are you?"
"I work from home now." He added defensively, "I get more done here."
"I'll get to you sometime this afternoon."
"When?"
"When I get there."
Tim followed the signage to the registrar's counter only to find himself in line behind ten or so students. He waited with them so he could watch the proceedings. Dropping a class proved to be a protracted negotiation involving substantial paperwork. It took a good half hour for the line to dissipate, during which Tim noted nothing to indicate a recruitment ploy like the one Reggie had described.
The registrar, an octogenarian with a kindly demeanor and prodigious eyeglasses, informed Tim that she'd run the office for the past thirty-five years and assured him that no funny business had gone down under her tenure. For confidentiality purposes, she didn't permit student workers in the office, and the two women she oversaw had been there for years. A brief talk with both of them was enough for Tim to put the flimsy lead to bed.
He zagged back across campus in the car, following the blue signs. The Student Counseling Center proved to be a beige and brown modular home sandwiched between a parking lot and a scrubby hill. It seemed more like a school nurse's station in a welfare mountain-state town than the therapy center for a high-tuition Malibu university.
The potted plants lining the ramp brushed Tim's jeans on his way up. With its blue carpet and paneled walls, the interior typified modular decor. Seemingly out of place was the well-dressed woman behind the petite reception desk, whose cheery, first-name-basis nameplate announced her solely as ROBBIE.
Her pert face tightened a bit when he introduced himself. "Confidentiality is absolute here, Mr. Rackley."
"Please, call me Tim."
"We adhere to the guidelines of the American Psychological Association."
"Are all the therapists psychologists?"
"No, Mr. Rackley. Most are licensed social workers, but the same confidentiality guidelines apply to them."
"Do students need to be referred here?"
"They can come directly if they're an undergraduate or a student at the law school, GSBM --"
"GSBM?"
"Graziado School of Business Management."
"Would you be allowed to disclose when a particular student first came in?"
"Absolutely not."
A girl emerged from a back room, the floor creaking with her steps. She shuffled to get around Tim, but there wasn't much room. "I'm sorry to interrupt."
"That's okay," Robbie said. "We were just wrapping up. Maybe you could show the gentleman out." She busied herself clearing her desk.
When it was clear Robbie wasn't going to acknowledge him again, Tim followed the girl out. She held the door for him but stumbled over a potted plant when she turned. Tim caught her arm to steady her, and she let out an embarrassed giggle. "Sorry. I'm such a klutz. I get nervous, you know, when people see me here. I always think they're wondering what's wrong with me --" She blushed. "God, shut up, Shanna."
"You should see me waiting at the clinic for my results to come back."
Shanna stared at him, eyebrows raised, and then her face broke into a smile and she hit him lightly on the arm.
They walked down the ramp together. Two girls sat talking in a Range Rover parked in the first row of the lot beside Tim's Acura, not ten yards from the trailer's entrance. The therapy rooms emptied out directly into a major campus parking lot.
So much for absolute confidentiality.
"I just transferred in from Brigham Young this semester. It's kind of...not been the easiest transition, you know? Are you a student here? You seem old. I mean, not that way, but..." Shanna's face colored again, her hand over her mouth. Substantial diamond studs gleamed in her ears. "Just don't pay attention to me, okay?"
The front doors of the Range Rover opened simultaneously. The two girls climbed out and headed toward them, the long-limbed driver smoothing a paisley cotton skirt over her underlying bell-bottom jeans. Tim figured them for
"I work from home now." He added defensively, "I get more done here."
"I'll get to you sometime this afternoon."
"When?"
"When I get there."
Tim followed the signage to the registrar's counter only to find himself in line behind ten or so students. He waited with them so he could watch the proceedings. Dropping a class proved to be a protracted negotiation involving substantial paperwork. It took a good half hour for the line to dissipate, during which Tim noted nothing to indicate a recruitment ploy like the one Reggie had described.
The registrar, an octogenarian with a kindly demeanor and prodigious eyeglasses, informed Tim that she'd run the office for the past thirty-five years and assured him that no funny business had gone down under her tenure. For confidentiality purposes, she didn't permit student workers in the office, and the two women she oversaw had been there for years. A brief talk with both of them was enough for Tim to put the flimsy lead to bed.
He zagged back across campus in the car, following the blue signs. The Student Counseling Center proved to be a beige and brown modular home sandwiched between a parking lot and a scrubby hill. It seemed more like a school nurse's station in a welfare mountain-state town than the therapy center for a high-tuition Malibu university.
The potted plants lining the ramp brushed Tim's jeans on his way up. With its blue carpet and paneled walls, the interior typified modular decor. Seemingly out of place was the well-dressed woman behind the petite reception desk, whose cheery, first-name-basis nameplate announced her solely as ROBBIE.
Her pert face tightened a bit when he introduced himself. "Confidentiality is absolute here, Mr. Rackley."
"Please, call me Tim."
"We adhere to the guidelines of the American Psychological Association."
"Are all the therapists psychologists?"
"No, Mr. Rackley. Most are licensed social workers, but the same confidentiality guidelines apply to them."
"Do students need to be referred here?"
"They can come directly if they're an undergraduate or a student at the law school, GSBM --"
"GSBM?"
"Graziado School of Business Management."
"Would you be allowed to disclose when a particular student first came in?"
"Absolutely not."
A girl emerged from a back room, the floor creaking with her steps. She shuffled to get around Tim, but there wasn't much room. "I'm sorry to interrupt."
"That's okay," Robbie said. "We were just wrapping up. Maybe you could show the gentleman out." She busied herself clearing her desk.
When it was clear Robbie wasn't going to acknowledge him again, Tim followed the girl out. She held the door for him but stumbled over a potted plant when she turned. Tim caught her arm to steady her, and she let out an embarrassed giggle. "Sorry. I'm such a klutz. I get nervous, you know, when people see me here. I always think they're wondering what's wrong with me --" She blushed. "God, shut up, Shanna."
"You should see me waiting at the clinic for my results to come back."
Shanna stared at him, eyebrows raised, and then her face broke into a smile and she hit him lightly on the arm.
They walked down the ramp together. Two girls sat talking in a Range Rover parked in the first row of the lot beside Tim's Acura, not ten yards from the trailer's entrance. The therapy rooms emptied out directly into a major campus parking lot.
So much for absolute confidentiality.
"I just transferred in from Brigham Young this semester. It's kind of...not been the easiest transition, you know? Are you a student here? You seem old. I mean, not that way, but..." Shanna's face colored again, her hand over her mouth. Substantial diamond studs gleamed in her ears. "Just don't pay attention to me, okay?"
The front doors of the Range Rover opened simultaneously. The two girls climbed out and headed toward them, the long-limbed driver smoothing a paisley cotton skirt over her underlying bell-bottom jeans. Tim figured them for
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