“N-nothing,” I finally answer, blinking a few times. “I’m just . . . new.”
“Well, my advice, run like hell,” the hair says, holding out a hand and pulling me off the ground. The face that comes into view bares a bemused look due mostly to large dark eyebrows that contrast strongly against his bleached surfer curls and bright blue eyes.
“So what did you do?” I ask, eyeing him warily.
“Me?” he says, placing a hand over his heart as though I had stabbed him. “What makes you think I did anything?” But something about the way his eyes sparkle tells me not to believe him. “Can’t a guy just take a nap in the dean’s office in peace? I like the smell of his leather-bound books.” The corner of his mouth rises in an almost undetectable smirk.
“Oh good, Oliver, you’re here,” Dean Hammer says as he shuffles in, removing his blazer and hanging it on the door hook. He’s stocky, probably midforties, but looks older, no doubt due to dealing with students like Oliver. He wears delicate wire-rimmed spectacles and perfectly pressed pants.
“Yes, sir,” Oliver-with-the-hair says, sitting down on the sofa and resting one arm casually along its back. “I missed you so much, Rupert, I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“Yes, you could,” Dean Hammer says, taking a seat at a library table–sized desk piled high with papers. “You’re actually here because, by some amazing circumstance I have yet to comprehend, you are already in trouble, before the school year has even begun.”
“It’s a minor offense, really.” Oliver rolls his eyes.
“Paying another student for their on-campus car registration and sticking it on your vehicle because your own privileges were revoked at the end of last semester does not seem minor to me,” the dean says.
“Can you blame me?” Oliver pleads. “How am I supposed to get my lunch? Do you want me to starve?”
“Here’s a wild idea: How about the cafeteria,” Dean Hammer deadpans.
“Rupert, if I have to spend days—actual full school days—at this claustrophobic hellhole for my entire senior year, I won’t be paying for someone’s registration, I’ll be paying them to run me over.”
At the word hellhole, Dean Hammer bristles, suddenly aware of my presence.
“And who are you?” he asks.
“Alice Baxter-Rowe,” I say. “Though I’d prefer just to go by Alice Rowe, if that’s okay. I can wait outside . . .”
“Don’t move, Alice,” Dean Hammer orders. “You’re the one with the appointment. Welcome to Bennett, by the way. As for you, Oliver, I can’t suspend you because I know that’s exactly what you’re hoping for. Do not leave this campus for the rest of the day, or so help me God I will find a way to make you sleep here, too. I’ll be in touch about disciplinary measures once I’ve spoken with your parents.”
Oliver’s light eyes have gone nearly black. “Good luck with that,” is all he whispers, and stalks out of the room.
“Miss Rowe,” Dean Hammer says after the door slams. “Take a seat. I have to apologize for Oliver. I promise it’s rare to find a student here so disillusioned.”
“That’s okay.” I shrug, sitting. “He was actually pretty entertaining.”
The dean frowns. “Not too entertaining, I hope. You’ve only been here about ten minutes, I wouldn’t want you falling in with the wrong crowd. Speaking of . . .” He is unmistakably serious. Not necessarily sullen, but clearly interested in minimal bullshit.
Here we go, I think to myself. It’s a tone I’ve grown accustomed to. Forewarning. “You have a great opportunity ahead of you, Alice.”
“You sound just like my dad.” My voice comes out a little strained.
But Dean Hammer barely seems to hear me. “Your grades are superb,” he goes on, skimming my file. “But it’s your teacher recommendations I’m a little concerned about.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I assume this is about my focus?”
“You assume correctly,” he answers. “All your instructors mention the same word. Potential. The consensus seems to be that you tend to sort of ‘scoot’ by.” He makes little quotation marks with his hands at the mention of the word scoot. “If you were to home in on what you really want, there’s no limit to what you might achieve.”
I know what he wants me to say. That I am ready! That I know where I want to go to college and who I want to be and what I want etched on my gravestone. But I’m not, and I don’t.
At my stubborn silence, Dean Hammer clears his throat. “So, what’s first on the docket today?” he asks pleasantly.
“Social Psychology with Mr. Levy,” I answer, double-checking my schedule.
“A solid choice. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” He gets up and opens the door, and I realize I have not seen him smile once. “And remember, Alice, we’re here for you. We just want you to get everything you can from this experience.”