Page 17 of Bombshell

“This is Heather with the Dean of Students’ office. The Dean would like to speak with you at once. Can you come now?” Her tone is all business, but there’s more than a faint, Francie-like whiff of disapproval.

“Why?” My heart begins to race. I try telling myself it’s some administrative chore, like correcting an enrollment form or something, but I’m not so sure that would need to be done immediately.

“All student affairs are confidential, so I couldn’t say. I was just told to get you in here as soon as possible.”

“I see.” Whatever it is, it’s serious enough to require confidentiality. Definitely not a simple form. Great. “I’ll come right away.”

“I’ll let the Dean know. Goodbye.”

I have to check the directory to find out where the Dean of Student Affairs is in the University’s online directory. It’s a few blocks away, and when I arrive I find an almost empty office divided by neat, sparkling-clean cubicles.

“Sterling Ford?” a woman asks from her perch near the entrance. She’s about forty, but aiming for sixty judging by her bedazzled tunic and pearl necklace. She shoots a look at the only other person in the office, a young man, who immediately picks up a phone and begins dialing.

What’s going on here?

“Yes,” I say. “I was told the Dean needed to see me.”

“Follow me, Mr. Ford.” The woman rises from her desk and leads me through a rabbit warren of collegiate bureaucracy, depositing me in front of carved, French doors set with frosted glass. The name ‘Dean Cheswyk’ is etched in the glass. The secretary opens one door, saying, “Dean? I have Sterling Ford here.”

I can’t hear a reply, but the secretary pushes open the door and motions me inside. I step into a room that hasn’t been contemporary since the 1930s. Green glass desk lamps, along with floor-to-ceiling picture windows, give the room its light, which is barely adequate. I find myself squinting to take in the man at the desk.

“Ah, Mr. Ford,” he says, absentmindedly adjusting his tie as he rises to greet me. There’s another man in the room, his face pinched and weasel-like, his neck somehow unable to fill the collar of his shirt. He’s holding a brown briefcase in his lap, so he doesn’t rise.

“I was told you needed to see me, sir.” I say, taking the Dean’s offered handshake, which is clammy and limp.

“That’s right,” he says, his plump, affable face at odds with his sad eyes. “Make yourself comfortable.” He motions at the chair set in front of his desk, the one next to the weasel-face guy, then retakes his own seat.

Everyone exchanges nervous glances—mine because I don’t know what this is about. The Dean looks guilty as if he’s about to do something unpleasant. And weasel guy? He seems...excited?

“I’ll come right out and say it,” the Dean says. “You’re here today because we have received a number of complaints about your behavior since you came to Valmont.”

A number of… I stare at him. “What? From whom?”

“I’m not sure that matters,” he says. “It’s the nature of the complaints that’s a concern.”

“Professors?” I guess. “I had some trouble in the first semester, sir. Missed a lot of classes for a couple weeks. I was...depressed.” I’m not sure which of my teachers would have complained about me, but I feel pretty confident I haven’t done anything serious. I mean, Cyrus has only gone to about half his classes this year. “But I have hardly missed a class since then. My grades are good.”

“I’m sure that’s the case,” he says, waving away my explanation. “The matters we need to discuss today are not academic in nature. They are questions of character.”

I stop the what the fuck about to burst out of me and translate it to: “Excuse me?”

“Fighting. Underage drinking. Theft. Misrepresentation.” The Dean lists each one nervously, like it’s the first time he has had to talk about such unpleasantness.

“I got in a fight off campus, but—”

“Due to the seriousness of these complaints, the University has reviewed your initial application to attend Valmont. It seems you were less than truthful.” The Dean turns to the other man, who opens the briefcase and hands him a sheaf of papers held together with a large butterfly clip. “It says here you indicated you had never been arrested for a crime.”

Fuck.

“Juvenile records are sealed for a reason,” I point out. I’m not sure what a lawyer would say, but it has to count for something. Except it doesn’t. We all know it. But it’s not like those records simply landed in the Dean’s lap. Maybe he can be persuaded to overlook them if I convince him it’s unethical.

“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.