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30
DEXTER
Michael Carraway, Dr. Moreau’s assistant, sits at his desk wearing his huge black-framed glasses and striving to look busy. He spins his chair from one side of his desk to the other, occasionally lifting and then setting down piles of papers, a pen, a book.
The door opens to the hallway and Joey walks in. She looks wonderful. Healthy and stable and beautiful. Always beautiful. But mostly I notice she looks strong. Capable.
I stand up and step toward her. My instinct is to wrap her in my arms, hug her, and never let go. Not that I would do that here, in Moreau’s office antechamber, under the gaze of that prat Michael. I mean, I know the meaning of propriety.
Adherence to rules aside, I didn’t need to worry. Joey sweeps into my arms. She hugs me fiercely and then pulls back to look up at me. “Hi, there,” she says, her voice quiet but strong, a smile just for me.
“Come sit,” I say, pulling her to the couch. I slide my arms over the back of her shoulders. “Feeling better?”
She nods. “I’m good.” She snuggles closer. “I’m great.”
Michael appears to be trying hard not to notice us. Trying and failing. I want to tell him to read an email or write a memo or something, but really?
Joey points with her eyes at Michael. “Do you think he could at least pretend not to be staring?” she whispers, her face an inch from mine, and at the intimate gesture, my whole-body temperature rises several degrees.
“Give the guy a break,” I whisper back, my mouth close to her ear, her hair tickling my face. “I’ve tried a million times to pretend I’m not staring at you. It’s not easy. I’m terrible at it, and I’m a professional actor.”
Her tiny laugh makes me feel like a hero. I wrap my arm around her shoulder a little tighter.
I wonder briefly if students often make random visits to Dr. Moreau’s office. Would walking in here and seeing the photography teacher snuggled up on the couch with the theater teacher freak every kid right out?
Probably.
But freaking out is good for kids. It builds character. And we’re probably the best entertainment on campus right now.
“Let poor Michael enjoy the show,” I say.
“If he really wants a show,” Joey says, “we should bring him into the meeting with us.”
She doesn’t sound worried.
A minute later, we hear Dr. Moreau’s voice over the intercom. “Send in Miss Harker and Mr. Kaplan.”
Michael Carraway makes eye contact and nods us toward the closed office door. “I’ll stay here,” he says, so we know he heard our whole conversation.
I open the door, and Joey walks inside first. I shut the door behind us. Dr. Moreau sits at her desk, motioning to two chairs.
We sit.
Something about the sheer size of this desk brings back every frightened feeling I ever had of being called into the chancellor’s office when I was a student here. I forget every line I prepared.
Not that it matters. This is Moreau’s meeting, and Moreau does not waste time.
“I am close to making a decision about the chair position,” she says.
Joey reaches over and takes my hand. Right in front of Moreau. She is the bravest person in the world. I squeeze her fingers.
Our touch is not going unnoticed. Moreau moves her eyes from my face to Joey’s to our clasped hands and back to our faces again.
“You have both impressed me at times during the first phases of this experiment,” she says, her tone so formal that I have no idea if that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult. Her face is an expressionless mask. I can read nothing there, nothing.
“I feel strongly that each of you made efforts both within your skill sets and beyond.”
That sounds better.
