Page 40 of Mr. North
I brace myself as I sit at the back of the hall, waiting for Thalia to fall on me like a force of nature, firing questions at me from all angles. I get my books, my notepad, and my laptop out of my bag, my shoulders tensed, my whole body braced for impact. It never arrives, though. Eventually the lights dim, people stop chattering, and the screen at the front of the hall comes to life.
Professor Dalziel begins the lecture, and I hold my breath. Something’s wrong. Thalia must be mad at me. She hasn’t come to find me. I scan the lecture hall, studying the backs of people’s heads, trying to locate her in the auditorium, but…she’s nowhere to be found. She’s late. Of course she’s late. She’s always late.
But the lecture continues, minutes ticking by, and Thalia never shows.
Around me, people are barely paying attention to the information on the screen. At some point, someone, somewhere, pointed out where I was sitting, and all faces seem to be turned to me, watching me, studying me, people whispering to one another and laughing under their breath about me. They’ve all seen me naked. They all saw my ass smashed up against the window of Raph’s anteroom. They’ve all seen the same shows making fun of my birthmark, or my hair, or any other part of my body they saw fit.
I am now and forever will be a source of entertainment—public property to be picked over and analyzed without mercy or compassion.
The lecture ends. The other students slowly file out, blatantly staring at me as they leave, and I do my best to hold my head up high. I don’t move until every last one of them is gone. Once they’re gone, I make my way down the steps toward the podium where Professor Dalziel is packing away his own laptop and papers. When I clear my throat, he looks up and squints at me through his glasses. He’s not a particularly old man but constantly seems to be struggling with those glasses of his.
“Elizabeth Dreymon,” he states by way of greeting.
God, this is going to be awkward. “Yes. Good morning, Professor Dalziel. I came to talk to you because—”
“I know why you came to talk to me. You thought it would be better to get it out of the way now instead of waiting for me to summon you to my office. I admire that.” He nods briefly, assessing me from head to foot. There’s nothing hungry in his gaze, though. He doesn’t look at me with the same impropriety everyone else has been affecting this morning. He takes a deep breath, and then blows it out down his nose. “You have nothing to worry about from me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t care what you get up to in your free time.”
“Oh .” We were given a huge talk when we were admitted onto the law program here at Columbia. We were told not to sully the fine name of the establishment. We were warned that improper behavior would lead to us being summarily dismissed from the program, no do-overs, no second chances. “I thought—”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Dalziel says, closing the clasps on his beaten leather documents bag. “If you were anyone else, you’d already be on a plane back to whatever pointless, one horse town you came from.”
“So…I’m not being expelled because I’m a good student?”
Professor Dalziel laughs. “This whole program is full of good students. You work hard. You get good grades. So does everyone else. You are getting a free pass right now because of my daughter.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He opens it up and slides a photo from the clear plastic sleeve. Holding it out, he shows it to me. The little girl in the image is maybe seven or eight, dark-haired like her father, a tiny pair of pink glasses perched on the end of her upturned nose. Her front teeth are missing, and she seems mighty proud of the fact. “Her name is Freya. She’s allergic to peanuts, lactose, dogs, cats, certain grasses, and just about everything else it seems. I’ve had to administer epinephrine to her four times in the past five years. My wife’s had to do it six times. She spends more time at home with her. We have epi-pens in every drawer, cupboard, jacket pocket, and bag inside our home. They’re even stuffed down the sides of the sofa cushions. As far as I’m concerned, Raphael North can fuck every single one of you guys and I’d still be his biggest fan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and pick Freya up for our daddy-daughter day.” He puts his wallet away, and when he removes his hand from his pocket again, he’s holding something else in it. As he passes me by, he places a long, white piece of plastic into my hand: an epi-pen. In large blue letters along the side of the plastic, North Industries is printed in dark blue lettering. “Next time you see him,” Professor Dalziel calls over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. “Tell him I say thank you.”
