Dr. Underwood, in a legitimate navy suit with a mid-calf hemline, filled the doorway. I was annoyed at the shiver that rippled down my spine. So what if the dean was at least six inches taller than my five feet three inches? I was about twenty years younger.

But this wasn’t a physical contest, and Dr. Underwood’s folded arms and serious expression wielded a lot of psychological power. I stuffed my phone and my puzzle cube into my briefcase as if I’d been reading comic books instead of doing my homework.

After what seemed too long a time, the dean unfolded her arms and indicated the path I should follow. “Come in, Dr. Knowles.” The invitation fell somewhere between those of an oral surgeon and a serial killer.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Underwood,” I said, through dry lips. No “Hey, dean” from me. I took my place across from the dean at the wide, dark oak desk that dominated the office. How bad can it be? What? Was I too noisy in class?

“You’ve been very noisy,” the dean said. I could barely suppress a smile. But Dr. Underwood’s tone was somber. “I have complaints that your gatherings in Benjamin Franklin Hall are getting out of hand.”

I raised my eyebrows. This was what the urgent summons was about? “I’m sorry? You’ve had complaints?”

The dean nodded and let out a heavy sigh, perhaps in memory of an earlier time when only sweet young girls and sedate faculty populated the seventeen-acre campus. “Apparently you had an exceptionally loud and disruptive party in the faculty lounge of your building last Friday afternoon.”

I wanted to point out that it wasn’t my building, though I had a great fondness for it. Benjamin Franklin Hall and its lounge were shared by the departments of mathematics, physics, biology, and chemistry, in ascending order, up through the four floors. Some said the top floor was specifically designed for chemistry-in the event of an explosion, the roof might blow off, but at least the other departments would survive.