Beyond Eighteen(77)
“Ouch,” I growled as I pulled the phone away from my face.
“Talk,” Joanie whispered demandingly.
I gave her a dirty, scrunched-up face before I cleared my throat.
“Hello? Who is this?” Dean McCallous broke the noisy silence I tried to create.
“Umm, hi, Dean McCallous, ahhh, you left me a letter? Oh, this is Wilson…Wilson Mooney. In room—”
“Oh yes, Wilson, don’t be silly I know what room you’re in,” she interrupted me.
“Well, umm, I just got, I mean, I just received the letter you wrote to me about meeting you in your office, today?” I felt like I was tripping over my thoughts and struggling to find educated words to make me sound like my three and three quarter years at Wesley weren’t just a huge waste of money and time.
“Miss Mooney. Why, yes, we need to meet today. We have some serious business to discuss. And I think the quicker we rectify this situation, the better for all parties involved. I am on my way out to lunch. Be in my office at 12:45; I should be back from lunch by then. And for your information, it will just be me. The head mistress along with the active executive board feel this would be better handled without a room full of people.” She didn’t wait for me to respond; she just hung up her end of the line and assumed I would show up at her office at a quarter to one.
****
It was 12:43 when Joanie pulled me by my hair out the door to meet with Dean McCallous. She looped her arm through mine and basically pulled me the whole way there. Okay, so maybe all the way there was less than 200 steps in any direction. Nevertheless, it was 12:45. Time to face the wrath of judgment coming from the dragon herself.
I grabbed the door handle to the main entry to the administrative building. My hands were damp and I could feel how the chill of the outside clung to the knob. I pulled, hoping the muscles in my arms wouldn’t betray me and slam the door against my body as I tried to slip inside. Fortunately Joanie was behind me, strong as ever. She caught the edge and pulled it open for me. I didn’t remember the door being that heavy. My insides felt like Jell-O, and no amount of tightening my stomach muscles or wrapping my arms around my gut made the feelings go away. It was 59 degrees outside, which made it feel like 105 inside as J and I shuffled our way into the main office. I was freezing with chills rippling through my body. I felt everything in my stomach churn, and my mouth water. God…please don’t throw up, I chanted in my head.
I stopped just inside the front door of the building. I couldn’t make my legs move. The room that always seemed comfortable and safe became cold and scary. Joanie pushed against me from behind as she leaned in and whispered something about having my back and to move my ass out of people’s way. Finally, once she pushed me forward and knocked me off balance, I shuffled toward the front desk. In my three and three quarter years at Wesley, I’ve never been so uncomfortable in that building.
The subtle gray carpet with small, dark blue diamonds, plush under my feet, gave way as I trundled across to an oversized warm oak desk. On the pale, almond-colored wall behind the beautiful middle aged woman who sat at the desk were plastered accolades of how wonderful Wesley was to the academic world. Multiple diplomas from Harvard, Stanford, and Yale, joined by certificates of recognition from senators, diplomats, and governmental officials hung prominently in the traditional eye-catching Z format.
My eyes scanned across the woman’s desk, as if I needed to find something to make me feel comfortable, or give me a reason to approach her. There was a white orchid standing erect, held up by a bamboo pole, next to a wire basket stacked full with papers that needed her attention. To the right of her, a big desk phone that had several lines blinking and more buttons than she needed, or so I assumed. A small, plain white coffee cup with a gold rim stood thick yet comfortably on a circular pad plugged into the wall behind her. I didn’t notice a pencil holder, yet she had a couple of pens resting diagonally across a note pad with Wesley’s letterhead centered at the top. She had some scribbled notes on it, illegible to me, but most likely perfectly clear to her. Finally, I saw a rectangular black plaque with white block lettering sitting noticeably on the right front corner of her desk, informing me of how to address her—Deborah Mae Schoonover.
She had strawberry blonde wavy hair courtesy of L’Oreal. Her face, overly populated with red freckles, made her thin lips redder than any other part of her skin. Her delicately rounded light blue eyes greeted me with a calm attentiveness that allowed me to relax in her presence. Impeccably dressed, as all staff was required to be at Wesley, she wore a light blue button-up blouse with a navy blue cardigan.