Page 22 of One of Them

“All right.” He waited for a moment. “I won’t try to stop you. But you should be... careful. You may think you’re going in search of the sculpture... but sculpture isn’t the only thing you might find.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Simon shook his head. “Never mind. But Paris won’t be the same anymore. You’ll see.”

Delia went over to give him a peck on the cheek, and he absently patted her head, mussing her hair in the process.

On the ride back to Poughkeepsie, she went over the conversation in her mind, and then she resolved to stop thinking about it.

Certainly there were enough other things to compete for her attention, like Ian McQuaid.

Since that terrible day when Mrs. McQuaid had discovered them kissing in the car, there had been no word from him, not a thing. It was as if she’d ceased to exist.

She slogged through the days, and on a couple of occasions walked past Avery, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed when she didn’t catch sight of Ian.

The single time she did see him—the winter light turning his hair gold, the brief but powerful sensation of not being able to breathe—his eyes met hers, and then he turned abruptly away. Delia felt as if she’d been slapped.

But even so she couldn’t stop the hummingbird of hope that continued to flutter around her.

Every time she checked her mail, she imagined that he would write to her and say—what?

That he was sorry, that he missed her, that he was going to leave his wife for her?

On one of these days, she did find an envelope with a Vassar College logo on it—was it from him?

But no, her name had been typed on the front; he wouldn’t have done that.

Opening the envelope, she found a brief note from Miss Schoales, the sophomore dean, asking her to come in the following morning at 9:00.

Whatever for? The note gave no clue. Delia tried to think of any reason the dean would be summoning her.

Could it have anything to do with Ian? That thought throbbed quietly but persistently for the rest of the day and interfered with her sleep.

The next morning Delia sat in an unyielding Windsor chair outside the dean’s office, which was on the second floor of Main building, past the Rose Parlor and down a long hall.

“She’ll be right with you,” the secretary said.

Did Delia detect a strange look—pity? contempt?

—on the secretary’s face? She didn’t have to wonder for long.

Within minutes she was called in by the dean and seated across from her.

This chair had a padded seat and back, but it was no more comfortable than the other had been.

“Good morning, Miss Goldhush,” said the dean.

She was a thin woman with exceedingly good posture; her fading ash-brown hair was coiled into a tight bun from which not a single strand had been permitted to escape.

“I’ve had a chance to review your grades and learned that you are an excellent student—one of the very best, if not the best in your class.

” Delia said nothing; she could sense a very damning but about to be uttered.

As if on cue, Dean Schoales said, “But it has come to my attention there are some issues of character that override academic excellence.” She paused, knitting her long, bony fingers together.

Did she expect Delia to say something here?

When it was clear that Delia was not going to speak, the dean continued, this time prefacing her words with a deep and what seemed heartfelt sigh.

“Really it boils down to one single issue—that of character. And it concerns Professor McQuaid.”

Hearing his name in this context was a heavy lead weight dropped in Delia’s lap; her whole body seemed to clench.

This was followed by panic, voluminous and engulfing.

How did the dean know about them? Delia thought they had been careful.

And yet, looking into the dean’s pale and not unsympathetic eyes, Delia realized that apparently they had not been careful enough.

“I’ve learned that you and Mr. McQuaid have been engaging in some.

.. behavior that is very unbecoming both to him and to you. ”

Delia still had not said a word. She couldn’t; any words she might have wanted to say had frozen in her mouth.

Yet even through her panic she began to see that her silence was in its own way powerful; it was obvious that the dean was expecting—hoping?

—that she would break down crying, deny, explain, beg.

Delia did none of those things, though her reaction was not by design but instinct.

Her transgression had been exposed, and she wanted nothing more than to cover it, cover herself.

Dean Schoales would have to spell it all out, every ugly and sorry syllable.

“It was more than unbecoming, actually.” It was evident that the dean was nervous.

“It was unacceptable, at least at this institution.” She paused, but Delia remained mute.

“I have a letter here”—the dean reached into a folder and took out a lined sheet of paper—“written by one of your classmates, and signed by several others. I don’t think their names matter, but I bring it up to underscore the idea that this was not an isolated complaint.

And that my office made sure to verify the accusations before I called you in. ”

Just then the phone on the dean’s desk rang, and though she looked distinctly annoyed, she answered it.

“No,” she said. “I can’t. I told you I was in a meeting and not to be disturbed.

” The hand that held the letter turned slightly, and Delia’s eye went straight to the bottom, where the signatures were.

Most of them did not surprise her, but there was one that did—very much.

“I’ll deal with this later,” said the dean.

She put the receiver down and looked at Delia with what seemed like exasperation. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Delia couldn’t say anything. Though she was aware that she seemed calm, inside she was a volcano, an earthquake, a storm at sea. After a couple of excruciating minutes, she replied, “You seem to know everything already. There’s nothing more to add.”

“I should think you would want to apologize for tarnishing your good reputation and the reputation of this institution.” When Delia didn’t offer this apology, the dean went on.

“All right, then. You aren’t required to say anything, but you do understand there will be a consequence.

You’ll be receiving a formal letter from the president’s office, and your parents will be getting a letter as well.

You should have your things packed and be ready to leave by the end of the week. ”

Delia stood up. “May I go now?”

The dean looked surprised, and Delia had that small satisfaction to take away with her.

She’d already grown skilled at ignoring her classmates, assuming a blank, impervious look as if her face had been wiped clean of expression; she hadn’t expected that this would work with the dean, who was far more powerful than a bunch of college girls.

But once she was outside the office, she was shaking so hard that she had to stop and place her hands against a wall, just to steady herself.

After taking a few deep breaths, she left Main and headed outside.

She had no particular destination in mind; she just had to get out of there.

It was still winter—gray sky, sharp wind, and a fine, cold rain that stung her forehead, cheeks, and lips.

Where was she going anyway? She turned and went back inside.

She shook off the water from her hair and then brushed the droplets from her coat.

Two girls in the dorm lobby walked by without looking and Lottie, the girl who lived next door, walked up to her.

“Delia, do you have a hot water bottle I can borrow?” Delia said yes, and they went upstairs together.

So no one knew—yet. But once the secret was out, her life here would become intolerable.

She gave Lottie the hot water bottle and then retreated to her own room.

Once alone, she said the words I’ve been expelled several times out loud.

The dean had not actually used the word, and Delia needed to say it, to hear it, for herself.

Being expelled meant she’d never have to see Ian again.

That was a relief. Also a torment. And what about him?

Would his wife leave him or put him out?

She hung her coat in the closet. She had the urge to get undressed and climb into bed, pull the covers up, and not stir.

She’d skip lunch, skip all the meals in the dining room, and just go off campus to eat; she thought of Bunny and how she’d brought Delia a fresh, hot stack of pancakes.

But no. Something defiant in her wanted to fight back, to not make it too easy to dismiss her, to pretend she’d never been here.

She wasn’t going to let herself be erased.