It’s amazing how quickly everyone hurries to do so. Tom may know more Judy Garland songs by heart than anyone else in the room, but he’s also a six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound former Texas A&M linebacker. You don’t want to mess with him.
“People, please,” Dr. Jessup says, now that Tom has restored order. “Let’s try to remember where we are… and who we are. When the police have the evidence they need in order to make an arrest, they will. In the meantime, please. Let’s not make things worse by rushing to conclusions and pointing fingers where there’s no conclusive proof.”
Seriously.
I wonder, though, if I ought to warn Sarah to say something to Sebastian after all. The kid really should be laying low, considering what I’ve just witnessed. At least, if he knows what’s good for him.
“Mark,” Dr. Kilgore says, templing her fingers (a clear indication, Sarah would be quick to point out, that she thinks she’s superior to all of us). “I wonder… don’t you think now would be a good time to lead us all in a moment of silence in Owen’s memory?”
“Absolutely,” Reverend Mark says, leaping up from the arm of the love seat onto which he’d sunk once again, and then bowing his dark-haired head. Everyone in the room, including me, joins him.
“Oh, Heavenly Father,” the reverend intones, in his deep, pleasant voice. “We ask that You… ”
Tom, who’s lowered himself back down onto the carpet beside me, gives me a nudge. I glance at him from beneath my hair. “What? This is supposed to be a moment of silence, you know.”
“I know. Sorry. But I forgot. What is this?” he whispers. “Your third boss this year?”
“Yes,” I whisper back. “Shhhh.” His newfound snarkiness is a testament to how comfortable Tom feels in his new job—and romantic relationship.
And I’m happy for him. I really am.
But the snark can also be a little trying.
Tom is silent for another two seconds. Then:
“You should quit,” Tom whispers.
“I can’t quit,” I say. “I need the tuition remission. Not to mention the money. Shhh.”
Silence for another three seconds. Then:
“Don’t quit yet,” Tom whispers. “You should wait until you’ve had eight bosses. Then you should quit. And you should be like,Eight is enough! ”
8
January’s guy was just too cold
February’s was way too old
March’s guy came too late
April’s guy simply couldn’t wait
“Calendar Boys”
Written by Heather Wells
The real horror doesn’t begin until after the routine announcements that follow the moment of silence. Tom will be acting as interim-interim hall director of Fischer Hall until a replacement interim hall director can be found. (I long to high-five him when I hear this, but as I feel all gazes turn in my direction when this is announced, settle for looking sadly at my shoes. I am, after all, the person who found my boss’s body this morning. None of them has to know I sort of hated the guy.)
The dean of student affairs, we are assured, will be sending around a mass e-mail acknowledging the passing of a staff member—though not referring to the tragic (hatch mark) nature of the death—and urging the entire college community to take advantage of counseling service’s grief workshops.
A memorial service—date and location to be announced—is being organized by Reverend Mark. Dr. Veatch’s soon-to-be-ex-wife and family (Owen had a family? People who actually liked him?) are on their way. In light of the tragedy (hatch mark), they will be accommodated without charge at Wasser Hall in the VIP guest suites (those bastards—by which I mean Wasser Hall, of course, not Dr. Veatch’s family. Seriously, though, they are such suck-ups over there. Like it’s not enough they have a pool—and no murders. They have to rub it in by having VIP guest suites, too?) normally reserved for visiting dignitaries and people on whom the college is bestowing honorary degrees (last year: Neil Diamond. The year before: Tippi Hedren).
That’s when Drs. Jessup, Kilgore, and Flynn make their last and final announcement… the one that strikes cold, hard terror to my—and, as his reaction illustrates, Tom’s—veins: that, because we’ve obviously been so torn apart by this tragedy (hatch mark), as well as the recent divisiveness involving the GSC, a team building exercise is in order.
Tom and I fling each other panicky looks. Team building exercise?
“Sweet Mother of God,” Tom breathes. “No. Anything but that.”
Unfortunately, Dr. Kilgore, with whom both Tom and I have had the misfortune of working closely in the past, overhears this. She sends us both a glance so sharp, it stings.
“Participation,” she says, her enunciation crisp, “is mandatory.”
But apparently not for college presidents, since President Allington abruptly excuses himself, saying he has an important appointment (with a scotch bottle, if he has any sense at all) and leaves. I expect Muffy Fowler to follow him out—she’s not part of housing staff, after all. But then I notice she’s managed to get her three-carat cocktail diamond snagged on the front of Reverend Mark’s sports jacket, and she decides, oh, what the heck, she might as well stay, since it might be a hoot.
Seriously. These are her exact words.
The team building exercise turns out to be even more horrific than either Tom or I could have anticipated. Dr. Flynn brings out a pile of unclaimed newspapers he’s snagged from behind the front desk downstairs. Then we’re told to divide into teams of five, and each team is handed a stack of newspapers. Tom and I instantly grasp one another, so we can be on one another’s team—“She’s been through so much already today, she really needs me,” Tom assures Dr. Kilgore, when she raises a skeptical eyebrow at this, since the goal of the exercise is to get to know staff members with whom we might not otherwise be well acquainted. Somehow, our other teammates end up being Reverend Mark, Muffy Fowler, and—because she assigns herself to our team, undoubtedly to keep an eye on Tom and me—Dr. Kilgore.