Get on with it

"Mr. Hawkfeather," this last name seems particularly incongruous for this WASPy looking man but you indicate for him to follow your lead and take a seat opposite you, "- if you find my attitude curt, you are correct. I am not in agreement with the decision to bring men into the faculty,” you begin to explain your stance and the reason for your seemingly cold demeanor. “The board of regents may believe that male teachers will have a positive influence, but I disagree," you continue, sizing up the former military man, eyes narrowing as your feelings regarding this highly unqualified man being thrust into this position, previously of such importance to the school, "I particularly disagree with the decision to renew the position of Dean of Students and fill it with a man without either my approval or even consent."

"Yes Ma'am, I can understand how that might seem."

"DO you?" you snap back, "Mr. Hawkfeather-" you continue, pausing at that name, not a very common one and certainly not for a good-looking blonde man like him, making you inquire in a less than warm tone of voice, "What kind of name is that anyway? Are you Native American or the child of some Hippies?"

"Only a quarter Shawnee, ma'am," he replies, calmly. Keeping his cool even as you struggle, and actually being somewhat disarming with that dumb gorgeous smile of his. "As for the name, that's what the recruiter decided to put on my grandfather's enrollment papers because he couldn't understand his real name," he explains, this part of his story also softening you somewhat.

"Your grandfather was in the army too then?"

"The Marines, yes Ma'am," he responds, adding some more information which sparks your interest, "My grandfather volunteered the day after Pearl Harbor, spent the rest of the war in the Pacific Theater."

He seemed like a decent man, still young – as yourself – and having had some interesting experiences, something which perhaps ran in the family now that you got this glimpse into his grandfathers’ past. But he still had showed up in these clothes and you were firmly against the idea of his presence here in the first place.

"Mr. Hawkfeather,” you continue after a brief pause, “- it has been my experience that men always assume they know better than I how to do my job." You purposefully take the piece of paper which you received form the board of regents regarding the decision, firm as it was stated in the letter, to bring this man onboard as Dean of Students, and make a show of reading it as you continue, "As far as I can see Mr. Hawkfeather, your only experience with teaching was a three year stint at Camp Pendleton instructing young men how to kill each other."

"That's correct Ma'am," he replies, calmly. Quite infuriatingly calm even, after you put it as you did.

You seize him up for another few seconds, that pretty arrogant face of his, pushed onto you for the year without any say from you, the supposed Headmistress of the place.

"Well let's not waste any more time," you break the silence and take the papers with the information he needs and push them across the table, repeating much the same introduction as you had delivered to the previous three newcomers. "The students will arrive tomorrow, although a few of them are already here. Monday there will be orientation meetings for students, sorted by grade. Here is the schedule. Classes begin on Tuesday. You will be using the computer lab for your two sections of Computer Science in addition to your duties as our new Dean," you pause for moment, but as he remains silent you continue. "You will be housed in Faculty cottage 5. Here is the key," you hand the key across the desk too.

"No Ma'am," he holds up his hand immediately, holding the key for just a second before placing it back onto the table and pushing it towards you, "I can't do my job stuck out in the cabins. I understand the Dean of Students' office comes with a suite and bathroom."

"That suite is in the 2nd year student dormitories!” you gasp in outrage, fuming at his suggestion, “I will not allow a man to sleep under the same roof as my charges!"

"Ms. Naylor," he replies, still in that infuriatingly calm tone even as you feel as if steams would almost be pouring out your ears in a cartoon-like show of your reaction to him living in dorms, "- the Dean's suite is on the first floor of the Mellon building. Unless you expect your students to wander down the stairs in their nighties, I'm sure their honour will be preserved."

That had been know to happen! You fume, your anger also directed at the fact that between the lines of the letter you had held up and your communication with the board over the summer were the obvious fact that this Mr. Hawkfeather would get his way on this, should you choose to push back and make it a matter for those members on the board, who had pushed these men onto you, to decide.

"Also, that suite is adjacent to yours," he adds after your long moments of silent fuming, "- its location will make it easier for you to keep a close eye on me."

Putting your hands on the desk, to steal yourself to remain professional and not blow up as part of you feel like doing, your stare the ex-marine down.

"I intend to!" you promise him.

A quite long period of silence follows, the two of you on either side of the desk, his demeanor calm and yours hopefully appearing likewise, even as part of you want to scream and climb across the desk to gouge his damn beautiful eyes out. You decide to get this over with.

"There will be a staff meeting tomorrow evening in the Faculty lounge. Seven o'clock,” you lay out the plans for the next day, and can’t help yourself giving him a little dig, “- and we have a dress code here at the Rose; you are expected to wear a dress shirt with a tie, no jeans. Understood?"

He nods his head, and you continue.

"Do you have a car?" you inquire.

"No Ma'am, I ride a bike," he replies, and you nod, feeling that a bicycle really is the most sensible way to get around, the town being so close by and the ride through the rolling hills being beautiful and somewhat therapeutic you found.

"You can leave your bicycle in any of the bike racks, it will be perfectly safe on campus," you add.

"Not a bicycle, Ma'am. A motorcycle.”

His correction makes your face harden again, tensing up as you realize this warrior might be even less qualified than you first suspected. A MOTORCYCLE! How would he be able to serve in the role of Dean of Students at this historic institution, dressed as he is and riding around on a damn motorcycle. He’s supposed to be an authority figure and disciplinarian of young girls.

Eventually you bite your tongue, having conceded defeat on this to the board even before this man stepped into your office. You’ve registered your feelings on this and their insistence on this most unqualified of candidates at least gave you a good starting point when the future of the male staff came up after this failed experiment.

"I understand your concern Ms. Naylor," Hawkfeather speaks up after a few seconds, "I'll park it in the garage Ma'am and keep it there. I don't want the students near my bike any more than you do."

"I hope you do just that,” you say, your hopefulness mixed with frustration, “- I trust that you can behave in an appropriate manner even if some of the girls cannot." You sigh, knowing that a man as easy on the eyes as this one, riding around on a motorcycle like some modern-day James Dean would not have the calming effect on some of the girls, which the role of Dean of Students was supposed to have. You let him know as much as you eye him, "You're a relatively young man, Mr. Hawkfeather and not unattractive. This may prove a distraction to some of our students. I trust that you will not exacerbate that factor."

He nods at your words, and you can’t help yourself, feeling your cheeks heating up as you realize that you’ve just called this man gorgeous in so many words, his eyes now piercing through you and making you feel almost clumsy and out of place, and then that grin which appears on his lips.

"I came here to do my job, Ms. Naylor. That's all," he tells you and with that the meeting concludes.

A **** smile and a handshake and you’re alone in your office once more.