have come to the same conclusion I had: our guest speaker was hammered.
Damon looked down for a long moment before leaning toward the microphone. “S’nice,” he said, elongating the “s” in a decided slur.
Then he pitched forward onto the wooden lectern, smashed his head, and slid backwards, in an obscenely slow manner, onto the floor.
“Dad!” Mina shrieked from the wings and ran toward her father. Her clogs thundered on the stage, and the hem of her long black dress trailed dramatically behind her. It was as impressive as watching one of the Furies fly across the room. Kneeling next to Damon, Mina tried to revive her father, patting his face wildly and crooning to him. Then she screamed at Jasper, who had followed her, “Call 911! Now!”
