Roland runs a hand over his hair. “Just for finals so I could proctor some exams. Listen, Kennedy, I’m glad I ran into you. I was going to call you this afternoon. Do you have a class right now?”
I shake my head, uncomfortable at his formal tone. He rarely uses one at all, least of all around me. “Not until later, why?”
Roland’s gaze flashes to Matt for a split second before returning to me. “I need you to come with me to Dean Baker’s office.”
“Why?” I spit out without thinking. “I didn’t do anything.” My skin is filled with nervous goose bumps.
“I know, I know.” Roland tries to sound reassuring, but I’m not buying it. And, the way Matt has tensed up, I can tell he doesn’t, either. “Let’s just head up there quickly, then you’ll get to your next class on time.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. I haven’t told Roland about my first, and so far only, meeting with Dean Baker. Matt assured me the others from the coffee shop that night wouldn’t tell anyone, because it would just leave a huge mess and work against whatever goals they have. At this moment, I’m regretting my silence about it to Roland. I don’t want to go to that office. With him or without him, but I don’t have a choice. Not without spilling everything out here right now, and it’s just not the time for that.
Matt’s face lights up with what I call his Southern All-American smile. “Well, see y’all around. See you at dinner, K. Sawyer?”
Grateful that he’s calling me K. Sawyer—the barometer for what’s going on inside his stormy head—I sigh. “Of course.”
Matt turns on his heels and heads back the way we came. I think he has English next, or something, and I’m kind of relieved that he’s going to the class. He’s got a minor list of demerits to work off with community service and fines—mainly for swearing or other foul-mouthed things—and I don’t think he wants to add class-skipping to the list.
“Shall we?” Roland gestures with an open hand toward the hill, the top of which holds the administrative building—and Dean Baker’s office.
Without a response, I follow lightly next to him. I don’t know what to say, but I can’t seem reticent.
“Are you doing okay? You seem a bit … quiet.” Roland keeps his eyes forward. I’m thankful for the times we talk while doing something, rather than sitting face-to-face. It’s not so overwhelming that way.
I shrug. “Just a lot of studying to do. Why don’t we get to choose our classes for next semester until during break?” Phone calls with Mollie this week were filled with her deciding between Psychology of Sex or Sociology of Addiction classes. Envy of her choices aside, I’ve been anxious to plot out some of my next semester at Carter.
“They do it that way so students focus on their finals when it’s time for finals, and worry about the next semester when the first is over.”
“You have an accent,” I note of his slight Matt-like drawl. “Where have you been?”
“Tired, mostly.” He chuckles. “But I’ve spent a lot of time in Kentucky and Texas in the last week.”
“Ugh,” I mumble. “Sorry.”
He laughs. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“I bet,” I tease. “Sorry. Just my Yankee assumptions tripping me up.”
Roland laughs louder. “Unfortunately, assumptions come from somewhere, and some of them are probably right. But, I just focus on the good and it seems to make things easier.”
In me, too? Your daughter who struggles to call you hers. Are you seeing the good in me? What’s there?
“Why do we have to go here?” I point to the door of the administrative building when we reach the top of the hill.
Roland shrugs. “Not sure. Dean Baker just asked that you and I come in together.”
“I don’t think he likes me very much.” I roll my eyes. I had to say something about why I’m acting weird.
“He doesn’t like me either,” Roland admits matter-of-factly, humor playing across his face. He puts a firm hand on my shoulder and gives it a slight squeeze. “Let’s get this over with then, huh?”
Strangely enough, Roland’s confidence calms me. If he knows even a fraction of the venom residing inside Hershel Baker, and can still smile and remain cool, then I should trust him. Yes, I should trust Roland on this. He seems to be a good judge of character, even erring on the side of niceties, but if he’s not afraid to admit some less-than-pleasing attributes about people, then I know his head isn’t fully immersed in the ground.
Minutes later, Roland and I are sitting side-by-side facing the pretentious monstrosity that is both Dean Baker and his desk. He told us he had to finish up an email, but I have my doubts regarding the ability of his fingers to hit only one key at a time. I wager that his secretary handles all of his electronic correspondence, and he’s just trying to make a show of looking important in front of Roland and me.
“Mkay,” he draws out, slowly closing a laptop I doubt is even turned on. “How are y’all doin’?”
I smile, and Roland speaks first. “Just fine, sir. And yourself?”