Dean O'Connor's office was an epitome of immaculate order, everything impeccably arranged. It was larger than my parents' apartment in Washington. An opulent plush couch adorned with the softest cushions one could imagine graced one corner, while floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in natural light, providing a view of the bustling courtyard below.
Dean O'Connor sat comfortably in his oversized leather chair, an imposing figure framed by a wall adorned with his academic accolades and prestigious university degrees, elegantly encased in cherry wood. His expansive cherry wood desk dominated the room, flanked by two smaller leather chairs. I casually tossed my backpack onto one as I slouched into the other, my arms crossed, bracing myself for the forthcoming lecture.
Dean O'Connor was the one faculty member I felt a modicum of affection for, given the countless times I had ended up in his office, ensnared in various predicaments. He had a knack for pulling strings to keep me out of deep trouble, even shielding me from impending bans on a few occasions.
"Good morning. You promised you'd make an effort to steer clear of trouble," Dean O'Connor said, his hands resting on the cherry wood table, palms open and fingers interlaced, his elbows supporting his weight.
"Did I? I don't recall," I replied, nonchalantly scratching my chin.
"Surely you remember cursing your physics professor. Or breaking into your dorm building and triggering the fire alarm just to find some peace and quiet?" Dean O'Connor reminded me, using his hands to mime the incidents from the previous week.
"Consider it a public service. Mr. Edwards is insufferable, and the dorms aren't meant for parties anyway," I quipped with a shrug.
Dean O'Connor sighed, massaging his temples. "You're the brightest student in this university, Rana. A 4.0 GPA, groundbreaking ideas, and an IQ score of 252. But this time is the last straw, I can't assist you any longer since you still continue with your behavior. Miss Jamison is on the board here, and she's requested the cancellation of one of your scholarships."
"She can't do that; she isn't even the head of the engineering department!" I protested loudly, my words reverberating off the office's walls.
"She can and she did. I'm sorry, Rana, but I have to obey her this time. Your conduct has gone out of control, and it's has gone on long enough," Dean O'Connor stated sternly, leaning forward once more.
"Fortunately, your other scholarships are unaffected, but you'll need to figure out how to cover your room and board for the next week, as well as half of your tuition, or you'll be forced to leave campus. I'm sorry, Miss Simmons, but there's nothing more I can do," he added, his face displaying a genuine sense of regret.
I hated the look of pity. I was so close to completing my master's degree, just one and a half semesters away.
I quickly calculated my expenses: my annual tuition amounted to $60,072, books and supplies cost around $1,530, and room and board was $25,998 annually. The total, excluding other living expenses, came to $87,600. "So, you're telling me I need to come up with $56,034 by next week, or I'll be left without shelter?" I asked calmly. Living in the dorms was my only affordable option; I couldn't afford an apartment in Pasadena, and I didn't even have a job.
"Yes, by the 30th," Dean O'Connor confirmed, his face showing no emotion but forced concern.
"Stop pretending like you're making me feel bad about this. I know you only helped me because of my perfect entrance exam score. Having an 18-year-old with a higher IQ than Einstein looks great for your investors, doesn't it?" I smirked, grabbed my backpack, and left the room, leaving a silent Dean O'Connor at his desk. It was the investors who kept the lights on in this opulent edifice, and he would do anything to ensure their satisfaction. His feigned concern confirmed my suspicions—he didn't care about me, and no one else did either.
I made my way to the receptionist's desk, where she was busily filing her nails, turning deaf ears to the ringing multi-line telephone system on the corner of her desk. She glanced up at me with a scowl on her face.
"Dean O'Connor told me to inform you that he needs you to make copies of the new student brochures," I lied effortlessly.
"Why should I take orders from a troublemaker? If he needs something, he can inform me himself," she retorted, her tone condescending.
"No problem. I'll be sure to pass on your message. I'll also make sure to let him know about your affair with Mr. Edwards. O'Conner is quite close to Mr. Edwards's wife, if I recall correctly, right?" I said, looking away, putting on a facade of nonchalance.
Following my outburst at Mr. Edwards earlier in the week, the receptionist had tried to be an even bigger nuisance than usual. Given her intimate knowledge of the verbal assault I'd launched on the professor, it was evident that she and Mr. Edwards were more than they appeared.
Her face paled as she dropped the nail file. "Who told you?" she stammered.
"You just confirmed it for me," I smirked. "Now, get going. You've got work to do," I said, following her out.
She grabbed a stack of papers and walked to the copier, which was a few buildings down, approximately 1,300 feet away. With the copier, it's expected to take about four minutes, I had roughly 14 to 17 minutes to work with, depending on how fast she returned, considering the chilly weather outside would likely expedite her journey. I made a quick mental note of her departure time.
I took this moment to seize her phone, dial Dr. Chet's number, and sat down in her comfortable brown chair. I began the task of downloading the university's data from the computer. As the phone rang, I attempted to log into her computer. However, it was password-protected, and my guess that it would be Edwards was spot on. Fortunately, it unlocked on my first attempt. The desperation was palpable.
"Hello, this is Dr. Chet. How may I assist you?" Dr. Chet's Indian-accented voice came through the phone.
"Hello, Doctor. It's Rana Simmons. What's the latest update on my mother?" I inquired as I continued to download the university data. "Good morning... your mother's condition has taken a turn for the worse. The tumors have spread to her lungs. We need to operate as soon as possible to prevent further spread," he explained urgently.
"Well, you're the medical professional here. Do what needs to be done," I responded, my voice was without emotions. Over the years, I had grown accustomed to suppressing emotions, leaving anger as the sole remaining feeling.
"I'm afraid we can't proceed.
That's why I contacted you. Your payments are overdue, and we can't proceed with the surgery. We would require payment before we can schedule the procedure. We need payment of $180,000 for the past six months and an additional $57,435 for the upcoming surgery, with $15,322 in late fees," Dr. Chet explained with robotic precision.
"So, a total of $252,757 by month-end?" I quickly did the math. Glancing at the desk calendar, I noted the date: November 21st. I had only nine days to gather the required funds.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry about this, especially with Thanksgiving tomorrow. However, we can't leave her here without payment," he stated matter-of-factly.
"I'll figure it out," I said as I ended the call. A notification on the computer informed me that the download was complete. Glancing at the clock, I noticed that 12 minutes had passed. The frigid weather outside would certainly expedite the receptionist's return, leaving me with around one minute to conceal any trace of my activities. I swiftly reset her computer to its default settings, plugged in the external hard drive, and exited the office, turning the corner and making eye contact with the perturbed receptionist as she re-entered her office.