Tap & Gown by Diana Peterfreund Page A

Angeles) or in other geologically unsound regions (hello, Mississippi River Delta). It was … sobering. By the time I attacked my half-melted frozen yogurt, I couldn’t help but see a distinct similarity between my bowl of vanilla mush and chocolate jimmies and our beleaguered polar ice caps. Each skinny, sinking jimmie might as well be a starving polar bear falling through the ice.
    “So now you know what you’re missing by skipping my section every week,” she said blithely, spooning herself some vanilla swirl soy-based concoction.
    “What … can we do about it all?” I asked, appalled.
    She lifted her shoulders. “I dunno. Recycle? Use public transportation? Take classes like this so you know exactly what we’re up against, beyond all the political bullshit?”
    “I guess I’m doing pretty well, then.”
    “Stop eating meat,” she went on.
    Now she sounded like Jamie! “I’m glad we have geologists like you around.”
    “I’m not a geologist,” she said. “I’m a chemist. I’m on loan to the Geology department this semester.
    Long story.”
    “Interesting one?”
    “Not really. Now let me show you that equation for the ozone destruction catalyst …” She started doodling on a napkin, then suddenly stiffened. “Actually, I forgot, I have to be back at the Geology building now. Can we finish this there?”
    “For what?”
    “Um, office hours. I just have to have my butt in the chair. No one will show up. Let’s go.”
    We bussed our trays in record time, then Michelle practically sprinted to the elevator, her messenger bag flapping hard against the back of her jean-encased thighs. In the elevator, she started jamming on the lobby button, as if the elevator would interpret her repeated depression of L as a sign of urgency and descend any faster.
    “Do you get in trouble with the professor if you’re late?” I asked.
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    “Heaps.” The door closed, and Michelle leaned against the wall. “And I owe him a lot for taking me on, too. I don’t want to flake out on him.”
    But once we left the building, we headed back to the Geology lab at a pace that could only be described as “casual stroll.” She took me to the smallish library on the fourth floor, where I wrangled with letters and numbers until the whole thing made sense:
    CFCl3[pollutant]+ UV Light ==> CFCl2+ Cl
    Cl + O3[ozone] ==> ClO + O2
    ClO + O ==> Cl + O2
    Cl + O3==> ClO + O2
    ClO + O ==> Cl + O2
    (And so on …)
    I looked at the results. Man, the Earth was screwed.
    “You know,” she said, as she marked my score in her grade book. “Judging from your mid-term grade, you’re going to wind up with a solid B in this class, even without your ten percent participation credit.
    Your grades must be pretty good to go with pass/fail here.”
    “I’m a Lit major,” I said. “Anything less than an A-minus is an embarrassment.”
    “They swing a more classic curve in the science departments,” she replied. “I have to fight hard for my As.”
    And yet, she was an undergraduate teaching assistant. Something told me that Michelle Whitmore was simply being modest. I wondered what her true story was. If Jenny weren’t up to her ears in background checks for the potential taps, I might even ask her to find out for me. Because what’s the use of having the resources of a rich and powerful secret society at your beck and call if you don’t take advantage of it to snoop on your teachers?
    Now I was the one who sounded like Jamie.
    “You’re all set.” She handed back my completed problem set with her standard green smiley face at the top. “I assume you’ll be heading back downhill now, back to the safety of the liberal arts.”
    “You better believe it.”
    “Well, it was nice meeting you, Amy Haskel.” As I got up to leave, she settled in with a copy of a dense-looking scientific paper. “Oh,” she added. “I like your sneakers.”
    I looked down at my yellow All Stars. “Thanks.”
    As I hiked back to the main