"Name of the Invisible Man." She smiled. Griffin—the Invisible Car. She liked that.
After checking Tim's name on a list, the guard in the gatehouse raised the gate and admitted him to The Ingraham's student lot. Stiff and achy as she was after almost six hours of confined sitting, Quinn didn't move from her seat when they pulled into a parking slot. She stared ahead at the tight cluster of beige brick and stone buildings that made up The Ingraham. She hardly recognized the place. The trees had shed most of their leaves the last time, now the oaks and maples were lush and green. She watched a couple of new students hurry up the slope to register.
They've got to take me, she thought. They've just got to.
"Here we are," Tim said, glancing at his watch. "Right on schedule."
"Do you think this has even a slight chance to work?"
"Of course. The plan was designed by the Master Plotter. It cannot fail."
"If you say so."
Quinn didn't want to hope, couldn't allow herself to hope.
Matt had said Tim had cooked up this whole scheme. Why? What was his angle? She'd actually cried when Matt told her how he was trying to help her get his spot at The Ingraham, but she hadn't been all that surprised. This was the sort of thing Matt would do.
But Tim...What was Tim Brown getting out of this?
"All right," Tim said, gathering up his papers. "Registration's in the class building. That's where I'll be. You head for the Admissions Office and do your thing. I'll catch up with you there."
Quinn still couldn't move. Now she was terrified.
"What if this doesn't work?"
"It will. Ten to one it will. But even if not, what have you lost? By tonight you'll either be registered here or right back where you were two weeks ago when we cooked this thing up. And you haven't risked a thing."
"But I'll feel awful." And I'll have to hustle back to Connecticut and sign my life away to the Navy.
"Yeah, but you'd feel worse if you never gave it a shot."
Quinn nodded. He was right. Pass this up and she risked being plagued the rest of her life wondering if it would have worked.
As she made herself step out of the car, Tim said, "Good luck, Quinn."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
She walked up the slope to the Administration Building and followed the little black-and-white arrows planted in the grass to the Admissions Office. She paused in the empty silent hallway outside the oak door. Her heart began to pound, her palms were suddenly slick with sweat. Intrigue was not her thing. How on earth was she ever going to pull this off?
Quinn shook herself. How? Because she couldn't afford not to pull it off. She stepped inside.
The Admissions Office turned out to be a small room, fluorescent lit, with a dropped ceiling. A long marble counter ran the width of the room, separating the staff from the public. A woman sat at a cluttered desk just past the counter. She appeared to be in her fifties with a lined face, a prominent overbite, and graying hair that might have been red once. A plastic name plate on her desk read Marjory Lake.
"Are—" The word came out a croak. Quinn cleared her throat. "Are you Marge?"
The woman looked up, fixed her with bright blue eyes, wary, not welcoming. "Some people call me that. If you're looking for registration it's—"
"I'm Quinn Cleary," she said, reaching her hand over the counter. "It's nice to talk to you face to face for a change."
Marge bolted out of her seat. "Quinn? Is that you, sweetheart? Oh, you look just like I imagined you! Claire! Evelyn! Look who's here! It's Quinn!"
Two other women, both short, plump brunettes, left their desks and crowded forward, shaking her hand, welcoming her like a relative. Quinn was sure if the counter hadn't been there they'd have been hugging her.
When all the greetings and first-meeting pleasantries had been exchanged, Marge looked at her with a puzzled expression.
"But what are you doing here? We didn't...I mean...no one's..."
"I know," Quinn said. "I just decided I wanted to be here in case someone doesn't show up."
Claire and Evelyn went "Aaawww," and glanced at each other. Marge gripped her hand.
"I don't know how to say this, Quinn, honey," Marge said, "but that sort of thing just doesn't happen around here."
"I know," Quinn said. "But I haven't anyplace else to go at the moment so I thought I'd give it a shot."
More quick, that-poor-kid glances were exchanged, then Marge said, "Well, might as well make the best of it. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. You're welcome to wait as long as you like. Want some coffee?"
Quinn would have preferred a Pepsi but didn't want to turn down their kind offer.
"Sure. Coffee would be great."
*
Tim showed up an hour later. Quinn introduced him to "the girls," as they called themselves. They knew his name—after all, they had processed his acceptance. She told them she was going out to stretch her legs but would be back in a while to see if there was any news.
"How's it going in there?" Tim asked when they were outside.
"They're sweet. I feel like a rat deceiving them like this."
"Who deceiving anyone? You're hanging around to try and take the spot of anyone who doesn't show up. That's an absolutely true statement."
"But—"
"But nothing. It's true. The fact that we know something they don't is irrelevant."
They found a shady spot under an oak by the central pond and sat on a wooden bench. The sun was in and out of drifting clouds, the air was heavy with moisture. A bathing sparrow fluttered its wings at the edge of the pond, disturbing the still surface of the water with tiny ripples and splashes. Off to her left Quinn saw a parade of sweaty new arrivals lugging suitcases, boxes, and stereos into the dorm. She looked around and was struck by how planned The Ingraham looked. The dorm, the caf, the administration, class, and faculty buildings were all two stories, all of similar design and color. And off to her right, up the slope, rose the science building; and rising beyond that, the medical center. Each set higher than the one before it, like steps to knowledge and experience.
"Where do you fit into this, Tim?"
He swiveled on the bench and faced her. She wished he'd take off those damn sunglasses. She wanted to see his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what's in it for you? You don't know me. Sure, we've met a couple of times, but we're not what you'd call close by any stretch. Why should you care if I get into The Ingraham?"
He smiled. "I'm the compleat altruist. My raison d'etre is to help others. That's why I want to become a doctor."
"Not."
"You doubt my devotion to the human species? Okay, try this: I'm hoping that my getting you into The Ingraham will help me add you to my near endless list of beautiful female conquests."
"Very funny."
"Hey, don't sell yourself short. I think you're a knockout. And you've got a very nice butt."
"And you need glasses," Quinn said. She was annoyed now. "I ask you a simple question..."
She pushed herself off the bench to head back to the Admissions Office. This was dumb. Tim's hand on her arm stopped her.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Forget everything I just said— except the part about your having a nice butt—"
"Tim..."
"Well, I meant that. But as for the rest of it..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Look. Places like The Ingraham, they're systems. A bunch of nerdy little dorks get together and figure out a way to set someplace up so they can push all the buttons, pull all the levers, call all the shots—run the show. They've got the bucks, that gives them power, and they think they can make everybody jump through their hoops. But they couldn't make Matt jump. With his family's kind of clout, he can tell them to go jump. People like you and me, though, Quinn...if we want to get into their system, when they say jump, we've got to ask, 'How high?'"