Read Online True Grey by Clea Simon - Free Book Online Page B

couldn’t be sure how much was public knowledge. ‘Melinda Sloane Harquist?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, of course.’ He ran his hand through his hair. This close, Dulcie couldn’t help noticing how muscular his arms were. Yes, he could have won the heart of Mellie Heartless, at least for a time. ‘She’s not here yet.’
    â€˜No, no, of course not. And I have my section. It’s just that, hearing your name . . .’ She left it at that, and he nodded.
    â€˜She’ll be staying in the suite off the junior common room, second floor of the F entryway. You go through the courtyard and it’s the last entrance on the right. Do you know it?’ Dulcie nodded. Dardley was organized around its six stairwells, each with its own entrance on to the courtyard. Though a top-floor hallway connected most of the entryways, labeled A through F, this set-up meant a lot of exercise for the undergrads. ‘She’s supposed to arrive by two, and the reception isn’t until five. If you came by at three or three thirty, you’d have plenty of time to talk.’
    He rattled off the schedule as if by rote, Dulcie noticed. He must memorize such things as part of the job. Dulcie had a flash of Esmé again, and looked up at him. ‘That will be OK? I’ll be able to get in?’
    â€˜Sure.’ He shrugged, his mind still clearly elsewhere. ‘Just show your university ID at the door and come in.’ He nodded toward the student guard, who still hadn’t looked up. ‘I’ll make sure the door to F won’t be locked.’
    Well, it wasn’t exactly an introduction, but it would serve. Dulcie thanked him and received a distracted nod in return. She followed him into the courtyard, with its battered lawn and scattered picnic tables. Around her, the house curved like a brick castle, punctuated by the green entryways and – on the far left – the French doors of the dining hall. Her own class took place in B, in a ground-floor conference room, but she turned to watch him duck a Frisbee as he crossed the patchy grass over toward F. The Frisbee landed in his path, and as he reached for it, someone called.
    â€˜Coming in?’ She nodded, turning toward the door the girl held open for her. This was courtesy, rather than necessity. The courtyard doors, Dulcie knew from experience, were seldom locked. That’s what the main entrance, with its security post, was for. The entrance she’d just breezed right through, Dulcie realized, as the door swung shut behind her. Where nobody had even asked for her ID.

ELEVEN
    â€˜S o, like, is Professor Rutledge saying that “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” is, like, a joke or something?’
    Dulcie took a deep breath to keep from rolling her eyes. Not even the sun shining in from the courtyard could pierce Didi Givency’s foggy thought process.
    â€˜What the professor is trying to do, Didi,’ Dulcie spoke slowly, hoping that some of her words would get through the freshman’s perfect bob, ‘is to try to show the line of influence, through the use of metaphor and hyperbole.’
    â€˜Which one is metaphor again?’ The shellacked freshman turned and asked her neighbor, as if Dulcie weren’t sitting at the head of the table, five feet away. Of course, her neighbor was Andrew Geisner. Six-foot-two and handsome enough that most of the women in the class would take any opportunity to turn toward him. ‘The “as if” one?’
    Dulcie sighed. She knew that she shouldn’t, and that she should hide her frustration. To his credit, Andrew looked a bit abashed at the attention, ducking those marvelous cheekbones down as if he could hide behind his surfer-blond hair. The poor girl didn’t stand a chance. With so much else going on, however, Dulcie was having trouble summoning the patience to deal.
    â€˜A metaphor is a figure of speech . . .’ Thalia, the sophomore