Vernon Downs Read Online Free PDF Page A

Downs for autographing. But none of the deceptions appealed to him, and it was better to go in straight than to proffer a lie he wasn’t completely invested in.
    â€œI’m just watching the desk for my friend,” the girl said. “I actually work in admissions.”
    â€œOh,” Charlie said. He leaned on the counter in what he hoped was an unassuming pose. “Which is better?”
    The girl made a face. “Both are boring,” she answered. “But it beats working in the cafeteria with the rest of the losers.”
    Charlie laughed. “I suppose it does.” The girl glanced absently at the clock on the wall, the red second hand gliding slowly across its face. “I like the food here,” he said. “I mean, I like that someone else takes care of it.”
    The girl smiled. “I’m a vegan, so I only really eat at the salad bar.”
    Charlie worried that his request would come under scrutiny if the girl’s friend reappeared, and he debated leaving. But something in the way the girl behind the counter nervously began to scratch her elbow betrayed that she and her friend were likely up to something, or she was worried that she’d be found out for spelling her friend, who was off doing who knew what, and Charlie reversed course.
    â€œI’m sort of in a hurry,” he said, affecting impatience.
    â€œGod, where is she?” the girl asked. “She’s been gone for, like, ten minutes.”
    â€œIs there someone else who can help me?” Charlie asked, searching the obviously empty office.
    â€œI’ll just do it,” she said. The girl tapped something on the computer. She handed him a yellow Post-it note, a phone number scrawled in her slanted handwriting. “It says the request for an updated address is pending, sorry.” Charlie thanked her and memorized the phone number in case something disastrous happened to the Post-it, which he folded into his wallet, with the intention of transferring it to the safety of the suede pouch. He absented the alumni office quickly, as if he might be called back to account, the creaky floorboards singing underfoot. An errant left brought him face-to-face with the director of the summer program, a large bearded Irishman with tortoiseshell glasses whom he recognized from thewriting program flyer.
    â€œHello,” the director boomed.
    Charlie gave a short wave, an understatement he hoped the director would let stand.
    â€œGood man,” the director said, slapping him heartily on the back, which propelled him in an unplanned direction, around the nearest corner and away from the director, who bounded out the door and into the brightening sky. Charlie strolled down the hall strewn with cluttered corkboards and stacks of unstained wooden chairs, hunting for an exit that would circumvent the director and thus avert an embarrassing conversation he was sure neither of them wanted to have.
    A murmuring wafted through the breezy hallway, and Charlie slowed at the open door bearing an engraved plastic plaque advertising the summer writing program office. He feigned interest in the flyers pushpinned to the bulletin board outside the door while straining to hear.
    â€œWe should make them pay when we accept them,” a voice tinged with anger said. “That would keep them from dropping out without notice.”
    â€œThey’d just want a refund,” a smaller voice said. “There’s no way to guarantee they’ll show up.”
    â€œBut canceling at the last minute,” the first voice countered. “If he would’ve had to pay in full, that would’ve forced him to attend.”
    Charlie lifted an outdated flyer about summer studies abroad and focused on an announcement about a film series at the local cinema featuring movies inspired by books. Some days the fantasy that Olivia could see him was all he had to motivate him, and her phantom presence had become so ingrained that