pink and white turning a rotting yellow on the pavement.
6
Sterling
“See you back at the dorm?” Cyrus says, checking his knobby Hublot watch, or as I like to think of it, a year’s worth of tuition wasted on his wrist.
“I thought I’d walk over to Adair’s,” I reply. I’ve been avoiding going there ever since she accepted my offer to help her move—when she arrived late and didn’t need me after all—and apparently it bugs her enough she’s stopped returning my calls. It’s time to do something about it. “If Poppy’s free, you can come with.”
“You haven’t heard?” Cyrus says with a guilty, sidelong look. “She’s back at Windfall.”
“What?”
“I heard from Poppy. She came back from class yesterday and said she felt sick. So she went home. Poppy said she took half her stuff, though.” Cyrus studies me carefully. “Poppy thought maybe you two…”
“She didn’t tell me.” I don’t know what’s going on, but if Adair was really sick she should have called me. I would have taken care of her. At least it explains why her phone has gone straight to voicemail for twenty-four hours.
Things haven’t been good between us. It's true. After the wedding, she didn’t seem like she wanted to talk about what happened. I didn’t, either. But after a few days, I realized it was just avoidance. She wants to pretend nothing happened. Which just won’t work. She won’t talk about any of our problems. Not the wedding. Not money. Nothing.
If her father decides to stop paying her tuition—what would we do? I tried talking about how much it worries me, but it’s like her brain can’t comprehend what a lack of money could do to us. Honestly, it pisses me off.
She moved in with Poppy and Ava, and at first I thought it would be good for her. She would get away from Windfall and her family. But Poppy and Ava don’t understand anything Adair and I are going through. And they see the world like the MacLaines do. Poppy is nice, sure, but her idea of hardship is breaking a nail when there isn’t a nail salon open to fix it. And Ava coils herself in the corner whenever I’m around, like she might strike.
“I guess I am going back to the dorm, then. It’s not like I can walk to Windfall.”
“I have one more class, late afternoon. After that, why don’t we go see her at Windfall? We can bring get-well presents.” Cyrus has offered to lend me his car a few times since the wedding, but I’m done with handouts. “I was going to swing by my house, so it’s no trouble.”
I suspect he’s accounting for my pride. But this time, I need to see Adair. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
I’m trying to decide what kind of get-well present I can scrounge up when my phone rings, flashing Valmont University on the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Sterling Ford?”
“Speaking.”
“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