To talk about the pagan holiday, no one could pronounce their first time properly, would be to open Pandora’s box in an otherwise neo-Christian campus setting. I was not going to get into that today. Ever, if I had it my way.
“Right,” I said. “But like I said, this would be different. The celebration I’m proposing wouldn’t surround sports, for one. Less burgers and hot dogs and more … festive. Everyone could participate. Also, it would be more meaningful. You know, with Halloween and everything.” Was my voice coming out higher than normal now? My gods, I was pretty sure it was, even if the meekness was dissipating.
Again, I cleared my throat.
The dean grimaced at the guttural noise.
“It could also be open to whoever wanted to come both on campus or in town if we put up some flyers to fully include our Barnett community,” I went on.
“We also have our tradition of trick-or-treating for the staff and town kids, you know, of course.”
“Of course.” I blinked. “Again, this wouldn’t be like trick-or-treating.”
The dean turned his gaze down to my spreadsheet. “Hmm.”
Hmm?
“This would be Samhain,” I finally came out with, knowing I was fighting a losing conversation. The word struck a tone. On the tip of my tongue, it stirred magic that even the dean seemed to feel, strong and effervescent in the air. “Halloween is the witch new year, you know, of course,” I said, using his words.
“I’m somewhat aware.” He looked me up and down in a sweeping motion, as if suddenly wondering where my pointy hat was.
“Thinning of the veil and all that,” I explained as if this were common knowledge. “Samhain is a time for new beginnings—letting go of that which does not serve us and starting new. It would be educational as well as fun to this autumnal party. It would be outdoors in the evening to celebrate. There’s also a full moon this year, which doesn’t happen often. If we manage to turn out the lamps near the quad, it would be great to see the stars, which I know some students from the bigger cities don’t often get to see.”
“This looks very … well researched,” the dean attempted. He shrugged, closing the cover of my white plastic binder in his hands. Instead of handing it back over to me, however, he pulled it farther away, as if he meant to keep it. “We will, of course, have to put this up for a vote to the student council.”
A vote.A vote!
I was somehow moving forward with this even if I thought the dean of campus life could snap his fingers and be done with it. All I needed was to get a silly vote done by the student …
“Student what?”
“The student council,” the dean repeated, as if it made whatever he was talking about clearer.
The only thing that it did was cause my stomach to drop.
The student council. I pressed my lips together as I thought of the few people I remembered putting posters up last spring for a coveted spot on the single, slightly governmental organization on campus.
“The student body president and the rest of the student government will decide if this is a sort of event that people will be interested in as well as the ramifications to the school to promote with funding. There is, as you know from your extensive planning, only so much to go around.”
“Don’t you make that decision?” I asked.
“We encourage our students to take an active role in their university experience, Luella.”
I blinked.Right.That is, if it wasn’t me right here and now, it seemed. I forced myself to smile, sparing no tooth so I wouldn’t glare.
“I will keep this.” He lifted my slim binder an inch off the desk before letting it slap back down. “And I’ll pass it on. You should hear of the decision by the end of the next week if all goes well.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then, I applaud your excitement and ambition so early in the school year. But I will have to say, if the event you planned ends there, perhaps it would be a good thing.”
“Excuse me?”
“I noticed that you’ve yet to fully commit to a major as of last spring,” the dean commented casually. “Nearly all of our fourth-year students usually have one sorted by now, so they can commit to their chosen study and graduate on time.”
“I have a major,” I said, though my voice shook. What was happening to me? What was happening here? I had come in to talk about a celebration more exciting than the stamp club’s annual exhibition, not myself. Now, I had a stutter as prominent as Pinocchio’s nose, branding me a liar.
“A few started, it looks like,” the dean agreed. “I’m interested, to say the least. English, biology, marketing, art history, anthropology, French—and not to mention, your longest interim, working in our graphic design department. Which one are you going to end on? Any thoughts?”
