One More Time by Deborah Cooke Read Free Book Online

he had a slick persuasiveness about him that Leslie distrusted. He was smooth, possessed of the kind of charismatic charm more typical of politicians than academics. He had a way of marketing his plans, of choosing words that made terrible ideas sound better than they were, of tricking people into endorsing something that they fundamentally disagreed with—and that without them realizing what they’d done.
    In a room full of smart people, that was quite a trick.
    And, this was petty, but he wore pink shirts. Someone must have told him once that wearing pink made his eyes look more blue, which was true, but Leslie found it very hard to take a man seriously who was wearing a bright pink shirt.
    So, she was conservative. Don’t shoot.
    In fact, she had a sneaky feeling that maybe that was the reason Dinkelmann wore them: so that everyone underestimated him. His accomplishments were hard to belittle: he had to be ten years younger than Leslie and he was already department head, brought in from Duke for big money. He was confident and handsome in his way, which made it likely he’d soon be lured off to another deserving institution.
    That couldn’t happen soon enough for Leslie.
    She kept all of this neatly to herself, of course, and sat demurely in the staff meeting as if she were fully supportive of Dr. Dinkelmann and his schemes.
    Let him think she was on his side. Favorites were watched less closely than those in his sights.
    He beamed at the assembled group and adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. Leslie wondered whether they really had lenses in them or just plain glass, whether they were just a prop to make him look older and more distinguished.
    See? There was something about the man that made lots of nasty little suspicions start whispering in one’s thoughts.
    Dinkelmann checked his notes with elaborate care, ensuring that everyone had time to understand that they were waiting on him. “And so the reason for this meeting is to discuss with you the impending policy changes in this department, and truly, in the institution at large.”
    As the group stirred in early consternation—there is, after all, no single group more resistant to change than academics—Dinkelmann held up a hand and smiled benignly. “Now, there’s no cause for concern, but the university has targeted some areas for improvement in the ongoing pursuit of academic excellence.”
    “Here it comes,” Naomi Tucker muttered, earning a castigating glare from Dinkelmann. Everyone else present developed a sudden fascination with their shoes.
    “The university has become aware of an issue with our image in the marketplace,” Dinkelmann said with a salesman’s polish. “High school students apparently perceive this institution to be a “tough” school, and this preconception is affecting our rate of applications from prospective students. Compared to other schools of our size offering a similar curriculum, we have experienced a net drop in real applications, adjusted over time, of five per cent per year. If this dangerous trend continues, the financial foundation of the university will be at risk.”
    It was impossible to look around this chunk of prime real estate and ever imagine that the university’s financial health could be at risk. And Leslie knew first hand how aggressively the alumni society pursued donations and bequests, because they phoned her constantly. She looked down at the pad of paper she had brought and scribbled something, as if taking notes like a good camper.
    Defiance, meanwhile, boiled beneath her fabulous bra. Leslie didn’t say anything, didn’t even look up from her lap. You really can’t argue with (or at least can’t win against) an historian who has a specialty in Napoleon’s battle strategies. Leslie had realized very quickly that she wasn’t Dinkelmann’s Waterloo, and never would be.
    He, as was typical of him, assumed that silence meant assent, so continued with merry confidence. “The university board of