Finals

by Alan Weisz

  Once the wave of nostalgia passed, and I noticed the baristas behind the counter were eyeballing us as though we were rehearsing a scene from a Woody Allen movie, I removed my entangled fingers from Hayley’s.

  “Hey, how about we get out of here?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, my chair was pushed back and I was on my feet. Hayley was taken aback by my sudden desire to leave, the confusion clear on her face. Quietly she followed me out the door, maintaining what was arguably the longest amount of time she had ever gone without talking.

  When we were outside, to dispel any notion that she might have of my hesitancy toward public displays of affection, I swung my arm around her and grabbed her hip. She slid in close to me and as if by habit, reciprocated my offering by placing her arm snuggly around my waist, nestling herself against me as the sweet scent of her Burberry perfume filled my nostrils.

  To a stranger unfamiliar with our Ross/Rachel melodrama, Hayley and I would have appeared as nothing more than a carefree couple enraptured by a young love and the delightful spring day.

  I wasn’t thinking about the past, the agonizing torment she’d put me through, or the sleepless nights I’d spent dreaming about her. For once, I was living in the moment. I had this beautiful, perky blonde girl clutched by my side so what was there to complain about? It sounds dumb to say, but I was truly happy walking alongside Hayley as we made our way back to the cars. If I was ever found out as Brent and Harvey’s killer and was sentenced to lethal injection, if I had to pick one memory to choose from before the poison coursed through my veins, this would be it. To me there are few perfect instances in one’s life, but in my mind, this was as close to perfection as I could get.

  Back at our cars, we disassembled, both knowing this coffee date was drawing to a close. Hayley looked up at me, her lips quivering.

  “Wayne, I…” Hayley started, but I placed my hand over her mouth. I didn’t care if she was about to apologize or tell me things between us could never work out.

  “Shhh,” I said, gently guiding her golden bangs back in place. Slowing hugging her waist, I pulled her near me and leaned down placing my lips softly against hers. The kiss was brief, and it wasn’t sloppy or nasty; it didn’t have too much tongue or too little, it was in a word, perfect.

  Standing upright once again, Hayley slowing caressed my arm, an act of affection she only performed while dating, while we waited to say our goodbyes. With one last brush down my arm, her fingers tickling my hairs, a faint “Bye,” escaped as she turned back toward her car. I moved around to the driver’s side door, watching as my ex put her car in reverse and slowly started to back out of the lot.

  I smiled, extending a short wave as our eyes meet. The infamous beam of Hayley’s shimmering white teeth radiated from her Volvo as she gave an abrupt toot of her horn before turning back towards campus.

  Chapter Twenty

  I rapped lightly on the door before the cougar granted me permission to enter her den. Quinn sat dressed in a slim Ann Taylor suit with a white blouse hidden underneath, reading one of her students’ latest essays. Judging from her quizzical expression, she was curious as to why I was standing before her rather than the miniature blonde she had expected to see.

  “Hello, Professor Quinn. My name is Wayne York. I’m a reporter at The Gazette. I know Miss Summers was supposed to meet you, but unfortunately she’s indisposed at the moment,” I said, answering the question that was likely on the tip of her tongue.

  Seeming to accept my vaguely unoriginal excuse for Hayley’s absence, she placed the essay on her desk and directed me towards one of the two empty chairs.

  Now granting me her undivided attention, Quinn asked me a few general questions about my major, my classes and my position at The Gazette. I answered her questions politely, then in order to get on her good side, I decided to kiss ass as our initial pleasantries continued. What was the harm? Sure, in a few minutes I would begin assaulting her about her unsavory teaching practices, but until that point I could at least butter her up a tad.

  “It’s really a privilege to meet a prominent professor such as yourself, especially given all of Hayley’s remarks. I’m glad I’m finally able to meet this eminent figure at St. Elizabeth that she continuously praises,” I said, trying to sound genuine.

  Not surprisingly, the old bat absorbed my compliment without a speck of humility, as if a toll was necessary in order to be in the company of such an esteemed individual. Seemingly disregarding my accolades, Quinn followed my statement by rattling off Hayley’s “promising attributes” as if Hayley Summers was the only part of the conversation she had heard. I sat and nodded at the appropriate instances as Quinn addressed her adoration towards her former pupil. As much as I cared for Hayley, hearing the same old song about how exceptional she was got old fast and this was no exception.

  After the session of idiotic flattery and ego massaging, we got down to business. “In accordance with Miss Summers’s email, she stated she wished to ask various questions relating to the campus events that transpired this year, is that not correct?” Quinn asked, her hawk-like eyes focused squarely on me.

  “That’s correct,” I replied, taking a small notepad from my front pocket. “To begin, I would like it if you could give me your general opinions about this year. To be more specific, if you could comment on Brent Crane’s death as well as Harvey Cho’s and address the influence these deaths may have had on students or campus morale, that would be great.”

  “No campus is immune from tragedy, Mr. York. Every year there’s an unforeseen accident that causes turmoil. There is simply the matter of judging the magnitude of the event to see how far the ripples will stretch. It’s not uncommon to see a student get injured in an alcohol-related incident or become diagnosed with a fatal disease. In rare occurrences, a suicide might take place within the school year. What makes Brent Crane’s death different from the norm is the amount of third party interaction. In most instances, the campus mourns the dearly departed with a funeral service and a small piece in the university paper. In the case of Brent Crane’s death, the police came on the scene, escalating the scope of the tragedy, and the additional media coverage brought about more attention from outsiders.”

  I pretended to write down notes in my miniature notepad, while I doodled in cursive, glancing up at Quinn every few seconds as she continued to enlighten me with her esteemed opinion.

  “I would even venture to postulate that Crane’s death influenced the acceptance of Harvey Cho’s death. You see Mr. York, most students, especially students in a position of seniority such as yourself, are often under the impression that they are impenetrable to life’s everyday travesties. For instance, one death might occur during the year and the students will weep for their departed colleague, but rarely do they think something that horrendous could happen to them. However, a second death brings about more uncertainty, illuminating the reality that death is inescapable. I noticed in my classes that after Mr. Cho’s untimely death, my students seemed less lively, and more unsure of themselves. The seniors in my classes particularly acted more grief-stricken by this event.”

  “Well, they might have known Harvey,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on my notepad as I continued scribbling nonsense.

  “It is possible, but I believe the issue stems from Crane’s death. The compounding of death can have a resounding impact on the morale of an individual. Having two deaths in such a small timeframe is bound to manufacture a touch of bleakness or depression.”

  Hastily I flipped the page of my pad to avoid Quinn sneaking a peek at my artistic scribbles. Honestly, I didn’t give two licks about Quinn’s opinion, since hearing her babble wasn’t really the point of my trek to her office, but her words did seem to ring true in many respects. Sure, I wasn’t one of Harvey’s mourners nor was I questioning the unruly behavior of death, but my friends had acted differently after Harvey keeled over.

  Despite her label as an ice queen, Quinn did know a thing or two abo
ut the human mind and the general tendencies and behaviors of society’s individuals. For shits and giggles, I wrote, “Touch of bleakness” in my finest cursive, just to give the old bat some credit before I started in on my next line of questioning.

  “In regards to Brent Crane’s death, how did you feel about him being murdered rather than dying in say, a fashion similar to Cho’s or someone whose death was a complete accident?” I said, adding the last little bit purely to conform to St. Elizabeth’s general consensus about Harvey’s death.

  Quinn spewed off educational dribble about murder being the most inexcusable act an acceptable member of society could commit, as I tried to draw SpongeBob SquarePants while every minute or two bobbing my head to give off the impression I was actually listening to her answer.

  “No person labeled as an acceptable member of society could commit such an act. Only sociopaths or other individuals with mental health problems could be capable of committing such an inhumane deed,” Quinn said, concluding her rant as I finished shading in SpongeBob’s pants.

  I probably would have been more insulted by her statement had I been listening, but since I was concentrating on my cartoon, I wasn’t too hurt by her calling me a sociopath. I imagine many people probably would concur with Quinn’s rationale. I was guilty of creating two headstones after all.

  “I completely agree,” I said, lying through my teeth. “However, would your opinion change if you knew the victim was a heavy drug user with possible gang affiliations?”

  “I wouldn’t be inclined to state his death was deserving, but by surrounding oneself in that type of atmosphere with characters some might describe as shady or unsavory, the odds of finding a knife at your throat or a bullet in your ribcage increase dramatically.”

  Again, Quinn’s logic was sound, but if I was ever going to have an opening to pounce on her words, this was my chance.

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical?” I stated. “If one of your female students was in a similar predicament, I doubt you’d give the answer you just gave me.”

  Quinn appeared unbothered by my trifle comment as a smirk reeking of arrogance appeared on her face.

  “Women are rational creatures with sound judgment, which is why you don’t see many women drug dealers or sociopaths. Men in this position often develop a God complex, as they concoct this absurd notion that defeat will never occur. With this belief and the hunger for more power, money, and control, their reign of destruction continues until it eventually ends drastically. Women rarely have lust this extreme, which is why the two situations are incomparable.”

  “Is that coming from your years of research on the subject or your years of discrimination against St. Elizabeth’s male population?” I asked boldly, faintly worried that I was about to bite off more than I could chew. I usually came out victorious in battles of wit, but I was now facing a new caliber of opponent. It was entirely possible Quinn could take me down.

  Quinn leaned back in her chair, giving me an expression I had witnessed a few times in my twenty-two years of worldly encounters. The best example is one of a fighting couple who against their better judgment attend a social function when they should be bickering at home. The couple pretends everything is fine, but then one of them blows up, for instance the husband by stating, “I didn’t get to watch the game, and you know why, because I had to clean the whole damn house. God forbid I don’t roll out the red carpet every time Courtney’s parents come into town.” When his repressed rage finally comes out, the wife is far too classy to fire back in this public situation. Instead of letting a few F bombs fly, she sits silently, with a tight-lipped smile, waiting to release her wrath in the car ride home.

  Quinn was giving me that same closemouthed sneer, no doubt thinking of how to best respond to my brash question. For a deathly long sixty seconds we sat simply staring at one another, as if we were in an intense game of Texas Hold’em, trying to read the other player before the final turn.

  “I don’t know how you expect me to answer such an uncouth question. Unless you’re planning on asking the questions Miss Summers intended to ask, I suggest you leave.”

  “It’s only a question,” I said innocently. “One that could be easily resolved if you’d just show me your grade book, then I’m sure that I would be more than satisfied.”

  “I’m sure you would be Mr. York but I am not here to indulge you or give resolve to your flippant requests,” she said, becoming louder and more authoritative.

  Sensing I was soon to be thrown out of her office, I stealthily whipped my cell phone out of my pants pocket to check the time. Six o’clock. Rogers was probably close to being finished, but to be absolutely positive he was done by the time Quinn arrived at her car I threw one last insult in for good measure, knowing it would get the wrinkly old diva’s goat.

  “I apologize,” I said. “I was naive to think you would do me such a favor, considering I’m a man you can’t fuck to get ahead in your career.”

  You should have seen the vein bulge from the side of the professor’s neck as her face became a deep crimson, similar to Hawaiian Punch. She started impaling me with a bunch of remarks an elderly woman would typically make such as, “Your generation has no respect for anyone or anything,” and “Your constant vulgarity shows your immaturity.” She followed it all up with, “Your rude, imprudent attack on my character is completely unacceptable young man!”

  Like a stereotypical young social miscreant, I packed my belongings ignoring the tidal rush of declarative remarks headed in my direction. I stood up, flipped my backpack over my shoulder and started to make a move for the door.

  “We are not through here, Mr. York. We are going to discuss your ill-advised behavior because I know Miss Summers would not have conducted such a rude interview!” Quinn screamed, as she pointed to the seat that I previously occupied expecting me to return to it.

  My inner darkness begged me to continue the charade, but I knew it was time to go. This meeting had served its purpose. The bomb was in place, I hoped, and Quinn was in a sour mood. I had achieved both objectives.

  “Whatever lady, you’re not the boss of me and just for your information, I’d start altering that grade book of yours before something unfortunate happens,” I said, keeping up my momentary image of manly, arrogant bravado. Then like an insubordinate middle-schooler, I started down the abandoned social sciences wing, leaving Quinn to gawk at my insolence.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Once out of Quinn’s office, I went up to the third floor of Buckley to see the show. From the wide windows near the staircase, I had an excellent view of the main parking lot.

  As I stood waiting for Quinn to come into view, I began to think about the memorable events I had eagerly anticipated as a child. This reminded me of Fourth of July weekends, sitting with my parents shoving Junior Mints into my mouth as I counted down the minutes until the fireworks began.

  This was like watching a James Bond movie or a scene from Mission Impossible. In mere minutes, Quinn’s Rolls Royce was about to turn into a soaring inferno of scrap metal. Even though I was aware of the chaos soon to ensue, I was still anxious. Seeing the whole ordeal play out was going to be priceless.

  I imagined Quinn would have one of two responses. The first was that she’d be terrified. She would be a complete idiot to assume our discussion and this explosion were coincidental. The blast was bound to awaken an internal realization that she wasn’t as bulletproof as she thought. The second response would likely be similar to Uma Thurman’s character’s reaction in Kill Bill. A ravenous need for vengeance would follow in the aftermath, and likely, my name would appear towards the top of the list as did Uma’s lover, Bill.

  Staring out the window, I noticed Rogers wasn’t in his predetermined position. He sat on the far right outskirts of the parking lot patiently waiting. His appearance didn’t give him away immediately. He wore brown cords, a Columbia jacket, and his developing beard gave off the impression that he was an outdoor
sy granola, like a large portion of the students at St. Elizabeth. The only clear giveaway was that he was sitting twenty-five feet directly to the left of Quinn’s Rolls Royce. I wasn’t too alarmed by Rogers presence since I presupposed that he had to be within a certain vicinity to denote the bomb; however, I had hoped that he didn’t need to get this close to the action. After my little confrontation with Quinn, the last thing I needed was Rogers blowing our cover.

  With my eyes on my accomplice, I missed Quinn entering the parking lot. The large brown bag slung over her shoulder was slowing her down a little, but she was making her way towards the Rolls at a steady pace. She was less than forty feet from her reserved parking spot, and was getting closer with each passing footstep.

  You know when movie-goers become so engrossed in a film they begin talking or doling out advice to the characters on the screen, as if they can be heard? This especially happens in a horror picture when the unsuspecting victim walks right into the killer’s trap, and despite the audience’s gasps the inevitable happens. That is exactly how I felt, watching the scene unfold from the empty third floor of the Buckley Center.