Chapter 7 - The Office Behind the Glass
Mr. Vidal’s office overlooked the campus courtyard.
I had stood outside its glass door twice in my first year, asking whether any emergency grants were available.
Both times, his assistant told me the funds had been exhausted.
Now Mateo sat beside me while Mr. Vidal studied copies of records bearing my name.
“This appears to concern the foundation,” he said.
“The email came from your office,” Mateo answered.
“An email address can be misused.”
“Then preserve the records that establish who used it.”
Mr. Vidal pushed the papers away.
“Bea, you should be careful.
Your graduation video has become popular.
People may encourage you to make statements you cannot support.”
“I can support that I never received this money.”
“Memory can be unreliable.”
I took out my bank statements.
“My bank seems pretty sure.”
Professor Santos made a small movement beside the door.
Almost a smile.
Mr. Vidal didn’t.
He asked us to leave.
Mateo submitted a written preservation request before we did.
In the hallway, a young woman hurried after us.
Her staff badge read NORA LIM.
“I process student aid,” she said.
“I didn’t send that email.”
“Nobody said you did.”
“They’re going to say I did.”
Mateo asked whether she wanted independent representation before speaking.
She shook her head, then reconsidered.
“Yes.
Probably.”
He gave her another lawyer’s number.
She looked at me.
“Check the students marked declined.”
“What does that mean?”
Her eyes moved toward the office.
“Check them.”
That evening, Professor Santos contacted former students through ordinary alumni channels.
She asked only whether they had received foundation payments listed in their names.
Three replied within an hour.
One had dropped out to work in a warehouse.
One had borrowed money for her final semester.
One was still paying interest to a private lender.
None had received the grants.
By midnight, there were seven.
I sat at the kitchen table while Liam slept against my chest.
One message came from a man named Paolo.
Your mother asked me about this in February.
I told her nobody had helped me.
Attached was a photograph of a receipt my mother had shown him.
At the bottom, in her handwriting, were six words.
They are stealing from hungry kids.
My phone rang.
Dr. Cruz.
“The board has called an emergency meeting,” he said.
“Carmina is requesting an apology.”
“From you?”
May you like
A pause.
“From both of us.”
