Jamie nodded. “It’s in my room. My midterm exam.”
“This boy is no thief,” said the shopkeeper. “He’s a student at the university. Never been in any kind of trouble in his life.”
“A test paper? Your own exam?” The trooper looked incredulous.
“I can show it to you. I took it to show to the student council tomorrow. He flunked me without even reading what I wrote.”
The trooper blew out a breath from puffed cheeks. “All right. You get your ass back to the university first thing tomorrow morning and give that paper back to the professor you took it from. You understand me? First thing tomorrow. Otherwise he’ll probably swear out a god-dammed warrant for your arrest and we’ll have to post a goddammed APB on you.”
“Yessir. First thing tomorrow.”
The trooper put his glasses back on and headed down the stairs toward his powerful-looking car, muttering something about dangerous criminals and grand larceny.
After a sleepless night Jamie returned the test paper to the assistant professor. But not before making two photocopies of it. One he left with the dean of students, the other he handed to the president of the student council. Two tension-racked days passed before the dean called Jamie into his office. Ferraro was already there, sitting in a tight little glaring ball on a chair that looked two sizes too large for him.
From the comfortable swivel chair behind his broad desk the dean gestured Jamie to a stiff wooden seat in front of the desk. He was an amiable pink-cheeked beardless Santa of a man who had a reputation for avoiding trouble wherever it might arise.
“I think you owe Mr. Ferraro an apology,” said the dean, with a friendly smile.
Jamie said nothing. Ferraro said nothing.
“Your blue book is university property, you know. Technically speaking, you had no right to take it.”
Jamie’s throat felt tight and dry. “I had a right to see what’s in it. I had a right to discuss it with my teacher.”
Nodding, the dean said, “That’s why we’re here. To discuss the contents of your test. Mr. Ferraro, can you explain where this young man went wrong in his ideas about Othello?”
Slowly it dawned on Jamie that the dean had no intention of dealing with his “theft.” Ferraro mumbled through a series of excuses about Jamie’s test; the gist of it was that Jamie had no appreciation for the work of Shakespeare.
After several minutes Ferraro ran out of words. The dean nodded again and put his smile back on. Folding his hands on his desktop, he said, “I think we have a failure of communications here. Let me propose a compromise. Mr. Waterman can get credit for finishing the course without attending the remainder of the classes. Will that make you both happy?”
Ferraro glanced at Jamie, then looked away.
“What grade will I get?” Jamie asked.
“I think a gentleman’s C will do it,” the dean replied.
Jamie shook his head. “That’ll pull down my GPA.”
The dean’s smile turned waxy. “Your grade point average can survive a C, I think.”
“Considering your failing mark now,” Ferraro said, “you ought to be grateful for a C.”
“I’m failing because you didn’t read my test.”
“That’s a lie!”
“Now, now,” said the dean soothingly. “Mr. Waterman, if you’re unhappy with a C I’ll allow you to retake the course next semester. That’s as far as I intend to go.”
Jamie accepted the C only until the next election of student council members. For the first time in his life he had a cause: his own cavalier treatment by the faculty and administration. He had to open up to his fellow students, learn how to smile and greet them, learn how to listen to them as well as tell them his own story. His “theft” became a campus cause celebre and easily swept him to a seat on the council. He hated every moment of the campaign, hated the false smiles and fake good cheer, hated shaking hands with people who had ignored him only a few weeks earlier.
But he gritted his teeth and endured it. And won.
Once on the student council, Jamie found that there were much more important problems to deal with than Ferraro. Student housing, the quality of the cafeteria food, student access to computer time- these were real and pressing problems for all. He forgot about Ferraro. Almost. He became the hardest-working member of the council.