Page 9 of A Thin Line

“Best of luck.” Then he looked at me. “Always nice catching up with you, Anna.”

Against the flow of the growing crowd, Mr. Sherwood made his way toward the outer doors. As soon as he was out of earshot, Dr. R. snapped at me. “I don’t know why you’re loafing about, but get over there now. You need to be smiling and offering assistance to anyone who might need it.”

I doubted any of these people needed someone to tell them to take a program and be seated. Even though appetizers and drinks were already on display, the way the food was covered—and the fact that the students hadn’t put out the utensils or any plates or cups made it clear that the refreshments were for after their time in the auditorium. And my fellow students didn’t seem to need help—but I was not about to argue with Dr. R. As I nodded, ready to rejoin the group, she growled at me, her face looking flush against the backdrop of coiffed white hair. “And take that stupid walkie-talkie off and give it to Jenna. You look like a redneck.”

A redneck?

I wouldn’t have minded hanging out with Piper. She seemed nice enough. But the only place where there was a gap was next to Jenna. I supposed that was fine since I needed to all but report to her. That made no sense to me at all.

So there I stood, handing her the walkie-talkie and belt when she made eye contact. I asked, “What are we supposed to be doing?”

“Just answering questions,” she said, lifting the backside of the long tablecloth and sliding the walkie-talkie underneath the table—a place I was sure Dr. R. had not wanted it to be. “Handing out brochures if someone walks past without taking one. Smiling if someone makes eye contact with you. You know.” Then she tilted her head toward me, lowering her voice. “Pretty boring shit, actually.”

I simply nodded, forcing a smile for the people who looked my way but somehow seemed to see past me, as if I wasn’t even there.

After another minute, Jenna leaned in close again. “Have you gotten a look at the guy who funded all this shit?” Apparently, she’d forgotten already salivating about him last time we’d talked.

I could barely tolerate saying his name. “Whittier?” It still stung that, for a moment, I’d been enamored of him as well, not realizing who he was.

“Yeah. He is hot as hell.”

Normally, I would have stayed quiet, but between the irritation I felt with myself for not knowing who he was and fatigued at having to deal with this girl all day, I said, “He’s all right.” Rationally, I knew that wasn’t true—he really was attractive—but I also knew I shouldn’t be beating myself up for not knowing who he was. After all, the only one I would know on sight—if he hadn’t changed over the past twenty years, anyway—would be his father, Augustus. His face had appeared in the local newspaper as much as the U.S. President’s, and my dad read the news faithfully back then. Even still, it had never been a fair fight.

“All right? Girl, is something wrong with your eyes? That man is yummy as fuck.”

My cheeks flared again as I surveyed a couple of faces on the other side of the table—but I needn’t have worried, because they obviously hadn’t heard Jenna. In fact, most of those people didn’t even seem to recognize that we even existed. Even when we held out a program for someone to take, it was like they couldn’t see the hand holding it.

All I could come up with in protest was a platitude. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” And, while it was true that my eyes had indeed found him extremely good looking, Jenna would never hear that from me.

“Then you need to get your eyes checked. That man is fine.” We stood in relative silence for a few seconds while I hoped this topic of conversation would pass. Instead, she continued. “See, I like a man in a suit. A suit covers up a lot of sins—but when you know the man wearing it has a tight ass and washboard abs, it’s like gift wrapping. You peel off the jacket—and the tie’s like a bow.” By now, the lobby was full of people in various stages of moving toward the auditorium where they could be seated.

I tried ignoring Jenna, but she went on and on about how she would lick him from head to toe if she ever got him naked—and she progressed from there. I was sure she did it because she knew how uncomfortable it made me. So I tried focusing on straightening up the dwindling piles of materials on the table in front of us and looking at the better off citizens of our fair town—ones who refused to look back at me. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t bother me, because that happened a lot, simply because of who I was.

This, though…this was different. These people thought I and the other students here were beneath them, and that gave me yet another reason to despise them and Dr. Rakhimov—but, most of all, it fueled my hate for Sinclair Whittier.

Once again, I reminded myself that the torture of this night was almost over. But little did I know that my torture was just beginning.

Chapter 3

It was barely a minute after six PM when Dr. Rakhimov stood at the podium on stage and started talking. It was like she was a different person, one I and my fellow students wouldn’t recognize. Not only was her usually harsh demeanor softened, her eyes and forehead appearing relaxed and light, but even her voice sounded different. Rather than delivering her speech in her typical drill sergeant lecturing style, her voice resembled that of a saleswoman—optimistic, upbeat, and charismatic.

I and the other three students sat in the back row where Dr. R. had told us to wait. As soon as all the talking here was done, we would be leading these people to the precious simulation lab where they could see the Whittiers’s money in action—and, I already knew, that was part of how Dr. R. would get these other folks to open their wallets.

“Ladies and gentlemen, fine people of Winchester, thank you for joining us tonight in what is essentially the dedication of our newest classroom. The new simulation lab as well as this auditorium was made possible thanks to the generous donations of the Whittier family.

“As you know, this public institution is funded by state tax dollars—but those funds never provide enough. Certainly, we can educate our students in the most basic of ways, but capital improvement is often made possible, thanks to the donations of families like the Whittiers…and you.”

Dr. Rakhimov pressed a remote that lit up a screen above her. Although this space had been envisioned for all sorts of activities, Dr. R.’s biggest hope was that it could be a classroom lecture space. While a good majority of classes taught by her and her staff were of the clinical hands-on type, I imagined she had always wanted to teach at a large, prestigious university where one large class might hold ninety or more students—but I knew that even the basic classes that every student here had to take, like English 101, probably wouldn’t fill this space. Winchester wasn’t that big a town. Even with students attending from surrounding towns, that dream of hers wouldn’t be realized.

But that didn’t stop the woman. If it were up to her, this small campus would be double in size by the time she either retired or ran the whole place. As it was, her influence could be felt throughout campus. Because the construction had taken place over the last year, all of campus was in a bit of upheaval, and my very first class changed locations at the last minute—from a classroom in the humanities and arts building to a corner of the media center to accommodate Dr. R.’s Anatomy and Physiology class. Had it been the other way around, my professor wouldn’t have been able to demand a space in the STEM building.

Dr. Rakhimov took the audience through a series of slides that showed the progress of the construction—from breaking ground in April a year earlier—to the finishing touches in the lab that took place just a week ago. I was embarrassed to see that one of the more recent slides caught the side of me as one of the workers was showing me how to operate one of the machines—something I was learning simply so I could demonstrate it tonight. The other three students also had their own stations that they’d learned in order to impress our guests. Dr. R. intended to personally demonstrate the other stations as she walked them through and planned to even encourage guests to test a few things themselves.

Finally, after about twenty minutes, Dr. Rakhimov switched gears. “Before we take a tour of the lab, I wanted to introduce you all to Sinclair Whittier. Of course, you already know him, but you might not have known that the Whittier family have been generous benefactors of Winchester Community College for decades, monumental in terms of helping us meet many of our goals. Even so, Sinclair has taken their mission to heart. The Whittiers have always had a big interest in Winchester and helping our community grow and thrive, and Sinclair demonstrates his dedication to that cause time and time again.” When she smiled, it wasn’t her typical pinched grin that failed to show her teeth; instead, she seemed genuinely happy and pleased.

It wasn’t until Whittier stepped onto the stage that I realized even Dr. Rakhimov had fallen victim to his charms, just like Jenna beside me. Almost like I had until I’d realized he was the devil. I figured Dr. R. wanted him up there speaking, believing that he had an ability to the idea of opening up the audience’s bank accounts to the college even better than her own.

He did have a rich, smooth speaking voice—and, amplified through the microphone, he was captivating. “Hello, everyone, and thank you, Dr. Rakhimov. Leona is not wrong—my family has a vested interest in Winchester County. We own lots of land here, partly because our ancestors settled here during the gold rush. My fourth great-grandfather came for the gold and stayed for all the riches to be enjoyed in Colorado, but it was his son who struck it rich in silver, not gold, and then moved to Denver when it became the official capital of the state.

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