The high-traction sole of my complimentary Nike sneaker runs parallel to the wobbling loafer of my mother's half-brother, here in his capacity as Headmaster, sitting in the chair to what I hope is my immediate right, also facing Deans. There is something vaguely digestive about the room's odor. is beside me the others sit, stand and stand, respectively, at the periphery of my focus. The interview room's other personnel include: the University's Director of Composition, its varsity tennis coach, and Academy prorector Mr. My fingers are mated into a mirrored series of what manifests, to me, as the letter X. I have committed to crossing my legs I hope carefully, ankle on knee, hands together in the lap of my slacks. I believe I appear neutral, maybe even pleasant, though I've been coached to err on the side of neutrality and not attempt what would feel to me like a pleasant expression or smile. I do not know which face belongs to whom. These are three Deans-of Admissions, Academic Affairs, Athletic Affairs. Three faces have resolved into place above summer-weight sportcoats and half-Windsors across a polished pine conference table shiny with the spidered light of an Arizona noon. This is a cold room in University Administration, wood-walled, Remington-hung, double-windowed against the November heat, insulated from Administrative sounds by the reception area outside, at which Uncle Charles, Mr. My posture is consciously congruent to the shape of my hard chair. I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.
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