by Geneva Lee
“Which means such records cannot be used in a criminal court proceeding against you, which this is not,” says the weasel-faced man.
The Dean gives him a look, and when nothing happens, he clears his throat meaningfully.
“Sorry. Peter Welles. University counsel.” He hands me a business card.
A lawyer. Of course.
“Perhaps, if Mr. Ford could explain…” The Dean glances toward Welles.
He wants an excuse. I have one, but I hate using it. I measure out my words slowly, so the anger doesn’t show. “I was abused as a child. My father was an alcoholic, and he beat my mother to death. Some of the foster homes I was in—they were almost as bad. I’m not saying I didn’t get into trouble, but there were reasons.”
Cheswyk seems taken aback. He hangs his head for a moment, and right about the time I think he’s having a change of heart, he lifts it, his face as firm as stone. “All of which would have been taken under consideration had you been truthful in your initial application. As it is…”
“What?” I know where this is going, and I need to slow it down. “What are you telling me?”
“I know it must seem like your whole world is crashing down, son,” he begins, his face the picture of sympathy—enough so that I believe he really means it, “but we are bound to determine your case according to the University Charter and its Code of Conduct.”
This is it. I know it like the moment of impact before a collision. I can see it. I can’t stop it. My hands grip the upholstered arms of my chair, and I feel the old wood creak in protest. I can’t do anything but wait for him to tell me.
“After discussing the matter with counsel, a few of the other Deans, and some of the Alumni—”
I bark a laugh, imagining all these busy, important men lowering themselves to talk to me, and there’s one person at the center of each group. “Like Angus MacLaine, perhaps?”
When I mention the name MacLaine, both the Dean and the lawyer share the briefest of looks. Then Cheswyk clears his throat, his shoulders squaring like a man walking out to face the firing squad.
“—the final decision rested with me,” the Dean explains.
“And you didn’t think you needed to speak with me before deciding?” Why am I fighting this? What’s the point? Adair. She’s the point. This is where Adair is, and this is how I find a way to give her the life she deserves. I can’t give up.
“Mr. Ford,” the lawyer begins, “your lack of truthfulness negated the need to speak with you. In other words, how can we believe the excuses you would no doubt provide us, when you have already shown yourself to be a liar?”
“That’s enough,” says the Dean, giving Welles a sharp look. “Very well, young man, what have you to say for yourself?”
“That depends on whether or not you really have decided everything,” I say, and I immediately want to kick myself. My life is hanging by a thread and I can’t keep from sawing at it?
“You have my word I will take anything you say under advisement,” the Dean says, giving me a kind nod.
I wonder how many students have sat in this seat, having a similar version of this conversation. I wonder what Francie will say. I wonder whether I’m about to lose everything. I wonder what Adair will do when I tell her.
“I think this is Angus MacLaine’s doing. He doesn’t like that I’m seeing his daughter.” I slow down for a second, noticing how agitated the lawyer becomes, but that the Dean is listening intently. “But we’re both adults making our own decisions. He’s the one who dug up my sealed records. He told me as much himself. And I didn’t mention them in my application because I was told the records were sealed for my protection—so that the stuff that happened to me when I was a kid wouldn’t ruin the rest of my life. And, honestly, I feel stupid for believing in a system that I know from experience fails all the time.”
“I understand, son,” Dean Cheswyk begins, and I can already tell by his tone that he is unmoved. “But your speculation about how this all came to light doesn’t matter. Do you deny that both before and after you came to Valmont you got into fights? That you broke the law by drinking while underage?”
My silence answers his question.
“We spoke to your R.A. at your dorm,” Dean Cheswyk continues. “He likes you, so he refused to say he saw alcohol in your room. Your roommate, too. But we found multiple other students who did not feel a duty to cover for you. Still, I respect that you didn’t deny what I already know to be true.”
“Lots of students here drink even though they are underage. Are you going to expel all of them, or just me?”
“Young man, I am not going to expel you from the University, but there have to be consequences to your actions. Along with your welfare, I have to consider the good name of the University and what we want it to represent to the world,” the Dean says, the corners of his mouth pinched. “Because you misrepresented yourself on your application, and because of all the other behavior we have mentioned—which you have wisely refused to deny—you will lose your scholarship.”
“What? You can’t do that.” I leap to my feet, and both the Dean and Welles flinch in their seats.
“You’ll find that I can.”
“I can’t afford to go to school here without the scholarship. You’ve been looking at my files, you know that.” They might as well kick me out. Francie and I chose Valmont precisely because both of us together hadn’t even been able to get pre-approval for the large student loans required for a school like this. The scholarship made the impossible possible. Without it…
The Dean turns to Welles, who hands him another sheaf of paper. Then the Dean hands it to me. “This is an application for financial aid. You can file it with my secretary, which you’ll need to do soon. The second semester credit against your tuition, room and board, is rescinded.”
“You’re telling me I owe you for this entire semester??” It’s not enough they’ve concocted a way to kick me out of school—they want me to pay them on my way out the door. “This is fucked up. I already know I can’t get enough in loans. We tried.”
“It’s not too late to drop your courses, if you’re concerned about the cost,” Welles points out, revealing teeth slightly too bright and too big for his sharp face. “This early in the semester, tuition is still refundable.”
“So, that’s it?” I honestly can’t believe what’s happening—and yet, I can. I’ve been waiting for it since Angus MacLaine asked to speak with me at the wedding.
The Dean clears his throat, studying his hands. “Your scholarship was a privilege, not a right, young man.”
There it is: the Dean’s queasy expression, the weasel-faced Welles triumph. Taking my scholarship was all they had to do to get rid of me. They’ve taken out the trash.
“You’ve overcome a lot in your life,” he continues. “And I’m sorry it sounds like you don’t want your future to be at Valmont, for whatever it’s worth.”
“Jack shit, that’s what.” I glare at the two men in front of me, daring them to look me in the eye.
Of course, they don’t.
The Dean mumbles something about luck and opportunities in strange places. Welles is already messaging someone on his phone. I can practically see the puppet strings dictating their every movement. There’s no point to fighting them on this. Because there’s only one person who needs to answer for what just happened: Angus MacLaine. His fingerprints are all over this. Apparently, I scared him more than I thought.
I throw open the Dean’s office doors, surprised to find two members of the Valmont University Police standing there. They’ve been chatting with the secretary from before, and when they all see me, one of the officers steps between me and her, and the other reaches for the spot on his waist where his handcuffs rest.
“Officers,” the Dean says, coming up behind me. “I don’t think that’s necessary after all, Daniel. Mr. Ford isn’t going to do anything rash, is he?”
The officer with the cuffs gets a disappointed l
ook, but backs off a couple steps. The other cop realizes he’s blocking my departure, and ducks into one of the cubicles. I realize two things: first, these are probably the cops who investigated me on behalf of the Dean, and second, these people heard about what I did to the desk during my argument with Angus MacLaine. It’s the only thing that explains their reactions. That’s the thing about reputations. People never give you room to do anything but live up to them. Or, in my case, down to them.
“I’d better get going,” I announce. “Since, I suspect you all need to gather up the spare change falling out of Angus MacLaine’s pockets.”
No one replies, which is answer enough.
Would Adair mind if I killed her father? Since leaving the Dean’s office, I’ve asked myself a dozen crazy questions. What is the waiting period like in Tennessee for purchasing a gun? How will I tell Francie? What would Angus MacLaine’s neck feel like in my bare fucking hands? Is he at Windfall now? Am I about to find out?
“You alright, man?” Cyrus cuts into my thoughts, glancing nervously at me from behind the wheel of his car.
We’re headed to Windfall, and I honestly have no idea what I’m going to do when we get there. If I had told Cyrus what happened at the Dean’s office, there’s no way he’d be taking me to Windfall now. I’d feel guilty about it if he hadn’t already betrayed me. If the Dean told the truth—and he had no reason to lie—then Cyrus was questioned by someone about my behavior. He never said anything to me about it, which gives me a pretty strong indication whose side of the fence he’ll come down on in the end. He might not have given them anything to use against me, but when push comes to shove, he’ll bend over backwards to let Angus MacLaine have his way, just like everyone else in this fucking town.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I say with a shrug.
“You’re just...brooding a lot,” he says. “More than usual, I mean.”
So now I fucking brood?
“I think the situation with Adair is worse than I realized,” I say.
That’s the understatement of the year.
“Do you think her dad’s putting pressure on her?” Cyrus wonders.
“You’d know better than me.”
“Angus MacLaine doesn’t ask. He demands. Once.”
“And if he doesn’t get his way?”
“Look, I shouldn’t talk shit about anyone—”
“Just fucking tell me, already,” I say, my temper slipping.
“Alright, shit,” Cyrus says, turning off the satellite radio. “I’ve heard rumors, that’s all. He’s got an army of private investigators and a media empire. Everyone’s got secrets to hide, you know? He scares the shit out of people.”
“He doesn’t scare me,” I say truthfully. Angus has already done his worst, so what’s the point fearing him?
“He should scare you. If a tenth of what I’ve heard is true…”
“Having second thoughts about taking me to Windfall?” I say as Cy pulls up to the security gate.
“Too late now,” he says just before lowering his window to speak with the guard. “Cyrus Eaton. I should be on Adair MacLaine’s list.”
Of course, he’s on her list. I wonder for a moment if I am—if it’s even her list or if her dad gets final approval.
The guard flips through a couple of pages on his clipboard before replying, “I have you here, Mr. Eaton. Go ahead.”
When we reach the front door Cyrus presses the buzzer, and the door opens immediately. Felix, the Windfall butler, has apparently been waiting for us.
“Please come in, gentleman,” the old man says, but only out of obligation. It’s clear he would rather I never come in these doors again.
I wonder what they told him about me. I wonder how hard he’ll make it for me to see Adair. I wonder if I’m the first person who ever cared what Felix the Butler thinks.
“May I ask the reason for your call today?” he says, scrupulously—but emptily—polite, as only people in the South can manage.
“We’re here to see Adair,” Cyrus says, shooting me a sideways glance that tells me something about the exchange seems off to him.
“I’ve been instructed not to admit any visitors for Miss MacLaine,” Felix says. “She is not well.”
“Look, I need to speak with her.” I’m not above begging. She has to know what her father did, because she’s my last hope to make this right. “It’s urgent. I’ve tried calling her, but she doesn’t answer.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to speak with you at present.” He catches the look on my face, and a glimmer of sympathy seems to change his mind. “But I will ask her myself, since the matter is urgent.”
Felix stalks off, leaving Cyrus and me in Windfall’s foyer, a cavernous room ending in a grand staircase right out of The Sound of Music.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Sterling,” Cyrus mutters.
Did I really think it would be easy once we got here? I wonder how long we have before security comes to eject us. “What should we do?”
“The butler said he had ‘instructions.’ That can only mean one thing.”
I might not speak affluence, but I don’t need him to translate. “Angus MacLaine told him not to let us in.”
“Exactly.” Cyrus sighs heavily. “The best I can do is tell them you went to the bathroom, try to buy you some time.”
I hustle up the stairs , but just as I reach the doors leading to one of the building’s two residential wings, they open. A man in a cheap, navy blue security uniform holds his hand up to me in the universal sign for halt.
From behind him, a silver-haired, botoxed, spray-tanned man I’ve never seen before emerges. “Mr. Ford. Miss MacLaine is not accepting visitors. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I hear movement behind me, and I turn to see a security guard appear at every exit leading from the foyer. An icy hand grabs my arm like a vise, and I realize I might never be able to see Adair again. But she hasn’t chosen this. She wouldn’t—not without at least talking to me first.
“Adair!” I yell. “Adair! Come and talk to me! Do you know what your rat-bastard father did?
“Mr. Ford,” the silver-haired man says. “I’m counsel for the MacLaine family—”
“Great. Another lawyer.”
“You’ve been asked to leave. If you don’t walk out those doors in the next 60 seconds I guarantee you will be arrested for trespassing. Mr. Eaton as well.”
My eyes flash to Cyrus, and he nods toward the door with a wild look in his eyes.
“Adair,” I yell one last time, closing my eyes to concentrate, straining for some sound that she’s nearby. Can I hear her coming? I just need the smallest hint I should wait and risk it. If I can talk to Adair, if I can tell her what her dad has done, I know she’ll help me fight it.
But she doesn’t come. And there’s no way she didn’t hear me. Her room is maybe 50 steps away. They could probably hear me at the main gate. If she’s not coming, that can only mean one thing.
I feel a hand on my arm, and I react reflexively, slipping the grasp and shoving with all my strength. The security guard stumbles backward, and I see a small spray canister appear in his hand. I square my shoulders, preparing to tackle him.
“Sterling!” Cyrus’s voice cuts through the blood pumping in my skull. “This is only going to get worse. Let’s go!”
The security guard aims whatever it is he has in his hand, and I force my feet to start moving toward the stairs.
“You are no longer welcome at Windfall,” the lawyer says. “If you are found on premises again, we will have you arrested. I hope I’ve made everything clear?”
“Crystal fucking clear,” I snap over my shoulder, throwing open the front door of the manor so hard it blows through its doorstop with a sharp, wooden crack.
My vision is a field of red and black, and suddenly a vivid daydream of Windfall burning—like Tara in Gone With The Wind—comes to mind. The thing that really scares me, though, is that it doesn’t b
other me in the least. I would burn this place to the ground just to watch the look on Angus MacLaine’s face.
“I’m going to destroy everyone who fucked me today,” I yell to whoever’s listening.
Cyrus overtakes me, rushing to the safety of his car as though he’s concerned about being arrested. It’s not like he doesn’t have bail money. “Look, man, I’m not saying it’s right. But I’ve seen it before with other families. They’re forcing her to choose between you and them.”
I climb into his Mercedes, still lost to the fantasy of watching this place burn.
“Let’s call Poppy. Maybe she knows what’s going on.” He starts the engine, and as soon as the controls unlock, he dials Poppy over the car’s speakers as he hauls ass down the driveway.
“Heya. How’d the trip to Windfall go?” she says, bright as ever. The girl could have a picnic in a hurricane.
Cyrus gives me an incredulous look before replying, “I’m in the car with Sterling now. We’re leaving Windfall. They wouldn’t let us see Adair. They threatened to arrest Sterling if he wouldn’t leave. Me too.”
“What the actual fuck?” Poppy says, and if she has cursed before, I can’t seem to remember. If I wasn’t ready to kill someone, it would probably be funny. As it is, her indignant response goes a really long way towards calming me down. If Poppy acted like everyone at Windfall, I’d know everything is lost. That means Adair hasn’t told her anything. Adair isn’t part of this. I hold the thought like a string of a balloon, knowing the second I relax, it will slip from my fingers.
“Poppy, what the fuck is up with Adair?” I want to come clean about having my scholarship pulled, but I can’t bring myself to.
“No clue. She told me she felt crappy and was going home. I just thought she wanted Felix to cook for her. Ava and I are awful cooks, and—”
“I just want to talk to her,” I cut off her nervous chatter. “Could you let her know?
“I’ll try.” She says it with the air of someone trying to turn back time.
