“Check her wallet,” Tiffany insisted to Mr. Selfridge, like I wasn’t even there.

“Do you mind, Samantha?” Mr. Selfridge asked.

“It’s not in my wallet.” I opened my wallet and showed it to both of them. “Do I have to go through every pocket?”

Tiffany gave me a dirty authoritarian look. “Yes, you do.”

“Fine.” I began peeling cards out of my wallet and slapping them down in a row on the counter. “MY Driver’s License,” SLAP! “MY SDU Student ID,” SLAP! “MY MasterCard,” SLAP! “MY Frequent Buyer’s Card for Bath & Body Works,” SLAP! “MY Debit Card,” SLAP, “and…”

SLAP.

Why was there a fancy black VISA card in my wallet?

Tiffany’s lips curled into a victorious smile. “That’s my card. Just like I thought. She took it.”

What? I glanced at the black VISA card. How had it gotten into my wallet?

Mr. Selfridge reached over and picked up the card and examined it closely. “You are Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, correct?”

Tiffany pulled her SDU student ID and her driver’s license out of her wallet, which Mr. Selfridge had never checked, and showed it to him.

Mr. Selfridge examined both, then looked at me over his glasses. “This doesn’t look good, Ms. Smith,” he muttered.

Why had Mr. Selfridge gone from calling me Samantha all the time to Ms. Smith all of a sudden? The answer was obvious. I had been framed by Tiffany Kingdumb-Sleazehouse and Mr. Selfridge thought I was a criminal.

“I told you she stole it,” Tiffany growled.

“Yes,” Mr. Selfridge sighed, “I’m afraid this doesn’t look good at all, Ms. Smith.”

And that was how I got fired from my job at the campus art museum.

If somebody had offered me a job working nude in a rat infested dungeon as a math tutor for convicted rapists, I would’ve gladly taken it.

Mr. Selfridge didn’t have a choice. It was academic policy at SDU that any student employed at an on-campus job would be terminated if caught stealing. Mr. Selfridge was very apologetic, but said that because of the evidence, he had to let me go.

The good news was that Tiffany had her credit card back, and I know I hadn’t used it to pay for anything. And I’m sure no one else had used it between the time it was sitting safely in her purse and mine.

The bad news was that Tiffany had filed an official grievance with the Dean.

What a surprise.

Mr. Selfridge said he would tell the Dean that I was a model employee the entire time I’d worked for him. Hopefully, it would inspire the Dean to believe my version of events. With any luck, I might get my job back. Eventually.

I just wished Mr. Selfridge could tell the Dean that Tiffany was a rich bitch who hated me because I stole Christos from her, and she’d snuck her credit card into my wallet when I’d been changing my tampon, but I didn’t think that would mean squat to the Dean. Shit, I should’ve squatted behind the museum counter like I’d imagined and changed my tampon in plain sight. Then I wouldn’t be up Menses Creek without a paddle. Yeah, it was a gruesome image, but somehow it captured Tiffany Blingston-Douchehouse’s scheming to a tee.

Tiff the Bitch was the all time epic bitch of the universe. Apologies to female dogs everywhere.

I made an appointment to see Dean Livingston.

A few days later, I sat in the waiting room to his office.

While I waited, I sketched yet another cartoon of Tiffany being murdered in yet another heinous way in my sketchbook. This time I had her buried up to her neck in sand while shiny black DeathStalker scorpions (which were the second most poisonous in the world, I’d learned) stung her in the eyeballs and dungeness crabs performed sloppy plastic surgery all over her grimacing face.

“The Dean will see you now,” his secretary said from her desk.

I gasped and slapped my sketchbook closed, realizing it was starting to resemble a serial killer’s hatebook. Maybe I needed to tear my Tiffany drawings out, lest someone notice them and cite them as evidence of my guilt.

I shoved my sketchbook in my bag and walked into the Dean’s office. It looked like your classic wood and books Oxford College office. It seemed out of place in San Diego, yet there it was.

Dean Livingston was standing behind his desk. He was a tall, older man with clean cut silver hair and a conservative navy suit. “Have a seat,” he motioned toward the leather chairs facing his desk.

 As I walked across a huge Oriental rug, I noticed the Dean had a big antique globe mounted in one of those huge round wooden floor stands. Sitting on one of the bookshelves was one of those brass sextant things ship captains used. Probably in case the Dean suddenly needed to explore the new world. He certainly looked old enough to have been on Columbus’ boat. I just hoped he considered himself the nice kind of explorer who brought exotic silks and spices to trade, not the mean kind who brought conquistadors or small pox infested blankets to invade.

I sat down while the Dean opened a folder on his desk and flipped through the papers inside it. I think it was my file. My legendary permanent file. The one they always told you about in high school that haunted you your entire life. Great. Now they were going to add petty criminal to my list of transgressions.

The Dean continued to examine the papers while he spoke, “I see here that you’ve had a bit of a problem with your job at the art museum?”

I had the distinct feeling I was nothing more than a number to him, one of thousands who went to SDU. The university had over thirty thousand students, so I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Yeah,” I said.

“You are aware that any student caught stealing at a work study job will be terminated?”

“Yes.”

“And that there are no exceptions to this rule?”

“Yes.”

“And that San Diego University has a zero tolerance policy toward theft?”

“Yes,” I rolled my eyes. Did they pay him to just read from the manual? Heck, I could do this guy’s job. I bet it paid pretty well, and I’d make more than enough to cover my tuition.

“This is a very serious offense, young lady. What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked.

I suddenly felt like every criminal ever who professed their innocence while nobody believed them. The only difference was, a jury hadn’t convicted me. Tiffany had. How to explain? I was going with the obvious, “Tiffany framed me.”

“Who is Tiffany?”

“The girl who says I stole her credit card,” I sighed.

Was he even listening? Or just doubting? I did my best to explain what Tiffany had likely done. Of course, I could only guess. But it was all I had to work with.

While I talked, I noticed the Dean slowly slouching farther and farther down in his slippery leather chair. His cheek was leaning against the hand he’d propped on an armrest.

To my horror, he slipped so far down in his chair while I spoke that his knuckles were driving the skin of his cheek up the side of his skull in wrinkly accordion folds. His lips were stretched so far up now that it made a gap in one corner of his mouth that couldn’t be closed. I could clearly see his bridgework.

“Mmmm,” he mumbled absently.

I waited for him to say something more in response to my theory about Tiffany.

Another wrinkle folded into place on Dean Livingston’s cheek as he continued to slide in slow motion down his chair. There were now sixteen folds. I know, because I had time to count while I waited politely for him to respond.

I glanced around and watched dust motes floating in the sunbeams pouring through the windows to my right. They danced. I always liked dust motes.

Hello! Dean Livingston? Anybody alive in there? Was he asleep with his eyes open? He certainly looked old enough to have come across the Atlantic on the Santa Maria with Columbus.

“The girl…” he said.

Uh, yeah? What the heck was I supposed to say to that? I raised my eyebrows expectantly.