“He’s too junior. It would offend the family.”
I get it now. Charles wants somebody who’s senior enough to satisfy the Fulliloves, but not so senior that they’ll put up a fight.
“Actually, I would’ve mentioned this sooner if there hadn’t been a mix-up,” he adds in a just-between-you-and-me tone, leaning forward a little. “The Fulliloves’ request apparently went to Chuck in the English department, who had no clue what it was about.”
Chuck Phillips is the new head of that department, replacing Dr. Monroe, who retired last year. Chuck and Charles sometimes get mistaken for each other by new admins and support staff, given that they both have the same last name. If you meet them once, though, you’ll never make the mistake again. Chuck is a nice, unassuming man who is rail thin from an inability to sit still. He practically vibrates with nervous energy, while Charles likes to appear as ponderous as a sloth the size of a mammoth.
“But what company needs an opinion from an English major?” Charles laughs. He believes economics is superior to all the other departments we have at the college—excepting only the hard sciences.
“No one, obviously,” I respond. “Unless the company wants to publish a collection of public domain poems.”
Charles laughs again. “Just so. I’m sure the family’s letter looked like Greek to Chuck. But be that as it may, it’s a great opportunity for your students. And for us as well.”
I wait for him to explain. I don’t see how it’s an opportunity for “us,” and I can’t fathom who this “us” is.
“They might be persuaded to fund a brand-new center for economics research.”
Oh, for God’s sake.He’s been seething with envy over the sparkling new economics research lab at Orville College, where his archrival is the head of the department. He’d give up both balls to get the same for Wollstonecraft, not that that would be much of a sacrifice.
Charles sighs, the sound full of hope. “The Fulliloves never forget our kindness. They’re a charming family, and the business they want your help with is as well.”
I rub my forehead. Essentially, I have no choice. If I turn him down, he’ll call a meeting to discuss the hooker incident. And nothing good will come of that. “What is this company?”
“Silicone Dream.”
Silicone?“What sort of business is it?”
“Something high tech,” he says vaguely. “But they’re very socially conscious.” He smiles, showing teeth like a hungry shark.
If Charles meant to reassure me, he’s failed. All I can think is how much I’m going to hate acting like I care about a shitty tech company that isn’t even named right—silicone, really?—or couldn’t make it in Silicon Valley.
“Is that all?” I ask with the bland smile I’ve perfected over the years.
“Yes, I believe so. I have high hopes.”
And they’ll remain hopes, because I’m not going to toady to the Fulliloves to get funding for a research center. Charles can do the kowtowing himself if he’s that desperate.
He nods, and I get up and leave.
I do my best to control my temper as I make my way back to my office. Must. Not. Storm. Back. Instead, I walk like a civilized human being who hasn’t just been ambushed by a hooker and the head of his department.
My students apparently dispersed while I was talking with Charles. Not surprising. They correctly assumed there won’t be any discussion of grades today.
I stalk into my office and shut the door firmly but quietly. There are other professors on the floor, and they probably heard what happened. I don’t want to give them anything else to gossip about over afternoon coffee.
God damn it. This is not how I wanted the day to go, getting roped into some bullshit I am not interested in.
Once I’m ensconced in the privacy of my office, I start to pace, furious. Somebody needs to pay. Ideally with blood…although punching Dad out would create headlines, and I don’t need any more behavioral issues to get me into trouble.
Physical violence against a famous Hollywood movie producer and getting arrested and having that splashed all over the national media? Definitely grounds for the college to revoke my tenure and fire me.
So instead, I go for the second-best option. I call Dad.
“Hello?” comes Joey’s annoyingly smug, I’m-really-important-because-my-boss-is voice.
“Joey,” I growl. The bastard knows who’s calling—and why.
“Oh, Griffin. Hi! How are you?” he asks perkily.