Painless (36 page)

“Maybe you dropped it outside,” I suggested. Or threw it in the bushes or a garbage can on purpose.
 

Tiffany snarled, “I told you, she took it from my bag when I left it behind the counter while I toured the museum.”

Mr. Selfridge raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. He stroked his chin with one hand. “Samantha?” he asked expectantly.

“I promise, Mr. Selfridge,” I sighed, “I didn’t take it.”

“Check her bags,” Tiffany insisted. “She must have stolen it. Where else could it be?”

“This is crazy,” I said absently. “I didn’t take her credit card, Mr. Selfridge.”

“Do I have to call campus security?” Tiffany demanded.

Mr. Selfridge looked between me and Tiffany. He said, “The simplest thing to do, Samantha, is for you to turn out your own bag. If you didn’t take this young woman’s credit card, we won’t find anything, correct?”

“Yeah,” I said. I just hoped Tiffany didn’t demand a strip search after going through my book bag failed to turn anything up. “I’ve got nothing to hide.” I reached under the counter for my book bag and set it on the other side of the counter from Tiffany’s pile of crap. I didn’t want her claiming that her stuff had been in my bag. I pulled out my laptop and my books.

“What about the side pockets?” Tiffany demanded.

“I don’t have your credit card, Tiffany,” I said as I grabbed everything out of the side pockets and added it to the pile of my stuff on the glass counter. Amongst pens, my keys, a tube of lipstick, crumpled receipts, a nail file, an eyeliner pencil, two tampons, and twenty other things, was only my wallet. “See? No credit card.”

“Check her wallet,” Tiffany insisted to Mr. Selfridge, like I wasn’t even there.

“Do you mind, Samantha?” Mr. Selfridge asked.

“It’s not in my wallet.” I opened my wallet and showed it to both of them. “Do I have to go through every pocket?”

Tiffany gave me a dirty authoritarian look. “Yes, you do.”

“Fine.” I began peeling cards out of my wallet and slapping them down in a row on the counter. “MY Driver’s License,” SLAP! “MY SDU Student ID,” SLAP! “MY MasterCard,” SLAP! “MY Frequent Buyer’s Card for Bath & Body Works,” SLAP! “MY Debit Card,” SLAP, “and…”
 

SLAP.

Why was there a fancy black VISA card in my wallet?

Tiffany’s lips curled into a victorious smile. “That’s my card. Just like I thought. She took it.”

What? I glanced at the black VISA card. How had it gotten into my wallet?

Mr. Selfridge reached over and picked up the card and examined it closely. “You are Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, correct?”

Tiffany pulled her SDU student ID and her driver’s license out of her wallet, which Mr. Selfridge had never checked, and showed it to him.

Mr. Selfridge examined both, then looked at me over his glasses. “This doesn’t look good, Ms. Smith,” he muttered.

Why had Mr. Selfridge gone from calling me Samantha all the time to Ms. Smith all of a sudden? The answer was obvious. I had been framed by Tiffany Kingdumb-Sleazehouse and Mr. Selfridge thought I was a criminal.

“I told you she stole it,” Tiffany growled.

“Yes,” Mr. Selfridge sighed, “I’m afraid this doesn’t look good at all, Ms. Smith.”

And that was how I got fired from my job at the campus art museum.

If somebody had offered me a job working nude in a rat infested dungeon as a math tutor for convicted rapists, I would’ve gladly taken it.

===

Mr. Selfridge didn’t have a choice. It was academic policy at SDU that any student employed at an on-campus job would be terminated if caught stealing. Mr. Selfridge was very apologetic, but said that because of the evidence, he had to let me go.
 

The good news was that Tiffany had her credit card back, and I know I hadn’t used it to pay for anything. And I’m sure no one else had used it between the time it was sitting safely in her purse and mine.

The bad news was that Tiffany had filed an official grievance with the Dean.
 

What a surprise.

Mr. Selfridge said he would tell the Dean that I was a model employee the entire time I’d worked for him. Hopefully, it would inspire the Dean to believe my version of events. With any luck, I might get my job back. Eventually.

I just wished Mr. Selfridge could tell the Dean that Tiffany was a rich bitch who hated me because I stole Christos from her, and she’d snuck her credit card into my wallet when I’d been changing my tampon, but I didn’t think that would mean squat to the Dean. Shit, I should’ve squatted behind the museum counter like I’d imagined and changed my tampon in plain sight. Then I wouldn’t be up Menses Creek without a paddle. Yeah, it was a gruesome image, but somehow it captured Tiffany Blingston-Douchehouse’s scheming to a tee.

Tiff the Bitch was the all time epic bitch of the universe. Apologies to female dogs everywhere.

I made an appointment to see Dean Livingston.

A few days later, I sat in the waiting room to his office.

While I waited, I sketched yet another cartoon of Tiffany being murdered in yet another heinous way in my sketchbook. This time I had her buried up to her neck in sand while shiny black DeathStalker scorpions (which were the second most poisonous in the world, I’d learned) stung her in the eyeballs and dungeness crabs performed sloppy plastic surgery all over her grimacing face.

“The Dean will see you now,” his secretary said from her desk.

I gasped and slapped my sketchbook closed, realizing it was starting to resemble a serial killer’s hatebook. Maybe I needed to tear my Tiffany drawings out, lest someone notice them and cite them as evidence of my guilt.

I shoved my sketchbook in my bag and walked into the Dean’s office. It looked like your classic wood and books Oxford College office. It seemed out of place in San Diego, yet there it was.

Dean Livingston was standing behind his desk. He was a tall, older man with clean cut silver hair and a conservative navy suit. “Have a seat,” he motioned toward the leather chairs facing his desk.

 
As I walked across a huge Oriental rug, I noticed the Dean had a big antique globe mounted in one of those huge round wooden floor stands. Sitting on one of the bookshelves was one of those brass sextant things ship captains used. Probably in case the Dean suddenly needed to explore the new world. He certainly looked old enough to have been on Columbus’ boat. I just hoped he considered himself the nice kind of explorer who brought exotic silks and spices to trade, not the mean kind who brought conquistadors or small pox infested blankets to invade.

I sat down while the Dean opened a folder on his desk and flipped through the papers inside it. I think it was my file. My legendary permanent file. The one they always told you about in high school that haunted you your entire life. Great. Now they were going to add petty criminal to my list of transgressions.

The Dean continued to examine the papers while he spoke, “I see here that you’ve had a bit of a problem with your job at the art museum?”

I had the distinct feeling I was nothing more than a number to him, one of thousands who went to SDU. The university had over thirty thousand students, so I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Yeah,” I said.
 

“You are aware that any student caught stealing at a work study job will be terminated?”

“Yes.”

“And that there are no exceptions to this rule?”

“Yes.”

“And that San Diego University has a zero tolerance policy toward theft?”

“Yes,” I rolled my eyes. Did they pay him to just read from the manual? Heck, I could do this guy’s job. I bet it paid pretty well, and I’d make more than enough to cover my tuition.

“This is a very serious offense, young lady. What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked.

I suddenly felt like every criminal ever who professed their innocence while nobody believed them. The only difference was, a jury hadn’t convicted me. Tiffany had. How to explain? I was going with the obvious, “Tiffany framed me.”

“Who is Tiffany?”

“The girl who says I stole her credit card,” I sighed.

Was he even listening? Or just doubting? I did my best to explain what Tiffany had likely done. Of course, I could only guess. But it was all I had to work with.

While I talked, I noticed the Dean slowly slouching farther and farther down in his slippery leather chair. His cheek was leaning against the hand he’d propped on an armrest.
 

To my horror, he slipped so far down in his chair while I spoke that his knuckles were driving the skin of his cheek up the side of his skull in wrinkly accordion folds. His lips were stretched so far up now that it made a gap in one corner of his mouth that couldn’t be closed. I could clearly see his bridgework.

“Mmmm,” he mumbled absently.

I waited for him to say something more in response to my theory about Tiffany.
 

Another wrinkle folded into place on Dean Livingston’s cheek as he continued to slide in slow motion down his chair. There were now sixteen folds. I know, because I had time to count while I waited politely for him to respond.

I glanced around and watched dust motes floating in the sunbeams pouring through the windows to my right. They danced. I always liked dust motes.
 

Hello! Dean Livingston? Anybody alive in there? Was he asleep with his eyes open? He certainly looked old enough to have come across the Atlantic on the Santa Maria with Columbus.

“The girl…” he said.

Uh, yeah? What the heck was I supposed to say to that? I raised my eyebrows expectantly.

He raised his a tad in response.

I raised mine a bit higher.

Back and forth we went, our eyebrows going up a millimeter higher at a time. He had the advantage because the eyebrow on the side of his face with the wrinkled cheek had an inch head start.

Okay, was this a game of who can raise whose eyebrows the highest? Did I win if mine touched my scalp? Because that’s how high they were now.

Any day, Mr. Livingdeadston!

I’d had it. I blurted, “Tiffany! Remember her?”

“Who?”
 

Had he forgotten already, or been asleep the whole time? Either was possible.

Exasperated, I blurted, “I told you, Tiffany was the girl who came into the art museum on my shift, and when I went to the ladies room, she must have put her credit card in my wallet so she could accuse me of stealing it.”

“The museum…” he sighed like a deflating gas bag.

Wow, was that as far as we’d gotten?

“Which…museum?” he burped.

I mean burped, an actual burp.
 

“Excuse me…” he slurred.

Wow, I think I saw his breath smoking out the gaping corner of his mouth, it was so thick and rank. And tinted brown. Ew. I think a housefly flew right through it and spiraled down to its death. So gross. Any second, spiders were going to crawl out of his mouth like it was a tomb. At least his corpse was showing signs of life. Except I think he was dozing again.

“Mr. Livingston?”

He was literally staring right at me, but didn’t say a word.

Wake up, Mr. Livingston! This was useless.

“Is this a bad time?” I asked carefully.

He blinked.

Was that it? Geez, I could totally do this guy’s job. I wondered what his job interview had consisted of? Blinking more than twice an hour?
 

Lameballs!

“Mr. Livingston, I really need my job back,” I pleaded, “and I didn’t take Tiffany’s credit card. Isn’t there anything we can do? I really need the work or I won’t be able to pay my tuition,” I gulped, suddenly worried that admitting I was having trouble covering my tuition bill might be digging a grave for myself. The university didn’t want broke students who couldn’t pay. Then again, I suspected Mr. Livingston was intimately familiar with graves, seeing as how he had one under his desk and kept one foot in it at all times.

He blinked three times, a record for him, then yawned, “You will need to make a formal appeal to the University, at which time,” he yawned again, “you will have an opportunity to state your case before a tribunal of administrators.” He was now fully awake. People usually were when they were bending you over and going to work with the broom handle.
 

“Until then,” he admonished, “you will not be allowed to work on campus. You will also be placed on academic probation until your name has been cleared. If the tribunal finds that you are indeed guilty of theft, or if you are caught committing any other crimes on campus, you will be subject to expulsion.”

Gulp. What? Had I heard him right?

Why had I gotten out of bed this morning?

Stupid Tiffany!

Chapter 17

SAMANTHA

The warm spring weather was perfect in contrast to my mood. I sat outside at one of the tables at the Student Center with Madison, Romeo and Kamiko. We were all eating fish tacos for lunch.

“I’m screwed, you guys,” I sighed.
 

"You say that like it’s a problem,” Romeo quipped. “In my world, getting screwed is the most desirable outcome of any encounter.”

“Even if Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse is the one doing the screwing?” I asked skeptically.
 

“Now that you mention it, I always suspected that girl had a dick,” Romeo cackled.

“She’s way too much of a bitch to be a man or have a penis,” Kamiko said as she dipped a tortilla chip in her salsa.

“Female dogs everywhere are cringing because we’re comparing them to Tiffany,” Madison giggled.

“Maybe we could compare Tiffany to toxic waste or puppy murderers,” Romeo suggested.

“Don’t kill any puppies!” Kamiko pleaded.

Romeo frowned at her. “How is it that me saying ‘puppy murderers’ means it has actually happened? What, did a puppy somewhere in the world just die because I said it?”

“I don’t know,” Kamiko said sheepishly, “just don’t say it.”

Romeo rolled his eyes, “You’ve been watching way too many cartoons, darling.” He took a bite of his fish taco.

I sipped my iced tea, “What am I going to do, you guys? I can’t even find a math tutoring job. There’s no jobs anywhere right now. And, until my case with Tiffany goes up for review in front of SDU’s academic tribunal, Career Services won’t give me another on-campus job. I’m tainted goods.”