To quote President Allington, Jesus Christ.
“Excuse me,” Lisa says, and throws a hand over her mouth as she darts from the room.
15
I have the nice dress
White froth princess
But I might lose
With the shoes
Buckle strap
Pump or sandal
Won’t hide from them
That I’m a scandal
“Might Lose with the Shoes,”
written by Heather Wells
Everyone’s gaze follows Lisa as she flees for the ladies’ room.
“Is she all right?” Gloria, President Allington’s assistant, asks in concern. “Shall I go after her?”
“No, she’s fine,” I say. “She’s getting over the flu.”
Now everyone’s gaze flies to the pile of finger sandwiches, into which Lisa had been digging energetically.
“I don’t think she’s in the contagious phase anymore,” I add quickly.
“Well, that’s good,” Bill says, leaning in for a roast beef and honey mustard on a croissant. “These things sure are tasty.”
“I think we can move on without her,” Muffy says, sounding impatient again. “Heather, do you know of anyone on your staff who has a reason to feel disgruntled about the prince, or the country of Qalif, or the college?”
“No,” I say, determined not to mention Sarah. “Prince Rashid seems popular and well liked. People are lining up out my door—literally—for a chance to move into the building so they can be near him. And not to kill him, to party with him. To be totally honest, his partying is getting to be a bit of a problem. Lisa was going to send him a disciplinary letter about it today, as a matter of fact, because—”
“If I may,” Dr. Jessup interrupts quickly. “She hadn’t cleared that through me. Just because the boy enjoys a social gathering is no reason to discipline him.”
“Heck,” Bill says, licking his fingers. “If we spent all our time writing disciplinary letters to every boy in this school who likes to party, we’d never have time to party ourselves!”
All the men, with the exception of Special Agent Lancaster, laugh at Bill’s hilarious joke.
“Actually we have first-year students on camera going into the prince’s room, where alcohol is being served,” I say when they’re done laughing, with a glance at Special Agent Lancaster. “I imagine you’re aware of this, right?”
Special Agent Lancaster shakes his head, but not in denial. “The bureau doesn’t comment on the behavior of those we’re protecting. We only provide for their safety.”
I narrow my eyes at him for giving such a wishy-washy response, then continue: “Well, it’s a violation of the student code of conduct for residents over the age of twenty-one to provide alcohol to students who haven’t yet reached the legal drinking age, and that’s exactly what Prince Rashid is doing. I understand that in his homeland, the drinking laws might be more lax, but here in the U.S.—”
For the first time ever, I hear Special Agent Lancaster laugh. It’s a sarcastic laugh, more of a single Ha! of derision. But it’s still a laugh, and draws everyone’s attention, including mine.
“Pardon me,” the agent says, the stoic mask of professionalism falling back into place. “I only meant to observe that in the prince’s homeland, consumption of alcohol of any kind is illegal, and the penalty for being found with it is imprisonment and fifty lashes.”
“Holy crap!” Bill cries, choking a little on his eighth sandwich. Not that I’m counting, except that he’s bogarting all the egg salad and salmons, which are my favorite. “People still use the lash?”
“The penalty for premarital sex in Qalif,” Special Agent Lancaster observes casually, “is beheading, so the lash is quite mild in comparison.”
“Oh my,” purrs Muffy, looking at Special Agent Lancaster from beneath her eyelashes. “How atrocious.”
I know Muffy well enough to tell that she likes what she sees. Muffy has recently gotten out of a long-term relationship—well, long term for her—with a professor ex-boyfriend of mine, Tad, who turned out to be a little too vegan for Muffy’s taste.
It appears that a special agent for the U.S. State Department who has intimate knowledge of the human rights violations of the country of Qalif might be a little . . . meatier for Muffy.
“Isn’t Fischer Hall where that girl lives?” one of the men whose name I didn’t catch asks. “The one who was dating that fellow who was head of the GSC?”
My amusement over Muffy’s flirting with Special Agent Lancaster quickly dies when I realize they’re talking about Sarah.
“GSC?” President Allington looks bewildered.
“Graduate Student Collective,” Charlie, the guy with the file folder, says. He pulls a small laptop from his briefcase and opens it. “You remember, they were the ones whining last year for better wages and benefits or some silliness.”
I’ve never been to a meeting in the president’s office before, but now that I’m here, I can’t believe this is what goes on. I’m constantly hearing how there’s no money in the budget for things we need—security cameras in the second-floor library, or pens, for instance—but there appears to be plenty of money for finger sandwiches.
Then people sit around eating them while bad-mouthing excellent employees like Sarah, who works so hard for the school. She wasn’t whining when she went on strike last year. She was hoping to improve conditions for many hardworking staff members like herself.
“I think I know who you’re talking about,” I say, “and—”
“The GSC is planning on joining the faculty in the upcoming no-confidence vote on the president,” Charlie goes on, as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Hey,” President Allington says, offended. “Why doesn’t the faculty have confidence in me?”
“We explained this to you already, Phil,” Muffy says in a tired voice. “They’re a little miffed about the money you accepted from Prince Rashid’s father . . . and maybe a few other donors who might not have the most stellar reputations.”
“Who cares where the money comes from if we do good things with it?” the president demands. “What else am I supposed to do? It’s not like this school’s got an endowment, like the Ivy Leagues. We gotta take whatever money we can get. If that means letting in dumb rich kids who’ve got parents who can pay their tuition—and some who can donate extra—well, then, by God, I’m going to do it. I’m trying to educate young people here!”