by Sechin Tower
“I’m Doctor Helmoltz, but please call me Bill.”
“And you can call me Dean. Dean Lazarchek. You can call me by my first name, which is Dean, not my job title… which also happens to be Dean.”
Bill’s face brightened into a smile. He looked like someone’s jovial uncle, not someone serving time for a felony.
“Dean Dean… what a delightful happenstance,” he said. “Very well, sir, I shall address you as Dean,” he then leaned in to the webcam and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret. “But only I shall know whether I am calling you by your first name or your title.”
“Well, Professor—Doctor—”
“Bill,”
“Well, Bill, I’m sorry to interrupt you. I didn’t know this was a video link.”
“Oh, think nothing of it!” Bill said. “You certainly didn’t interrupt me—I have nowhere to go for another ten years, minus parole,” he sat up in his chair and pointed to the prisoner’s serial number stamped onto his orange jumpsuit. “I hope it causes you no perturbation to consort with an incarcerated man.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You cool talking with a guy doing a dime in the joint?” he asked, his pronunciation still crisp and professorial.
“Oh, that. President Hart told me. He practically banged me over the head with it, and then he threatened to put me in the cell next to yours.”
Bill nodded sagely, with a slightly mournful look in his eye. “Yes, President Hart hated me. Unfortunately, so did the judge—he was one of those anti-intellectual types, you know. That’s why I’m serving time in a maximum security prison for a minimum security crime.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean said. He wasn’t really sure what else to say.
“Oh, I get along okay.” he made a swift gesture to someone off camera. It surprised Dean to see a stringy young man with dirty hair arrive obediently at Bill’s side, offering a plate of pancakes. Bill pushed them to the side and gestured towards his cup, which the young man promptly filled with coffee.
“It’s not so bad here,” he said between two quick sips. “The guards treat me well and I have established a certain understanding with the other prisoners. They don’t hassle me, out of respect for my great learning. You just have to know how to get along with people, that’s all. I’m better off than most of the other Deans of Students in the history of the Institute, you know. Most of them died on the job, like that poor McKenzie girl. What a mind she had. Her loss is a true blow to the Institute.”
Dean said nothing.
“Well,” Bill said, raising his cup in a kind of salute. “Let the Institute’s turbulent and bloody history be a lesson to you, my friend. Watch your back and make sure not to drink anything out of an unmarked beaker.”
Before Dean could answer, there was a ping from his computer to announce a new message in his in-box. Dean clicked it open to see that it was from President Hart.
“What’s the matter,” Bill asked. “You look like a man who’s just lost a research grant.”
“I just got an email from Hart. He says: ‘I just received an automatic notification that you’ve used your expense card to book a flight…’ God lord, the man really is keeping a close watch on me. And he says I need to be ‘prepared to justify the nature of the expenses.’ Wow,” Dean looked at his watch to see that it was only seven am. “That’s way too Big Brother for so early in the morning.”
“Let me tell you something,” Bill said. “Hart will stop at nothing to destroy the Institute and lay claim to our assets. You didn’t use the credit card they gave you, did you? Oh, tisk, tisk. That card is too easily traced. The Institute has plenty of other funds that he can’t trace—oh, but I’m sure you don’t want to take fiscal advice from a convicted felon.”
“You know more than I do,” Dean said. “I’m open to ideas right now.”
“That depends. What did you charge to the card? Gambling? Pornography?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I booked a trip to Detroit.”
“And what’s in Detroit?” Bill leaned in closer to the screen. “A girlfriend, perhaps?”
“No,” Dean said a little too loudly. “I need to find something… special. Something McKenzie needed me to get. I don’t want to talk about it, but it’s very important.”
“Okay, forget I asked,” Bill leaned back and waved his hands as if shooing the question out of the air. “But I have an easy way to escape your predicament: recruiting trip.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re down to, what—five students?”
“Three,” Dean said.
“Well, that’s a bit small by anyone’s standards. The school charter calls for 33 students and three professors, so it only makes sense that the dean would have to do some travel to interview and inspect potential candidates. In all honesty, the Institute needs very special students, so you have to be choosey. You can set up a meeting with a potential student or two while you’re in the area. Anyone will do: even if they don’t work out, no one can blame you for the expense.”
Dean looked at Bill smiling away at him, and he kind of warmed up to the man. He might be stuck in jail, but he was infinitely better qualified to run the Institute than Dean had ever been, so he deserved some respect.
“Thanks,” Dean said. “That sounds like a good idea.”
“You are quite welcome, my boy,” Bill beamed with pleasure. “As they say here in D Block: stick it to the man, however you can. By the way, you will find student applications under the directory “prospective students” on the server. I expect there are precious few in there right now because our school is not well known, so you may also wish to search the university admissions board files for candidates. And I meant what I said about being choosey about students. The institute is a very special place. Look for passion—if they don’t have passion, this isn’t the place for them.”
Chapter 24 ~ Soap
The stormy night was transforming into a dark, wet morning where violent winds tore the clouds to shreds and rained the pieces down on the University. I hadn’t wanted to go back to my room and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, so I just wandered the campus all night, mostly staying in the student union building but not wanting to stick in any one spot too long. Finally, the time approached eight am, so I hunched over in my hoodie and scraped along the walkway towards Grangerford for my Chinese class because I couldn’t think of what else to do. I had forgotten all about Brett until I got there.
“Sorry I missed you last night,” I said even though he didn’t look at me when I sat down. “I can’t even tell you how crazy things were for me.”
He had his notebook out and was doodling the Chinese characters “bu hao,” which meant “not good,” over and over again.
“That’s fine,” he said after too much of a pause. “Hannah said you changed your mind.”
“Wait, Hannah was there?” I asked. The realization found its way to my brain like a fast-acting poison. She had known about the so-called study group. She had decided to replace me.
“It was just the two of us, so we ended up going for ice-cream,” he said.
Before I could say anything else, I felt a tap on my shoulder and I looked up to see a campus security guard. Not one of the student patrol minions who did security as part of their work-study program, but an actual, full-grown man with a utility belt and a handle-bar mustache. It made me wonder if the mustache was a required part of the uniform, because it seemed like every man in this town who worked in any field even remotely related to law enforcement had one of those mustaches.
“You Sophia Lazarchek?” the guard asked.
I nodded, and he gestured that I should follow him. “You’ll want to bring your stuff,” he added, which made me nervous. When I asked him why, he just repeated his suggestion to bring the stuff.
On my way out of the room, I looked back at Brett, who was watching me go. This time he didn’t pretend to look away when I made eye contact, but I couldn’t read his e
xpression.
The security guard led me towards the Thatcher Administrative Building, and the whole way there we got dumped on by a classic Minnesota downpour, the kind that only lasts five minutes but comes at you with raindrops the size of baseballs. Each gargantuan drop made me feel like God himself was slapping me in the face and saying “go ahead and cry, you big baby.” By the time I got inside, my hair was plastered to my face and leaking a river down the back of my neck. I started shivering, but no one seemed to notice.
The main floor of the administrative building looked like a sweat-shop for cubicle workers, with everyone crammed in to their little spaces, moving stacks of paper around beneath florescent lights. The storm kept any sunlight from getting in, which made those artificial lights even more depressing.
I didn’t have long to wait before I was led into an office that said “President Hart” on the door. Inside, an old guy wearing a Langdon University tie sat behind a big desk. He gestured for me to have a seat, and when he smiled at me his big teeth made me think of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.
“Do you know why I called you here, Sophia?” he asked in a voice that was honey and gravel at the same time.
“Is it about my father?”
“Yes,” he responded.
A huge wave of relief flooded through me. If the president of the university knew about my predicament, he could help me.
“I regret to inform you,” he said slowly, “that I am withdrawing you from your classes. Effective immediately, you are no longer a student of this university.”
I sat stunned. Finally, I realized my mouth was hanging open, but I couldn’t bring myself to shut it.
“But what did I do?” was all I could think to say.
“Your father was arrested last night,” he said. “An anonymous call led the police to find ten thousand dollars in cash in his apartment. I understand that the serial numbers on the bills matched those stolen in a recent bank heist, and that your father now stands accused of armed robbery and criminal conspiracy.”
I started shivering again. So this was the Professor’s revenge: no monsters or street thugs this time. All he had to do was frame my father for grand larceny with the same money he used to bribe me.
“Naturally, this arrest impacts your standing at Langdon University,” Hart said. “Your application forms indicate that your legal guardian—namely, your father—had no money in savings with which he might pay tuition. Now it has come to light that he had thousands of dollars in unreported assets. As stated in the form which you signed, any dishonesty in your application is grounds for expulsion.”
I blinked a few more times. I had been wrong—President Hart was no care-giver. He was a vulture, come to pick the meat off my bones.
“But he’s innocent—we’re innocent,” I mumbled, already knowing my words wouldn’t make a difference. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“That only applies in the courts,” Hart leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “Whether or not your father acquired the money through illegal means hardly matters to me. You had it and didn’t report it to us, which makes you guilty of dishonesty. Now, the student bill of rights allows you seven days to pack up and vacate your dorm. You had better go attend to that. Oh—and say hello to your cousin Dean for me, will you?”
I stumbled out of the office in a daze. I had lost my father, my friends, a potential boyfriend, and now my scholarship and my college enrollment. I had lost my past as well as my future. All because of the Professor.
I was supposed to clean up and get out of my dorm room, but where could I go after that? I couldn’t return to my apartment in Flatbush with our eviction about to go into effect. One way or another I was about to end up on the streets, and I didn’t even know which streets.
There was one person who might still be able to help: my cousin. He was the Dean of Students; he was in a position of influence. Maybe he could talk some sense into President Hart or tell me how to appeal this decision. At the very least he could look out for me until I figured out what to do.
When I got to Topsy, the door was still locked tight against me and there were no cars in the parking lot.
I leaned back against the wall next to the door, slid to the floor and cried quietly into my hands. I don’t know how long I was there, but I think it was a long time. Eventually, I heard a car roll into the parking lot and pretty soon Victor appeared through the trees. I made a vain attempt to wipe the tears away from my eyes. I even considered running away to hide in the bushes before he got to me, but I knew I couldn’t get away without being seen.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he froze in place while he looked at me.
“Hi there,” he said, his tone soft. I had honestly expected him to snap at me the way Nikki had, but he didn’t seem angry.
“Is my cousin in?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from disintegrating.
“You didn’t get the email?” Victor asked. “He sent it to all of us this morning to say he was flying to Michigan and we were supposed to stay away from school until he gets back. You can see how well we’re following his orders.”
So Dean had abandoned me, too. While I tried to keep from crying, Victor came and sat next to me, right there on the ground outside the door, and he put his arm around me.
“I’ve had a seriously bad day,” was all I could say.
Victor just sat with me and I cried a little more. When I was done he reached into his pocket and pulled out a Hershey’s bar and broke off a chunk for me. Honestly, I was even more grateful for his presence than for the chocolate. As my experience with Brett proved, I’m pretty stupid when it comes to boys, but I know enough to love a friend who has chocolate when you need it.
“What can I do to help?” he asked. I considered giving him a hug, but I didn’t want to make him feel awkward. Instead, I put another square of chocolate in my mouth and wiped my eyes with the back of my right hand.
I thought I was going to cry again, but discovered that my tears were gone. I had emptied out all my sadness, and now the only thing left inside of me was anger. Not a hot, burning anger, but a cold, calculating rage. It was always there, this molten core of fury, but I never knew until that very moment that I could burn the world to ashes if that’s what it was going to take.
“I need your help with something,” I said.
“What do you need?” he asked
“Revenge,” I stated, and my voice was as cold as liquid nitrogen.
September 15th
(Doomsday minus 2 days)
Chapter 25 ~ Dean
Dean hunched over on the museum bench and stared at the display of rocks and crystals behind the glass in front of him. His trip so far had been a continuing accumulation of setbacks. First, he had missed his flight. He booked another seat, but the new route took longer because it went through Chicago. By the time he turned the key in the ignition of his rental car in Detroit, he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it to the Museum of Natural History before it closed.
At least he had been able to use the plane ride and the evening at the hotel productively to set up an appointment with a Grosse Point High School counselor. The counselor introduced him to several students, but to Dean they all seemed like carbon copies. Four point GPAs. Virtuosos with the violin/piano/saxophone/whatever. National honors for this, distinguished test scores on that. Dean figured he should probably offer admission to all three, but it just didn’t feel right. All these candidates were missing something. Bill Helmholtz may have been behind bars, but his advice about preserving the special culture of the Institute had been good. McKenzie would have wanted students with a passion for learning, so that’s what Dean would hold out to find. He would just have to come up with some other way to satisfy President Hart’s ultimatum to increase enrollment.
The candidate research meant he could justify his charges for the trip, but Dean dreaded that he had left his current students without protection for too
long. With luck, they would be sensible enough to follow his instructions to stay home until he returned. However, after catching them in the shower together, he didn’t feel right about letting Victor alone with his young, innocent cousin. Maybe I’m too overprotective, he thought. But she’s only 16 years old, for crying out loud. Dean was beginning to realize how right McKenzie had been when she had said the students needed someone to look out for them, and it was becoming clear that Soap needed that protection more than the other two.
For all his worries about his cousin and the other students, he had come too far to leave empty-handed. He wandered the museum for an hour, studying the mineralogical displays until he finally found the plaque that read “Bugswallow Egg. Indeterminate Origin. Courtesy of Mechanical Science Institute, Bugswallow, Minnesota” and the accompanying diagram indicated that the so-called egg was a lump of rock not much bigger than a softball, tucked in the back of a display of glittering crystals and mirror-polished volcanic minerals. The egg was wrinkled and pinched so that it might have looked like a disembodied brain except that its surface was black and glassy, shimmering with the same grimy rainbows that appear when motor oil and rainwater mix on asphalt.
He had found the egg, but now came the hard part: figuring out how to ask the curator to hand it over. Most likely, there would be endless paperwork. Or maybe they wouldn’t want to give it back at all. Dean had been hoping that the egg had just been in some dusty drawer in the back room, but if they had it out on display, they probably wanted to keep it.
“I know the feeling,” said a woman’s voice above him.
Dean snapped out of his stupor and looked up to see a tall, slim young woman in a gray business suit. Aside from the suit, she didn’t look much like a business woman: she was maybe in her mid twenties, and was lean and toned with an athlete’s strong legs, a firm waist-line, and shoulders that didn’t need pads to strike the right proportions in the suit. She wore her blond hair in a tight bun, but a few fugitive strands escaped their bonds and raced one another down her cheeks. Her brown eyes darted around the room, burning with a constant spark of amusement at some secret joke.
