Finals (18 page)

“
Oh no, it has nothing to do with Trevor’s opinion selection. Did you get the Holy Cross confirmation ad this afternoon?”

“
I did, but I haven’t typed it up yet. If you’re interested in seeing the final product, I can email you a copy before I insert it into this week’s paper.”

“
Oh, that isn’t necessary. I believe you are quite capable,” Hayley said, giving me one of her infamous smiles.

I hated moments such as this one. She was parading around in front of me in a light blue spring dress that made me yearn to get her back. It was grueling. Often times I dreamt about killing her, well not really killing her per se, but I hoped a beehive would fall on her head or that a tall basketball player with a backpack full of medical dictionaries would abruptly turn around smacking her right in the face. Yet, at moments such as this, as we stood staring into one another’s eyes, it felt as if we were the only two people on the planet. In these instances, I wished we could rekindle that once magical spark.

“
Okay, well is that all you wanted to discuss or did we leave the newsroom for a particular reason?” I asked, snapping out of my daydream.

Hayley looked at her shoes for a brief second as if she was embarrassed by what was about to come out of her mouth.

“
Wayne, I’m going back to California tomorrow to see my family for Easter,” she said, finally looking me in the eyes once again. “But when I return, I was thinking it might be fun to go to Starbucks together and grab some coffee if you are free.”

“
Why” and “sure” were the two words that immediately jumped into my head which is probably the reason, I said, “Why sure!” seconds later. On one hand, I did have suspicions regarding this sudden invitation. Why now was she asking me out for coffee, seemingly out of the blue? I mean the last time we went out for coffee together was when we were an item. Why now did she want to spend time with me? Why the sudden interest?

Maybe she did just want to talk. I’d be graduating in less than a month, hence the urge to grab a latte with a departing colleague. Maybe she had information about Brent that she wished to share. Maybe she was going to spill the details of their relationship, or about the cocaine incident to give the matter clarity. Maybe she was finally going to fess up and apologize for her transgressions that led to our breakup. The words “I’m sorry” had never escaped her lips, so it seemed possible that she wanted to confess, since the overbearing weight of one’s sins usually gets to most Catholics. I suppose our relationship had been making strides over the last few weeks. You could almost say we were friends, though I’m not sure I would.

“
Great!” Hayley said excitedly. “I’ll text you sometime next week and we can plan a time that works.”

“
Sounds good to me,” I replied, trying to match her level of enthusiasm, which was an impossible feat.

“
Yay! Okay, I am off to finish my French homework before I leave for home. Have an excellent Easter, Wayne!”

“
I will, you do the same,” I said, as Hayley slipped by me, heading pass the cat piss couch and down the corridor.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I exhaled deeply wondering what I had gotten myself into. I was having coffee with the dreaded ex who I secretly, kinda sorta still had feelings for. Not the best idea.

I had plenty of time to worry about my coffee date with Hayley later, for now I needed to focus on how to collect evidence linking Quinn to her unjust grade distribution. With a four day Easter weekend looming, this was the ideal opportunity to do a bit of snooping.

Chapter Seventeen

O
ne of the key differences about attending a private Catholic school such as the University of St. Elizabeth is that students don’t get off all of the traditional holidays or in-service days that normal undergraduates at public universities do. For instance, we didn’t get Labor Day, Martin Luther King’s Day, Veteran’s Day or President’s Day off like Portland State University. On the other hand, due to St. Elizabeth’s conscious effort to emphasize the significance of religious holidays, campus officials made sure the university’s Easter services were treated with great importance.

St. Elizabeth’s Easter festivities began on Holy Thursday, also known as Maundy Thursday, the day of the Last Supper. Usually there is at least one service on this day, but for the most part, only hardcore Catholics and Holy Cross members ever attended the Holy Thursday services. The turnout for Good Friday is much better, usually I go to that service since commemorating the death of Jesus is a rather big deal for Catholics. Of course, the turnout on Sunday is massive. Neighboring families near the campus join the students and staff to celebrate Christ’s resurrection, and unlike most Sundays, every seat in the house is filled.

Some students stayed on campus during the four-day holiday, but the majority ventured home to celebrate Easter with family. I was one of the few opting to enjoy my extended break in Portland, despite my parents’ protests. I fibbed that my assignments were numerous and getting more difficult with each passing week, which is why I needed to spend my mini vacation being studious. My father agreed that I needed to “buckle down,” a favorite term of his, and finish out my collegiate experience on a high note. Besides, I would be graduating in a few short weeks, so my parents would see me then. With this very tiny window of opportunity, I needed to seize the day and see if I could find any dirt on sociology sophisticate, Cheryl Quinn.

Many students, such as Hayley, departed on Wednesday once the day’s classes had concluded, and by Thursday, every student intending to leave for the holiday had done just that, allowing me the best possible chance to sneak into Quinn’s office unnoticed.

I suppose I was feeling overconfident thanks to my two successful malicious feats, which is why I elected to sneak into Quinn’s office in broad daylight. Not a sole was present as I strolled from my nearby house to the Buckley Center. I imagine most students staying on campus were either in the dorms or in the library, meaning I only had to worry about running into other professors or the janitorial staff.

I quickly jettisoned up the stairs to the second floor. I looked down the long hallway to see if my plans would be foiled by a workaholic professor, but the coast seemed cleared. I had scheduled this visit during the Holy Thursday Mass to ensure no inopportune runs-ins with Father O’Connor or another Holy Cross member. As I made my way towards Quinn’s office, I didn’t see any other professors from the Arts and Sciences Department in their offices stiffing through papers. So far, so good. The plan was proceeding without any snafus.

My luck had brought me this far, but to break into Quinn’s office Jason Bourne moves were likely necessary. To guarantee yet another bout of successful criminal activity, I looked up YouTube videos detailing how to pick a door lock. Practicing on the doors in my room was easy since like most of the house, the door locks were crumbling with age. I hoped Quinn’s office door would be so simple and that without a step-by-step instructional video by my side, my limited practice as a vandal would be enough to get me into the cougar’s den.

My tools included a screwdriver, a tension wrench and an old Swiss Army knife, but before I began my first attempt at breaking and entering, I placed my hand on the doorknob, praying a swift twist of the wrist would do the job.

Thankfully, Professor Quinn was of the belief that St. Elizabeth students were good, wholesome students, incapable of committing a feat as reprehensible as breaking and entering because her office door opened with a meager push. It appeared my Jason Bourne skills would have to be used another day.

I wasn’t one to visit professors if I could prevent an encounter
; however,
of the few offices I had visited, Quinn’s turned out to be better organized than most. There was a cedar cabinet filled to capacity with books of various genres including sociology, psychology and a few popular novels relating to
economic
issues. On the other side of the room sat her
beautiful
mahogany desk covered with notebooks, folders and class textbooks. In one corner of the desk, neatly organized supplies such as pencils, notepads and other office essentials were aligned in an orderly fashion, and to the left of those supplies stood a four-foot tall file cabinet.

The room was void of a desktop, leading me to conclude that her laptop was presently in her possession, but since I had yet to become a computer hacker the lack of a desktop was of no bother to me.

Slipping on Arthur’s biking gloves once again, I began the delicate procedure of weeding through the various files in Quinn’s cabinet, in search of past grading workbooks or similar documents that might prove her discriminatory nature.

The first drawers I rummaged through contained old syllabi, instructional sheets on projects, and an array of assorted classroom papers, but as I continued searching throughout the file cabinet towards the back of the final drawer, I came across two tattered grade books.

Cautiously removing the slim leather-bound grade books, I set them on the carpet and began to peruse through the
material.
Like an Excel spreadsheet, the information was in an easy
-
to
-
read format. A student’s name was placed in a small box on the far left side of the page and diverse assignments and test scores filled the rest of the sheet, leaving the student’s overall class grade in a small box at the far right.

At first, the grade distribution showed a slight favoritism, but nothing too substantial. However, as I continued to examine the two grade books, it became evident that the Cathys, Marias and Sues received the A’s and B’s
,
while the Davids, Toms and Joes were left with C’s and D’s. Occasionally, a bi-gender name such as Taylor or Devin would throw a wrench in the results, leaving me to speculate about the student’s sex, but for the most part, the results were rather straightforward. For whatever reason, this sociology professor seemed to
hold
a
grudge
against men.

This information aligned with my preconceived notion that Quinn was a sexist bitch
,
but at the same time, the evidence wasn’t overwhelming. Maybe her dad slapped her around as a child or her previous
husband
had upgraded to a younger, more voluptuous trophy wife. Whatever the reason, she certainly hated men, but was that cause to kill her? Her prejudiced actions were certainly lowering male students’ GPAs, but the female population at St. Elizabeth worshipped the ground she walked on. Was it necessary for me to even the playing field, or would I be overstepping my boundaries if I opted to take matters into my own hands?

I wasn’t sure, but with the precious minutes I had left, I slipped her old grade books back in the file cabinet and began sifting through her desk drawers. Perhaps she had scandalous letters stashed away after a brief affair with a colleague. Maybe she was secretly a lesbian who traded grades for sexual favors. If I was to go through with this ordeal then I had to find something more substantial than just an unfair grading policy.

I shuffled through a university policy
handbook
and teacher textbooks until I found a single purple folder hidden beneath the rubble. Trying my best not to bend or damage the folder, I gently eased it out of the drawer.

After quickly skimming the document, I knew I had hit the jackpot. Well, not the jackpot but this was at least worth additional investigation. If Cheryl Quinn had filed a restraining order on some poor sap, then the matter merited further scrutiny. Writing down the guy’s name on the inside of my forearm with one of Quinn’s pens, I careful placed the purple folder back under the school handbooks and made sure the room looked exactly as it had before my arrival.

Once I was one hundred and ten percent sure everything was in its original spot, I softly slipped out of Quinn’s office, darting into the hallway and quickly down the stairs.

Chapter Eighteen

T
he name scribbled on my arm was of a former St. Elizabeth engineering student named Gordon Rogers. Googling his name didn’t lead me to much, but when I entered his name into Facebook, thanks to the mutual friends we shared (mostly professors and Holy Cross members), I was able to locate his homepage.

Fortunately for me, Rogers hadn’t adjusted his privacy settings, which allowed anyone to view his posts, friends and any dirty laundry that might be present. After reading a couple of uninteresting posts, I clicked on his information tab. Rogers had his St. Elizabeth email address, a personal email address and a number that I guessed was his cell.
It
was a start.

Although I was confident about my recent success, I was still paranoid about being discovered, and since I was a movie junkie, I knew the police were capable of unearthing a perp’s phone records. Thus the reason, I ended up calling Rogers from Anna Banana
,
a popular local coffee joint near campus. I was probably being too cautious, but if anything did develop with Quinn or Rogers, I had to look out for number one.