Campusland: A Novel

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Campusland: A Novel Page 19

by Scott Johnston


  Lulu recoiled. “A climber?” Shelley had hit the mark. “That is so absurd.”

  “Is it?”

  “How did they know I had the damn thing, anyway?”

  Shelley picked up her books. “You might want to check your Instagram posts. Oh, and It Girl? Good luck with OTA.” With that, she walked out, leaving Lulu alone in the Dix.

  * * *

  She wanted to hole up in her room, but Song was there, so Lulu settled on a remote section of the Goodwin Library, an immense cathedral-like structure with countless reading rooms and labyrinthine stacks. The Devon campus was filled with architectural nooks and crannies where one could get lost, and this was one of Lulu’s favorites, a tiny book-lined recess with two leather reading chairs, a refuge within a refuge.

  She curled up in one and started scrolling through her Instagram posts. There were forty-two in the last month. She realized she was pursing her lips, making “duck face,” in most of them. Perhaps she was getting too old for that. Nothing stuck out, otherwise. The typical picture had a couple hundred likes. Nothing wrong with that. Who do they think they are at Fellinghams, anyway?

  She decided to look through the comments. Not much there. Lots of “GORGEOUS!!!” mostly. Then, under one post where she’d used the hashtag #SoBored, she saw a comment posted yesterday from someone named lionheart32:

  “So you had it, bitch.”

  She scrolled back up to the photo. Just an off-angle selfie from her room.

  Then she saw it.

  Her face took up most of the frame, but to one side you could see into her open closet. There, poking up from behind her Stuart Weitzmans, you could see fake rubies reflecting the camera flash. It was the scepter. The goddamned scepter.

  Even though the idea mortified her, she considered sending an apology email to Win. Maybe that would patch things up. What the hell was she going to do around here without Fellinghams? Hang out with those priapic frat boys? Not a chance. Go to hockey games? The student production of The Vagina Monologues? Please. Study all the time? What for?

  Switching to email (which she almost never used socially), she tapped out a note.

  Win,

  So sorry about the confusion over the scepter. I’m sure you know it was just a lark, and to tell you the truth, I’d almost forgotten I had it. OF COURSE I was going to return it. Anyway, it should be back over the mantel by now, and I hope there are no hard feelings.

  Sincerely,

  Lulu

  She hit send and her phone made that swooshing noise. Almost immediately came a reply: “Bugger off. Do NOT email or text again!”

  A deep feeling of unease came over her. This was worse than she had realized. They couldn’t do this! Desperate to dispatch the unaccustomed knot in her stomach, she remembered the new OTA might be arriving today. That would show them. She exited the library and made her way to the PO, which was in its usual state of inactivity. She hadn’t returned since last month, so her box was stuffed with junk. Once again, she took the small notice and handed it to the slow-motion worker drone behind the counter, who returned with a small pile.

  “You know, you really should pick up your mail more often,” the woman said.

  “Excellent advice, thank you.” Lulu took her pile to a nearby table and immediately found the latest OTA.

  There it was, on the cover: “The New Philanthropists.”

  Yes!

  Also on the cover, in full glossy splendor, were Cassie Little, Chrissie Fellows, Aubrey St. John, and … that was it. They had cropped Lulu out of the shot entirely. Panicking, she whipped through the oversize pages until she found the article, with several more shots. She wasn’t in a single one. Perhaps she was mentioned in the article? Ugh, that was useless, worse than a comment deep in a text thread with no hashtag. But she needed something. She quickly scanned the text. Nothing. Her panic swelled as she tried again, forcing herself to read through every paragraph. Had she missed it?

  Nothing.

  The chasm in her gut threatened to swallow her whole.

  What happened? Did Shelley say something to her mother? It must be. Shelley told her mother, who told Wendy Faircloth. Tears welled in Lulu’s eyes as the realization of just how far she’d fallen in one day washed over her. Who do these people think they are? She turned toward the wall to hide her face just in case someone happened by. For no particular reason, she looked up and saw a poster that said:

  Are You a Survivor?

  Then, under the glaring lights of an empty post office, Lulu Harris quietly had a nervous breakdown.

  The Steering Committee

  D’ARCY POKED HER head into Milton’s office, where students still littered the floor. Many more spilled out into the hallways and other offices. The university had brought in sleeping bags and set up a portable food and beverage service in the hallway. Professors had quietly been instructed to allow any missed work or tests to be made up later.

  True to his word, Milton had not left the premises since the start. D’Arcy had run back to Church House twice to retrieve basic toiletries and fresh clothes. A small shower was just off his office, but he couldn’t very well use it without allowing everyone else to, and there were just too many. The office of Devon’s seventeenth president had by now acquired a pungency rivaling that of the locker room over at the hockey rink.

  The protesters had grown largely quiet, having made their case with stridency. Jaylen Biggs went out on Milton’s small balcony several times to lead outside supporters in some chants, especially after they saw the local media trucks with their big slogans drive up. CHUCK CHAPMAN IS ON YOUR SIDE! But now it was a waiting game. The protesters passed the time on their phones promoting the sit-in through social channels. #DevonShame was once again a trending hashtag, but this time it was national, not just statewide. #OccupyDevon was another popular one.

  D’Arcy had been too busy to allow herself to get caught up emotionally. Between manning the phones, juggling Milton’s schedule, and coordinating with food services and the like, she’d been on call twenty-four seven. As an African-American, she sympathized with some of what the protesters were saying, but thought a few of the demands were just silly, even damaging. A dorm set aside exclusively for minority students? That one stuck in her craw. Hadn’t they waged an entire civil rights movement precisely to get away from segregation? And how did such notions square with the goals of diversity? Weren’t students from different backgrounds supposed to learn from one another? How would that happen if they built walls?

  “Sir, may I have a word?” she asked Milton. They slipped out and ducked into a small office clear of students. “Stillman Weathers is here. I put him in the boardroom with the others. Also, you should know we’re getting a number of calls from the media, and some are quite persistent. They’re parking their trucks illegally. I called the city and police are issuing tickets, but they don’t seem to care.”

  “Thank you, D’Arcy. Put the media on hold for a little longer. I’m going to the boardroom.”

  “Oh, and, sir? Dean Malik-Adams is insisting on meeting with you as well.”

  “Tell her to come straight to the boardroom.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Milton entered the boardroom and found the Steering Committee gathered, talking in a corner. Stillman was holding court with the others. There was Patrick Colley and Ben Clifford, along with Allen Devereux, Devon’s senior counsel. “Gentleman, so good to see you all!” Milton gave everyone his signature vigorous handshake.

  “I had to step over people to get up here!” Ben exclaimed.

  “Yes, we have a few students enjoying our hospitality, as you know,” Milton said.

  “But there are so many. And goodness, the smell!” They turned to see Martika Malik-Adams standing at the door. She looked angry, glaring at Ben.

  “Ah, Dean Malik-Adams,” Milton said. “Please join us. Let’s all sit down and discuss this, shall we? I’d like to think we have an opportunity on our hands.”
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  * * *

  An hour later, Milton emerged and asked D’Arcy to summon the Cultural Center leadership to the boardroom, where they and the Steering Committee met collectively. D’Arcy, who had no idea what was going on, sat just outside in case she was needed. Ten minutes later, all came out as a group.

  “D’Arcy, please tell the media people to gather outside in thirty minutes,” said Milton. “We have an important announcement to make.” The group, which numbered almost ten, then walked down to Milton’s office to speak with as many of the camping protesters as could fit.

  Outside, Bingham Plaza had grown dark in the late February afternoon. It had been a quiet day, but now students began to materialize, summoned by those on the inside through their social media channels. The “real” media began to show, too, those with TV cameras. The local affiliates for at least two national networks began setting up shop in front of Stockbridge. As the crowd reached a critical mass, they began to chant.

  “No justice, no peace!

  “No justice, no peace!”

  Minutes later, the enormous double doors swung open and a beaming Milton Strauss walked out, followed by Stillman Weathers and the Steering Committee as well as dozens of students. Their appearance prodded the growing crowd to chant louder still. Milton stood on the top step, illuminated by the bright lights of television cameras. He waited a few moments to let the moment build. There was no microphone, but someone handed him a bullhorn. He felt like a young revolutionary again.

  Motioning with his arms for the crowd to quiet, he raised the bullhorn to his mouth. “It’s so great to see everyone here today. I just want to let you know how much I appreciate everything you do to promote justice and social equity.”

  More cheering.

  “Dean Malik-Adams and I just met with Stillman Weathers, the chair of Devon’s Board of Governors, as well as the board’s Steering Committee, and students representing the Afro-American Cultural Center. We are pleased to make the following announcement. Devon University will immediately earmark $50 million to further the goals of racial diversity and inclusion.”

  A whoo-hoo of surprise and delight coursed through the crowd. By this time, Malik-Adams had shouldered her way up so she was next to Milton. She grabbed his hand and waved their intertwined hands in the air, lending the impression of running mates. Camera flashes popped everywhere.

  Milton beamed and once again motioned for quiet. “But that’s not all.”

  Drop the Mic

  Devon Daily

  February 14

  President Strauss Announces New Minority Initiatives

  President Strauss announced yesterday that the university will undertake broad new initiatives for minority diversity and inclusion. Speaking to protesters from the steps of Stockbridge Hall, Strauss said that Devon will allocate $50 million toward various goals including boosting faculty representation for marginalized voices, ongoing sensitivity training for faculty members, and the hiring of at least a dozen new counselors and staff psychologists of color.

  Responding to accusations from minority students that the curriculum is “hegemonic,” Strauss is implementing a new course requirement for all incoming first-years called Identity and Privilege. The course, to be constructed by student leaders and professional diversity consultants, will focus on “micro-aggression self-awareness” and “understanding voices of oppressed peoples.”

  In the wake of an incident of racist language at Beta Psi fraternity, Strauss said he will also be asking the board to consider ways to phase out the fraternity system. A new panel, called the Committee on Fraternal Life at Devon, will be convened immediately to consider the matter.

  Lastly, a $1 million grant will also be made to the endowment of the Afro-American Cultural Center.

  These announcements came after the extended occupation of Stockbridge Hall by protesting students and an emergency meeting of the Board of Governor’s Steering Committee. The developments appear to have brought the occupation to an end as students were seen dispersing from Stockbridge. However, Afro-American Cultural Society president Jaylen Biggs sounded a tempered note, saying, “Fifty million dollars does not buy off centuries of oppression. It’s a start.”

  Stillman Weathers was once again at forty-two thousand feet, enjoying a medium-rare chateaubriand with a glass of 2005 Volnay En Carelle. He settled back in his cabin chair. Things had gone well. The black students should be pleased, and order had been restored. He was slightly bothered by the rather large amount they would be spending in the search for black professors. Not that they couldn’t afford it, and not that he had anything against more minority faculty, per se, but he just wasn’t sure how many black physics professors there were to go around. (Was he racist to wonder that?) To get the numbers of new hires to which they had publicly committed, they would have to hire minority professors where they could find them, and that likely meant further building out the “studies” departments like African-American Studies. This, in turn, meant finding more students to fill those classes, which meant further boosting minority enrollment. Not that he had a problem with that, of course, but those departments did tend to radicalize their students. The Steering Committee had come to a consensus quickly; there hadn’t been any real discussion or analysis … he wondered whether they had just poured fuel on a longer-term fire.

  Ah well, he would probably be off the board before all that happened, if it even did. He pushed the button in his armrest to summon Jenny, who materialized from behind a small curtain.

  “Yes, sir. Can I get you something?”

  “Thank you, Jenny. I believe I will get some shut-eye. Would you mind dimming the cabin lights?”

  “Of course, sir.” Jenny dimmed the lights as the Gulfstream G650, master of the skies, slipped through the reaches of the stratosphere.

  March

  Lulu Meets the Dean

  LULU WAITED IMPATIENTLY outside Dean Choudhary’s office, dressed in her spin clothes. Right now, she didn’t give a shit how she looked for some dean. Her crossed leg bounced up and down. She was pretty sure she was experiencing some sort of clinical depression. Even Song had asked if something was wrong.

  In the days since that little scene in the post office, she had holed up in her room. No one at Fellinghams was responding to her emails or texts. She simmered with frustration and hurt when she thought of them. And then OTA! What had gone wrong? Had Shelley said something to her mother about the clothes or that ridiculous scepter? Lulu had thought about reaching out to Wendy Faircloth but realized it smacked of desperation. Her inability to do anything was more frustrating than anything else.

  What the hell was she doing at the dean’s office, anyway? Shitty grades were why most students got hauled in here, and she had no issues there. Her grades were tolerable, mostly B’s, although about to head south on account of her not going to class in almost two weeks. The dean of students was someone she might have been just as glad to never meet.

  The email had only said:

  Ms. Harris,

  Please come meet me in my office tomorrow at 11 am. There is a matter I’d like to discuss with you.

  Dean Choudhary

  Who the hell does that? Just summons you without giving the slightest hint why? What was this “matter”? He could have said he wanted to “catch up and chat,” say, and that could have been anything. Have you thought about going out for a play, Ms. Harris? Or: We were hoping you might volunteer for some community outreach. Instead, it was a “matter.” Was it about the scepter? Seriously? She didn’t care what some goddamn dean had to say. She was probably just going to drop out anyway. Sheldon would get over it.

  The door swung open. It was the dean. “Ms. Harris, would you please come in.” She walked in and saw that her nosy RA, Yolanda Perez, was there. What the hell was she doing here? Didn’t she have posters to pin somewhere?

  “Have a seat, please,” said the dean.

  Lulu settled into one of those wooden “college” chairs, the ones with
the spindles and a college crest on the top of the frame.

  “Ms. Harris…” began Dean Choudhary.

  “If this is about the scepter, I can assure you that it’s all a silly misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, about that: I’d like to personally apologize if you were upset by how campus security handled the matter. We’re going to make counseling available to you should you want it.”

  Hmm, that wasn’t what she expected. Yolanda still hadn’t said a word.

  “However, I feel obliged to point out that stealing is an expulsion-level offense. Are you aware of this, Ms. Harris?”

  Lulu said nothing, but she was thinking she wanted to drop out before the bastards could kick her out. The last thing she needed on top of everything else was people in New York talking about how she got the boot. Oddly, though, the dean didn’t sound angry at all. He sounded … conciliatory?

  “Ms. Harris?”

  “I didn’t know that, specifically, but really, I didn’t steal it.”

  “There are those who believe otherwise.”

  “I know, but I am a member of Fellinghams. How could I steal it?”

  “Were a member, is my understanding.”

  Christ, did everyone know about that, too?

  “Ms. Harris, be that as it may, it’s come to my attention there may have been an … incident.”

  Now what? “Sorry, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your RA, Ms. Perez here, has made us aware of something. Something troubling. Yolanda, would you please explain?”

  Lulu could see the bulges of Yolanda’s flesh pressing through the spindles of her chair. No one should have to see that, she thought. Yolanda produced her phone and showed Lulu the photo Yolanda had taken the morning after the Beta party. At least a quarter of Lulu’s face was a purplish blue, causing her to instinctively recoil.

 

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