MONDAY: The Scholarship

BY JOHN A. TURES

Copyright is held by the author.

“WHO AMONG you is ready to win a scholarship to Stanford University, worth a half-a-million dollars?”

The metallic clink on the intercom ended the announcement as jarringly as it began. Ten high school seniors who had assembled just minutes earlier in a conference room stared at it open-mouthed. All received a letter a week ago claiming they were in line for some financial award, but this scholarship was a lot more than they expected. It would cover all four years of tuition, room and board, books, and maybe some spending money.

The young man with the crewcut in the military uniform, whose nametag read “Captain John M. Arthur” griped, “The inefficiency of this process is mind-boggling. If this place was run more like the military, they would interview us at designated times, such as 8am, 815am, 830am, instead of all together.”

“Their money, their rules,” sighed a preppie in a wheelchair, hair slicked back, formally dressed in black and white.

The military man whose uniform was festooned with medals read the preppie’s nametag “Lawson J. Warwick, Esq. What does that last part mean?

A burly black-haired boy with an East European accent and sporting a tux boomed from the room’s couch “It means esquire, associated with being a lawyer. And based upon his last name, he is likely to be part of the family that owns this powerful law firm here in L.A.”

Warwick glanced at the nametag for the speaker with the accent. “Itzhak Morimov,” it read.  

“And none of you can match my SAT scores,” Morimov stated. “So, this process should not take too long.”

“Hey, let’s chill mon,” the guy with the yellow, red, and green Rasta tam, black dreads, and a brightly coloured shirt offered. His nametag read “Patrick Lambeth.”

“Are you a reggae star?” A thin brunette with hair barely reaching her shoulders broke the silence.

“No, girlie,” Lambeth replied. “I’m here because of my missionary work, spreading the good news and cheer.” He indicated a wooden crucifix at his neck.

Another high schooler in a cardinal-coloured suit, who wore his hair in a pompadour, began handing out buttons, with his name and likeness upon them. One was already pinned to his white shirt.

“I am guessing by your nametag that you’re the son of Ernest S. Adams II, L.A. Mayor,” the uniformed man stated, looking at the political item he just received. “If so, you are the grandson of former California Governor Ernest S. Adams.”

“Are you campaigning already?” Patrick’s booming Jamaican accent reverberated around the conference room. “It’s not even election season.”

“Voting for the Stanford Freshman Class President commences on the first day of class, and ends on October 1,” Ernest announced. “One can never start politicking too early. Hopefully, you’ll all be accepted, so you can vote for me.”

The intercom crackled loud enough to make most of the attendees jump. “Lawson J. Warwick, enter the interview room through the door.”

Warwick shrugged. “Some guys have all the luck.” The preppie rolled his wheelchair toward the door marked “Interview,” on the opposite side of the room from the one they had entered a few minutes earlier. The brunette sprinted forward to open it for him and close it behind him.

The applicant named “Tomas Rogelio” on his tag ran to the door and put his ear against it. A moment later, another student with “Estrella Rogelio” on her nametag handed him a glass that had been on one of the tables in the middle of the room. He put it on the door.

“Gathering intel, I see,” harrumphed Captain Arthur.

“That’s cheating,” said a young man with shaggy hair and a polo shirt sporting the name “Wayne H. Moore” on the white tag.

“Hey,” Patrick called out to Wayne. “Are you the guy who qualified for the U.S. Open as an amateur, while still in high school?”

Wayne nodded. “Top Ten, too.” He gave the details of his epic run, which included briefly leading the gallery until a frantic Tomas interrupted him.

“Hey!” his voice trembled. “I just heard something…weird.”

“Like what?” asked the brunette girl whose nametag identified her as “Violet E. Clayton.”

Tomas turned and addressed the other eight scholarship applicants. “He was talking, and then he got cut off.”

“The interview was over?” Itzhak Morimov asked, stifling a yawn.

Tomas shook his head. “No, it’s like something happened to him. Why else would he stop talking mid-sentence?”

Beads of sweat wreathed Ernest Adams’ brow. “Think someone’s going to do us in?”

Captain Arthur waved a hand dismissively. “Either Mr. Rogelio is trying to scare us, or they are. It’s all part of the process, I’m sure. It’s like psyops, trying to separate the men from the boys.”

“Or girls!” snapped a blonde with a cowboy hat and leather vest, with a nametag stating it was worn by “Amelia Brentwood.”

“Whatever,” Arthur’s sighed loudly. “Stop listening in,” he told the Rogelios.

“Who put you in charge?” Amelia shot back.

“You think a Reba McEntire wannabe should lead us?” the military man asked the room.

“Or should it be Rog-er Ram-jet?” His opponent’s twang led several to laugh, as Captain Arthur reddened.

“Why should we have a leader?” Patrick asked, then laughed. “Let’s just level and….”

As if on cue, the intercom interjected “Captain John M. Arthur, enter the interview room through the door.”

The uniformed applicant gave a snappy salute to the other eight. “Too bad you won’t have my military mind to guide you anymore.” He exited the room through the door to the interview.

“Maybe we should introduce ourselves,” offered Violet Clayton. “I’m….”

“Oh hon, everyone knows who ah am.” Amelia then pointed at herself. “I’m this year’s winner of Country Music Television’s ‘Nashville Idol.’”

The brunette named Violet lowered her head, hiding her expression from the stares of others.

Patrick redirected the room’s attention back to Amelia. “If you are this big music star, why do you need this scholarship?”

Amelia put her hands on her hips. “Ah had to pay half the prize money back in taxes, sugar. Besides, I wanna get into actin’, like Reba, Dolly Parton, and Reese Witherspoon. Reese went tah Stanford, ya know?”

She looked down at Violet. “But I nevah heard of ya.”

Patrick put an arm around the brunette. “I read about her in the L.A. Times last week. She started a tutoring centre at her high school by herself. It’s a model for California.”

Amelia shrugged, then turned her back on the two, flipping her hair as she focused more on Wayne the golfer.

Patrick and Violet came over to the Rogelios. “Any word?” he asked.

“Like nothing at all,” Tomas revealed, a quiver in his voice. “And no one’s come out.”

He practically jumped when the intercom screeched “Amelia J. Brentwood, enter the interview room through the door.”

The country singer swayed her hips as she sashayed to the interview door, batted her eyes at Wayne, and slipped inside. Tomas and Estrella, who had given Amelia a wide berth, now resumed their listening post, frowning.

Ernest stepped forward. “Did you all know that Stanford University’s mascot isn’t a bird? It’s ‘The Cardinal’ after the team colours.” He pointed to his suit, with the iconic “S” on a lapel.

Estrella looked at her brochure again and pointed at a symbol. “I thought it was a tree.”

“It used to be the Indians,” Patrick observed. He looked around the room. “Ten Little Indians….like the nursery rhyme.”

“Or the murder mystery.” Violet then shivered, despite the temperature in the room rising as the sun rose higher outside.

“Well, I don’t think…” Itzhak began, then stopped, mid-argument.

One did not need the drinking glass Tomas was holding next to the door to spy on interviews to hear Amelia’s scream.

Her wail was similar to a grenade exploding in the centre of the room. Applicants crashed into each other, struggled to open the entrance door, or cowered in chairs.

Only Itzhak Morimov, who had moved to the couch, seemed unconcerned. “What are you all cowering for?”

“Have you been paying attention?” Ernest howled. “Something’s happening to everyone after they get called in for their interview.”

The standardized test genius shook his head. “It’s illogical to think we would all be brought to this facility to interview for a scholarship, only to be killed.”

No one spoke, but as if on cue, the intercom announced “Itzhak Morimov, enter the interview room through the door.”

“You’ll see I am right,” he insisted as he entered the interview door. “And I intend to win that award.”

The door closed behind him. Tomas and Estrella crept toward the door, more slowly than before.

“What’s so special about them?” Wayne asked, indicating the listeners at the door.

Ernest looked over in surprise. “You haven’t heard of the Rogelios? They were the brother and sister team that won the reality show ‘The Bakersfield Bake-Off.’ Got to meet Bobby Flay and all.”

“Well, with all of these celebrities, I am not sure I could compete,” Patrick stated, but all in the room froze at hearing a loud bang.

“It sounded like a gunshot!” Tomas declared, dropping the glass. It shattered on the hardwood floor.

“Or it could be a door slamming,” Wayne offered.

Tomas groaned. “This is like that South Korean show ‘Squid Game.’”

Wayne held up his hands. “There has to be some kind of explanation about—”

The unforgiving intercom did not wait for him to finish. “Wayne H. Moore, enter the interview room through the door.”

Instead of cowering, the golfer rose like he was ready to walk the fairway with a three-shot lead. He took a step towards the interview door before Violet grabbed his arm. “Please, don’t go!”

Wayne politely shook off her grasp. “Thanks, but there’s no way in or out. Besides, I’m used to pressure. There’s no way to simulate a two-foot putt to win the Masters.”

Estrella brushed past Violet to stand before the next interviewee. “Wait, Wayne. When you are done, why don’t you come back afterward?”

He tipped his visor to her. “I’ll come back, so I can get your number.”

She blushed as he opened the door and stepped through. It closed without a sound.

Ernest lifted his head upwards and raised both hands. “What are they doing to us?”

Patrick sat in one of the chairs and pointed to each of the remaining five. “Maybe it’s because we all did something really bad in our past.”

Ernest whirled on the dark-skinned lad. “Well, I’ve never done anything wrong!”

“Puh-leez,” Estrella added a laugh. “You are a politician.”

“You‘ve never done anything regrettable yourself?” The scion of the political family shot back to the Rogelios.

“Of course not.” Tomas thundered, but his sister looked away.

“No one is perfect,” Violet said. “I should know.”

Patrick chuckled, and then added. “Everybody has something they are ashamed of. Why I —”

But the intercom wouldn’t let him finish. “Tomas and Estrella Rogelio, enter the interview room through the door.”

“Wayne never came back,” whispered Estrella.

Her brother shocked the room by shaking his fist at the intercom. “Think you can judge us? I’ll show you!” He stormed toward the door, and flung it open, with his sister trailing behind, pulling on him, attempting to slow him down, to no avail. Both disappeared from view as the door to the interview shut behind them.

Ernest spun around the room, eyes bulging, hands trembling. “Well, I’m not going through that door, no matter what. And my lawyer’s going to hear about this.” He spun to face the intercom. “Did you hear that? You’re going down for this!”

But his expression betrayed his words. He looked at the broken shards of glass and slammed his ear up to the door. Then a smile emerged from his lips.

“It won’t matter. They’ll call you two first. You both said something about things you’ve done that you regret. My record and conscience are clear. I’m well-connected. I’ll win that prize, collect my winnings, become class president, and begin my political career. Why I’ll…”

“Ernest G. Adams III,” the uncaring intercom barked. “Enter the interview room through the door.”

He frantically glanced around the room, a caged lion, but one more reminiscent of the character from The Wizard of Oz.

Patrick stepped forward. “Courage, my friend.” He placed his hand on Ernest’s shoulder and whispered a blessing, but the budding politician seemed not to notice.

“Remember Washington, Lincoln, and FDR,” offered Violet. “They led us through war and the depression.”

“I kind of favor Winston Churchill.” Ernest then gritted his teeth. He marched toward the door, ramrod straight. “Never give in…never give in….never…never…never….”

And then he was gone, seeming almost to pass through the door.

“That was very kind of you to pray for him,” Violet whispered, then smiled shyly.

Patrick shook his head. “I doubt he’s religious.”

“But it seemed to calm his nerves,” she pointed out. She returned to the couch.

“Always with the encouragement and praise.” He sat in one of the chairs and leaned back on it. “You will probably win.”

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t for what I did.” She sat up on the couch and wrapped her arms around her upper body.

“But why? I doubt you have even swatted a fly.”

“I broke the rules,” she confessed. “I cheated.”

Patrick threw his hands up in the air. “We all make mistakes, and panic.”

She snapped her head up and stared at him, her perky expression vanished. “Mine was deliberate.”

Patrick jumped to his feet. “Not as bad as me.” As he paced around the conference room, he added hand gestures to his story. “Every summer, I organized a mission group to build a church and school in the Caribbean. There was Haiti, the Dominican Republic, and Grenada. Well, this summer, I did one in Jamaica.”

As time progressed, the details of his tale became more lurid. From smoking weed with the guys to sleeping with the girls, the Jamaica trip was one big orgy.

“The church and school never got built,” the missionary admitted. “I spent the money on parties. I made up some story about being robbed by drug dealers, and the donors bought it.”

For the first time, the jovial Patrick looked positively distraught. “At first, I thought I didn’t deserve to be here. But now, I see that I should be here. I am here to pay for what I have done.”

“But you….”

The merciless intercom blasted through their conservation. “Patrick Lambeth, enter the interview room through the door.”

Violet shot to her feet. “No, don’t go. You shouldn’t have to be punished.” She pointed to the door. “Whatever this is. Please let me go first.”

“That’s why you’re gonna win, Vi.” He instead, then gave her a rueful smile. “You’re the only one who would sacrifice herself for others.” He continued his steps toward the door as if it were the gas chamber.

She pulled something from her wrist and handed it to him. He looked into his palm and saw it.

“A friendship bracelet? You make this, girlie?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

He slipped it on his wrist. “No matter what happens, I will be happy now.” He opened the door.

“Please! No! Don’t go alone! Let’s stay together! Make them come for us!” In her mind, she shouted those words to him as the door closed, but they were little more than a whisper that he probably couldn’t hear. The door clicked. She collapsed onto the floor.

After a minute, she found her voice. Looking at the intercom, she yelled “He doesn’t deserve to die! It’s me you should take. I confess! I cheated! Is that what you wanted to hear? There was a young boy, a sweet kid who had dyslexia. He couldn’t pass the standardized tests on his own, no matter how hard he studied. His parents beat him whenever he got bad grades. They said they’d kick him out of the house if he failed the senior exit exam, so I took the test for him!”

There was no reply from the voice box. “Are you happy? Satisfied now? I hope you get your kicks from this little game. Because I’ve suffered enough for my crime.” She put her head down and covered it as much as she could with her hands.

“Violet E. Clayton,” the intercom announced in the same indifferent manner as it summoned the others. “Enter the interview room through the door.” It was loud enough to be heard over her hands covering her ears.

She stomped toward the door marked “Interview” with a new sort of fury. If it were her final moments, she’d at least see some justice done for Patrick.

“And then there were none,” was the last thing she heard from the intercom as she closed the door to the conference room.

Inside the door was a short hallway, leading to another door, which she presumed was an office. She strode toward the door. Would it be death or the scholarship? Lady or the Tiger?  Well, this lady would be the tiger, she growled to herself. Legs moving more confidently, she reached the door handle, turned it, and pushed the door to see…

“Lawson Warwick?”

“Esquire.” the pre-law kid added, his wheelchair tucked in front of the desk in a room full of bookshelves with fancy bindings.

“But I thought you were the first to die.”

The preppie shook his head and chuckled. He said “I sure gave you that impression, didn’t I? And now you’re a future scholarship winner.”

“I don’t want it anymore,” she snapped.

He spread his arms out. “It’s my money. I can do what I please with it.”

“It’s yours?”

“It is part of the Warwick family fortune, which I inherited when I turned eighteen, but not one I can spend.”

He gestured to a chair across from the desk. She unfolded her arms and practically stumbled into it. “But why?”

Warwick sighed. “I have AIDS, and not much time to live with it. I wanted to find the most deserving Stanford applicant to give my fortune to.”

She put up both hands. “Didn’t you hear me on the intercom? I cheated! I don’t deserve it.”

He gave a knowing smile. “You broke the rules, but not for yourself. It was the only selfless crime any one of you finalists did. And you were one of two who admitted to it, without even being asked. That’s more than I can say for the others.”

Violet turned her head to give him a skeptical side-eye.

“Let me see,” Warwick checked his notes on his legal pad. “You know what Patrick Lambeth did. Ernest G. Adams III stuffed ballot boxes in student elections, or he never would have prevailed. The Rogelios served the wrong dish to a kid with a peanut allergy and blamed another baking team for it. Wayne Moore cheats on the golf course like Goldfinger playing James Bond. Itzhak Morimov hacked the computer system to get the test answers. Amelia Brentwood stole lyrics and music tunes from another student musician. Captain John Arthur disciplined a cadet by marching him under the hot sun, and the poor kid got a heat stroke. Not one admitted their transgression to me during the interview, even when I prompted them.”

“But why did they all have to die?” Violet protested, getting to her feet. “Not one of them committed a capital crime. The victims must have survived, or you would have said something.”

Warwick nodded. “Yes, but what makes you think the other interviewees are dead?”

She hesitated, then related what they had all heard. “Ah yes, Amelia did scream out in anger when she found out she wasn’t a winner. I think there was a door slam and maybe an object hurled to the ground among the others. I may be a prankster, but I’m not a monster.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And I bet you’re hardly a saint either.”

His smile faded, but he recovered. “You are right, Miss Clayton. I’ve done the worst thing of any of you. At my prep academy, I was the chief justice of our school’s honour council. We sentenced a fellow student to expulsion for plagiarism, despite his insistence that he was innocent. It was only after he was dismissed that the truth came out. He was framed by a substitute teacher who didn’t like him because he was gay. I discovered my error and wanted to appeal against our decision. But the school feared being sued and coerced me into silence.”

“You . . .”

“Yes, Miss Clayton, I allowed a good kid’s reputation to be muddied. But don’t worry about the luckless lad’s fate in this story. I’ve ensured he receives enough compensation to attend any college he wants.”

Violet’s mouth remained open, barely able to form a sentence, much less a thought for a minute. “But Patrick . . .”

“Ah, that charming missionary. Don’t worry about him. He’ll land on his feet somewhere.”

“But he needs that money more than me!” Violet insisted, her glare boring into Warwick’s eyes, hidden behind spectacles. And he’s done so much good in so many places.”

“You won that scholarship fair and square.”

“I’ll refuse.”

“Ah, you must be thinking you can make it on your parents’ frugality and hard-earned savings,” Warwick clasped his hands together. “I’ve researched all of you, and your families as well. You probably don’t know this, but your parents’ portfolio took a big hit during the last stock market plunge. They can’t afford to send you to any college, and they won’t retire until they’re into their eighties unless you take the scholarship.”

Violet squirmed in her chair, thinking of how her parents worked extra jobs just to help her afford a college they never could. She fought back the urge to sob. “OK.” Her voice rasped. “I’ll take your damn scholarship. But it’s for them, you hear, and not for me.”

“I would have expected nothing less.”

***

On the eve of the first day of classes at Stanford University, the new students assembled in the auditorium, wearing regalia normally reserved for graduation.

As required by the terms of her scholarship, Violet had to provide a speech to those attendees. Behind the curtains off stage, she paced back and forth, tearing her paper with her generic speech to small shreds. What she had once written no longer seemed to fit the occasion.

What would she say? Would she try to inspire them with stories of her student tutoring centre? Would she tell them the truth of her transgression at the end of the senior year, and how she really didn’t deserve the honor, or even her acceptance, at Stanford? Maybe she would tell them about Patrick, and how he deserved it more.

The Stanford University Provost poked her head around the curtain, eyeing the small pile of torn paper shreds with apprehension. “Miss Clayton, it’s time.”

In turning to face the provost, Violet was thankful to be wearing a graduation gown so the school’s chief academic officer wouldn’t see her knees knocking. She was about to take on something more terrifying than she experienced in the scholarship “interview” process.

Public speaking.

After a deep breath, she strode forward, past the provost, and headed to the podium in front of the new students, where a smiling Lawson Warwick Esquire in a wheelchair was beckoning her forward to join him . . .

And . . .

“Patrick?”

He was also wearing dark academic robes, while his dreads poked out under a poufy hat, with his tam tucked underneath. He pointed to his wrist with the friendship bracelet dangling from it.

She looked at Warwick in shock.

Warwick whispered, “Did you think there would be only one scholarship winner?”

***

John A. Tures started writing sports for an El Paso, Texas, newspaper, worked as a radio DJ in college, and conducted foreign policy in Washington D.C. He’s a LaGrange College professor in Georgia, writes columns for newspapers and magazines and has published a number of short stories in various genres. He thanks his sister, his mother, and his family for listening to these stories, as well as Sharon Marchisello and Ann Michelle Harris for great feedback.