“Our waitlist is full, Madam,” the salt-and-pepper haired admissions administrator, John Davidson, Ph.D., said. He said it with a pearly white grin that somehow still reached his wrinkled, grey eyes behind frameless glasses.
He was talking to my mom. She was dressed in a grey business skirt, a white blouse, and black heels. Her blonde hair was in a pixie cut, and faint freckles dotted her nose and cheeks.
I saw Davidson’s eyes flash for a moment as they traced the curve of my mom’s thighs. Already crossed, I watched my mom uncross and then cross her legs uncomfortably, apparently noticing the same glances I had. Then, Davidson stood up slowly and closed the blinds to his office.
“May I ask,” he said, turning around back to us, “have you made any charitable contributions to the Stanford school foundation?” he asked my mom.
“Are you asking-are you bribing me?” my mom replied.
Davidson walked over to my mom and placed a manicured hand on her shoulder. She flinched and pulled back, but Davidson just slid his hand down to her bicep and squeezed before letting go.