The Select

be realizing they're shy one body.'

She headed back to the Admissions Office feeling anxious, scared, thinking about Tim and how he was turning out to be a lot deeper than she'd originally thought, and wondering if he really thought she had a nice butt. She knew she didn't, but there was no accounting for taste.

'Don't you have to unload?' she said as Tim ambled by her side.

'We'll unload together. This plan is my baby. I want to be present in the delivery room.'

*

Quinn sensed the change in the Admissions Office as soon as she walked through the door. The air was charged. Claire and Evelyn were trundling about between their desks and the file cabinets. Marge look frazzled. Her eyes went wide when she saw her.

'Quinn! We've just heard from registration. They're getting ready to close up and somebody hasn't shown up. I can't believe it. I've been here ten years and nothing like this has ever happened.'

She felt Tim's elbow bump her ribs.

'Wink, nudge, poke,' he whispered.

Quinn ignored him. 'Maybe that's my chance,' she said to Marge. 'What's his name?'

'Crawford. Matthew Crawford.'

'Are you going to be calling him? Maybe he's just had car trouble or something.'

'Well, then,' she sniffed as she picked up her phone, 'he should have called us. Whatever the cause, I'll have to check with Dr. Alston first. Then we'll call.' She smiled at Quinn. 'This could be your lucky day, hon.'

Quinn stepped back so as not to appear to be listening. She dragged Tim with her to the row of chairs by the door, then sat there straining to hear. Marge's end of the conversation was garbled but she heard her hang up and dial another number. Matt's?

If so, Mrs. Crawford, Quinn's mother's old high school friend, would tell Marge the truth—as she knew it.

Quinn crossed her fingers and waited.

She heard Marge slam her receiver into its cradle.

'Matthew Crawford's not coming!'

Quinn heard cheers from Claire and Evelyn. She grabbed Tim's hand and squeezed, then realized what she was doing and let go.

'It's okay,' Tim said. 'I wash them regularly. Twice a week sometimes.'

Marge was up at the counter, motioning Quinn closer. Her face was flushed.

'He's not coming!' she said as Quinn approached. 'He decided to go to Yale Med instead!'

'And he didn't let you know?' Tim said, leaning against the counter beside her. 'What a cad!'

'He wasn't there—off to Yale already—but I spoke to his mother and she said as far as she knows he sent us a letter last month. She couldn't imagine why we never received it.'

'Probably never sent it,' Tim muttered with convincing disgust. 'You know how these rich kids are—'

Quinn kicked his ankle. He was getting carried away.

'Can I take his spot?' Quinn said.

'If it was up to me, honey, you'd be on your way to the registrar. But it's up to Dr. Alston and the admissions committee. I'll do my damndest for you, though.'

As she returned to her desk and tapped a number into her phone, Tim leaned closer.

'Why'd you kick me?'

'You're overdoing it.'

'You mean Robert DeNiro doesn't have to worry about me?'

'It might be better if you hung back a little...like in one of the chairs.'

Tim shrugged. 'Okay. But you're having all the fun.'

Some fun. This was murder. Quinn turned and clung to the counter, hanging on Marge's every word.

'Dr. Alston? It's Marge, down at the office...Yes, we called him...No, apparently he's decided to go to Yale instead...That's right, sir...No, I don't know why...Yes, sir, I certainly can do that, but I think you should know, one of the wait-list students is right here...Dr. Alston? Are you there?...Yes, sir, she's been hanging around all day in the hope that something like this would happen...I know, sir. Not in my memory either. Her name's...let me see...' Marge smiled and winked at Quinn as she made a noisy show of shuffling through the papers on her desk. 'Here it is: Cleary...Quinn Cleary. Yes, sir. I'll do that, sir. Do you want me to start making those calls now?..Okay. I'll wait...Right sir.'

She hung up and approached Quinn. Her air was conspiratorial.

'Well, Quinn, honey, you've sure thrown Dr. Alston a curve. He wanted me to start calling the waiting list immediately, starting with number one and working my way down. When I told him you were here, he was actually speechless. And if you knew Dr. Alston you'd know that he's never speechless. He's never heard of a wait-list student hanging around on registration day. He's going to check your application and talk to the committee.'

Quinn felt lightheaded. Her knees wobbled. She struggled for a breath to speak.

'Then I have a chance?'

'You sure do. Better than you think. Because just between you and me, if I get the word to start calling the waiting list, there's a very good chance that most of them will already be committed to other schools, and those that aren't, well,' her voice sank to a whisper, 'they may not be home, if you know what I mean.'

'I wouldn't want you doing anything like that for me,' Quinn said. 'You might be risking your job.'

Marge patted her hand. 'You let me worry about that. Meanwhile, take a seat by your friend over there and we'll see what happens.'

*

'I smell a rat.'

Dr. Walter Emerson was startled by Arthur's vehemence. He'd known Arthur Alston for years and had always thought of him as a phlegmatic sort.

'Do you, Arthur? I'm the one who does most of the rat studies here, so if anyone should recognize that smell, it's me. And I don't.'

'Really, Walter,' Alston sniffed. 'This is serious business. I don't think any of us should take it lightly.'

Walter glanced around the conference room at the 'us' to whom Arthur was referring. The Ingraham's admissions committee—or at least most of it—all top specialists in their fields, sat around the polished table in the oak-paneled conference room: Arthur Alston, Phyllis Miles, Harold Cohen, Steven Mercer, Michael Cofone, and Walter himself. Although Arthur was the Director, Senator Whitney was the powerhouse; he represented the Kleederman Foundation and had veto power. He would be flying in later for his annual welcoming address to the first-year students.

'I'm not taking it lightly, Arthur,' Walter said. 'But I see no point in viewing this as some sort of conspiracy.'

'You've got to admit it looks suspicious,' Arthur said, tapping the table top with the eraser end of a pencil. 'The applicant who turned us down and the wait-listed one in question are both from Connecticut. I don't know about you but I find it a little hard to swallow that as mere coincidence.'

So did Walter, but he wasn't going to admit it. Not just yet. He'd been oddly thrilled when he'd learned that the unorthodox student sitting on their doorstep was Quinn Cleary, that bright young woman with whom he'd been so taken when he'd interviewed her. He'd recommended her highly and had been disappointed when she'd been wait listed.

'Granted, they're both from Connecticut, but they live nowhere near each other. They went to different high schools in different counties, went to different colleges. There may be a connection, but it's certainly not obvious.'

'Exactly. That's why I said I smell a rat. I haven't found one yet.' He looked around the table. 'Does anyone else have anything to add?'

Cohen and Mercer said no, Cofone and Miles shook their heads. They seemed largely indifferent. And why not? None of them had ever met Quinn Cleary. But Walter had. If only there was some way he could convey his enthusiasm for her.

'All right, then,' Arthur said. 'We'll follow the usual procedure and start calling the wait-listed applicants in order. And if by some stretch of the imagination we have no takers by the time we reach Miss Cleary —'