Featured Author: Wendy Z. Period 4

The Dean’s Office

When you go to the Dean’s office because you need something it’s only a bit intimidating, in my opinion. However, being called there is a very different experience. Ever since third grade, when I was mistaken for another student and kept in the office after school, being in there has made me feel uneasy. Just last week, I was forced to relive that traumatizing moment, except this time, it wasn’t because of a mistake.

                    An eerie feeling enveloped me as I looked around the room. It felt like midnight, but it was only 3:00 in the afternoon.  It smelled clean, like a hospital, and in the background you could hear “Labios Compartidos,” by Mana, playing faintly on the radio. The walls were covered in white and pale blue, with flyers of orange, pink, and green. “On Wednesdays We Wear College Gear,” one said. In front of me was a large, wooden desk with documents scattered all over. It was messy, but seemed to possess a certain order to it all. The woman at the desk was on the phone; she scowled at me as I gave her an impatient look. As she gestured for me to sit down, I saw the bright, neon green sign on the door that read, “Student Welfare.” It was a simple façade for the office’s true purpose. I turned to look behind me, where there were black, plastic chairs in which were sitting a pair of students that looked almost as if they were convicts. I felt uneasy as I approached them. One analyzed me like tiger does to its prey- cautiously, but with a menacing stare- and the other was too stoned to even realize I was there. Before I was able to sit down, I heard the secretary say, “Young lady, what do you need?” I sighed in relief as I turned to look at her. The door opened, and in came a middle-aged, Hispanic man. He carried a large box that smelled like heaven. He opened it to reveal a variety of donuts: chocolate glazed, plain, sugar coated, cream filled, and coffee glazed with chocolate sprinkles, all arranged neatly as their warmth fogged the plastic on the box. After offering them to the secretary, he turned to look at me and the students behind me. I felt their eyes begging for mercy, as if they’d been starving for days. We each picked our poison, and then the man and opiate-induced boy left to a small office right of the desk. Apparently, the man was a parole officer. This became evident after I bothered to notice his posture- authoritative, firm. His eyes were cold, which puzzled me, having experienced his act of kindness. Again, the woman called, “What do you need?” The guy behind me snickered, and at once, he was ordered to remain silent, as if he’d committed a horrible crime. He pretended not to be disturbed by her rapid fire. He slouched, and in the act bumped his own water bottle, dropping it, and spilling its contents on the gray carpet. He blushed. It was obvious he was in a bit of a panic, but he refused to give it away, and had a hard time keeping his face cool. I looked at him, unsure of whether to help or not. “No,” he said, as if he was able to read my mind, “thanks,” he murmured. I shrugged and turned to the woman. “I was called here, apparently,” I said shyly. Although the woman was much shorter than me, I felt myself becoming minute and insignificant. She had the confidence and personality of a stereotypical Hispanic mom, and in my opinion, that’s pretty scary. “You’ve been tardy way too many times…Wendy? I’m going to have to keep you in for detention.” I heard what she said, but my mind had screeched to a stop at the word detention. Not because it was a terrible thing, but because…Well, what is detention? If I hadn’t been so fed up with the events of that week, I swear I could’ve cared. I turned around, sat beside my new friend “Alberto” (Whom I named, myself, because we were never allowed to talk), and took out my homework.  It seemed like hours before I was let out, but it was actually only 10 minutes because there were too many people in the office. Up until then, I was young and inexperienced. I had never served hard time before, but having suffered that experience made me tougher and stronger. I swore to myself I’d never again step foot in that place, not while I lived.

 That personal pact was broken last week, when I needed to get loan clothes for P.E.