Lianne
MY GOAL WAS to get to twentieth-century theater early today, so I can ask the professor a question. But after DJ kisses me goodbye at six, I roll over and sleep for another three hours. Who knew that good sex was so exhausting?
So when I eventually arrive in the classroom, I’m only ten minutes early instead of twenty. But at least there’s nobody else around yet. “I have a question for my paper about Brecht,” I say without preamble.
The professor looks up to squint at me through his wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re writing about Brecht?”
He sounds amused, and I am immediately pissed off. “What, you’ve already decided that I can only handle Neil Simon?”
The professor holds up two hands in surrender. “First, let’s not bash Neil Simon. He has more Oscar and Tony nominations than any other playwright. And I didn’t mean to imply that Brecht is over your head. It’s just that I’m bound to get a dozen Brecht papers, most of which will be regurgitations of my own work. I thought I could count on you to break it up a little.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. “Too bad I didn’t consider that.”
He smiles. “Now what is your question?”
I’ve only begun to explain when the next student arrives. It’s Hosanna, and she’s out of breath. “So sorry to interrupt,” she gasps. “But I have a situation.”
“Is your situation the fact that we’re discussing the Fierstein today?”
She flinches. “I said I’d attend, and I want to. I swear. But there’s a meeting in the dean’s office. My parents flew in for it. I’m really sorry.”
The professor’s annoyance shows through in his tone. “Get a dean’s excuse, then. If your meeting is legit, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Okay. Thank you. Maybe I can…come to office hours and review the Fierstein discussion?”
It takes me way too long to realize who Hosanna is. But just as all the right connections are firing in my brain, a greying man appears in the doorway and snaps, “Annie. We’re going to be late.”
I can actually feel my jaw dropping. Mr. Impatient wears a preacher’s collar and an ash-gray suit. He’s the dad who forbade his daughter to read a play containing gay sex. And his daughter is Annie. That Annie.
After one more muttered apology, Annie follows her father out. The professor asks me if we can discuss Brecht another time. “During office hours?”
“Sure,” I say slowly. Other students are streaming into the room now. In slow motion, I drop my bag onto the conference table and then stare again at the doorway where Annie and her father just disappeared. It takes a moment for me to reconcile my idea of Annie with the girl who was just here. I’d imagined DJ’s Annie to be quite obviously evil, probably with horns and a tail. The college equivalent of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada.
But she’s not. And now several more ideas are crowding my brain. DJ said he might never get an answer to his “why.” But maybe he can. That conversation I overheard…it’s a clue. It has to be. And the fact that her father forbade her to read the coursework? That’s just weird.
Isn’t it?
With shaking hands I pull out my phone. But DJ isn’t going to read his texts while facing the dean. So I jump out of my chair.
The professor looks up, cocking an eyebrow at me. “I…” Breathe. “Sorry, I forgot to do something.”
He squints. “Nobody wants to talk about Fiersten?”
“That’s not true,” I say, my voice shaking. “I loved the Fierstein.” But I turn my back on him anyway, dodging the incoming students. I run out into the hall and then out of the building.
That’s when I come to a screeching halt, because I realize I don’t know where the dean’s office is. Another three minutes are lost as I tap on the screen of my phone, consulting the Harkness website.
Then I run.
Eventually I’m pounding up the marble steps of an imposing building. I press on through a big foyer, finding an assistant at a desk. “Um, there’s a meeting? Uh, Daniel Trevi?” I stammer.
She directs me down a corridor toward the chapel room. I try to slow down, so I won’t be panting like an Iditarod contestant when I find him.
I’m late, though. The door is mostly closed, and I can hear a man’s voice already addressing the room. “This is highly irregular. My client and I need some clarification before we begin. Since the complainant and her family have suddenly appeared at our meeting, should I assume I’ll be allowed to question Ms. Stevens?”
“No!” another man’s voice shouts. That’s probably Hosanna’s father.
“Then why is she here?” the lawyer presses.
“Gentlemen!” a woman’s stern voice cuts in. With a pounding heart I peek through the crack in the door. At the front of the room I see Dean Wilma Waite, affectionately called Whomping Wilma by the students. “The complainant’s family became available on short notice. And since it’s in everyone’s best interest to clear up this case in a timely fashion, I asked the Stevens family to appear today.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” the first man insists. I can only see the back of him. But it has to be DJ’s lawyer.
“I have not yet decided who—besides your client—will be addressing me today,” the dean says. “So why don’t we begin?”
“There’s only one way this works.” I can almost feel DJ’s lawyer’s irritation through the oak-paneled door. “My client is here to tell the truth and clear the air. But he can only do that if the other party remains silent. If they can’t do that, we can’t proceed.”
“Fair enough,” the dean says.
“If the complainant’s family is allowed to jump in with questions, that amounts to a de facto cross examination,” the lawyer continues. “After which we should be entitled to our own cross exam.”
Ooh, tricky. I like this guy.
There’s a rumble of whispers and disgruntled voices from inside the room. I swear I hear someone say, “total shit show,” and I wonder if it’s DJ’s dad.
I sink to a bench outside the door. There’s no way I’m bursting in there now. But neither can I leave without knowing what happens.
“Now let’s get started,” the dean says. “We’ll begin by asking Mr. Trevi to recount the night of last April eleventh. So please come up to the front where we can all hear you.”
I look up fast, because I hear footsteps approaching me. There’s a girl pounding her way down the hall. I’m so jumpy that I automatically assume she’s here to bust me for eavesdropping.
But she’s not dressed like an employee of the dean’s office. She skids to a stop in front of me, wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans. I notice the streak of blue in her hair and the stud in her nose as she demands, “Is this the meeting? Hosanna Stevens?
I nod like a ninny.
Satisfied, she pushes open the door, and I hear her say, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Caroline!” The preacher sounds startled. “What are you doing here?”
“Stopping Annie from doing something stupid.”
I’m on my feet, my toe wedged in the door so I have an even better view inside. But then I pull my head back quickly because everyone has turned to stare at the newcomer, even Annie’s own family. “You’re not supposed to be here,” her father says. “Get out.”
“No way. I just took a three hour bus ride to tell Annie something important.” I risk another look inside, and see the newcomer staring her sister down. “Don’t let Dad do this. You’ll regret it.”
“Who are you?” DJ’s lawyer asks.
“Caroline Stevens. The sister.”
“Shut your mouth! Shut it right now!” the preacher yells.
“I want to hear this,” the lawyer argues.
So do I.
The gutsy leather-clad sister circles the room away from her father, approaching the dean at the front. “Listen, it’s my fault that this happened. I really want to tell you why.”
“All right,” the dean says. “Please sit here.” She motions toward the chair where DJ is seated beside her. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a look at him all gussied up in his suit. I’d say he looks terrific except for his ashen skin. When Caroline approaches, DJ leaps out of the chair and walks back to sit beside his family.
Caroline takes his seat and crosses her legs. “Okay, I stayed in Annie’s room the night of April eleventh. And I saw her in the morning when she came back downstairs.”
“Hush!” her father shouts. “This is none of your business.”
His younger daughter shakes her head. “Not true. Your brainwashing bullshit is absolutely my business. You made her do this.” She points at Annie in her seat.
That’s all her father can take. He jumps from his chair and lurches over to his daughter, almost too angry to walk. He grabs Caroline’s arm and tugs her out of the chair.
I’m watching with my mouth hanging open when someone puts a hand on my shoulder, causing me to leap into the air. When I whirl around, I find two uniformed security guards. “Excuse me,” one of them says.
I duck out of the way, my heart flailing from panic. But the guard disregards me, entering the room. By the time I’ve resumed my spying position, Mr. Stevens has unhanded his daughter and is receiving a stern warning from the security guard. They convince him to sit down, but he’s still wearing a snarl. “You cannot interrogate my daughter. She’s just a child.”
“I’m eighteen!” Caroline says quickly. “Ask me anything.”
The dean is unflusterable, I have to give her that. “Please tell us your full name and your birthdate. Then I’d like to hear all that you remember of April eleventh and twelfth.”
Caroline leans forward and gives the introductory information. Then she says, “But I heard Daniel’s name before April eleventh. Over the midterm break last year, my sister told me how much she liked him.” She turns her chin toward her sister. “Sorry. But you know it’s relevant.”
Annie’s face is downcast, and I felt my first real wave of empathy for her. Liking DJ is something I can certainly relate to.
“So, she said she didn’t know how to get his attention. And that was always Annie’s problem. She’s too quiet. So I said, look, you can just kiss him. Boys are a little slow on the uptake.” She turns in DJ’s direction. “Sorry.”
Half the people in the room chuckle, probably desperate for even a shred of levity.
“I told her to just go for it. That it might not work, but then at least she’d know if there was any potential. And you can’t ignore a kiss. When I came to campus in April I asked her if she’d taken my advice, and she said, ‘Maybe I’ll try it tonight.’”
“None of this is relevant!” her father shouts.
“One more word Mr. Stevens,” the dean snaps. “And you’re gone.”
“I wasn’t at the party,” Caroline continues. “And when I let myself into Annie’s room later, she wasn’t there. I went to sleep. She woke me up about six when she came back.”
“What did she say about her night?” the dean asks.
Caroline looks at her sister while I hold my breath. “She said it was the best night of her life.”
“No it wasn’t!” her father yells, leaping from his chair. “You lying little whore! Both of you!”
The security guards have had it with him. They step forward and yank him out of the chair. “Let’s go. You can wait in the foyer.”
“Hands off me!” he protests. But they march toward the door and I jump out of the way. That door is about to swing open and reveal me.
So I turn and go, my heart pounding. I shouldn’t have been snooping, anyway. But I can’t say I’m sorry I did.
