13. Silas
The next day finds me in the staffroom, spread out across one of the corner tables with course materials and a coffee going cold beside me. I’m working through example data sets, the kind of quiet, methodical work I actually love, when Rodolfo storms in.
The dean has a stack of folders tucked under his arm and the particular look on his face that means someone above his pay grade has made his morning significantly worse.
It’s Camila Fuentes, head of the Computer Science department, who clocks it first. She lowers her mug and tilts her head. “Rodolfo. What happened? You look like your head’s about to pop off.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Two huffs, two sips of tea, a long exhale through his nose.
“Senator Cases Roca wants his son enrolled here,” he finally says. “Starting now.”
I don’t look up from my formulas, but my pen stills on the page.
“There are no available spots this year.” Camila’s voice is measured, but the irritation underneath it isn’t hard to find.
“I know that, Camila.” Rodolfo sets the folders down with a little more force than necessary. “But he’s a senator’s son. And apparently, the boy needs to be kept on a short leash.” He pauses, lowering his voice just enough. “If you understand what I mean.”
Silence settles over the room. I don’t think anyone needs it spelled out.
Under normal circumstances, slipping in one extra student wouldn’t raise eyebrows, but the semester has been running long enough that a last-minute enrollment would be exactly what it is: favoritism with no attempt at disguise.
I already know what Rodolfo is going to propose before he’s fully formed the thought himself.
“We’ll need to arrange a transfer. Free up a spot by moving someone to an external university.”
Of course. Rather than look a senator in the eye and tell him his son can study somewhere else, he’ll quietly shuffle some unfortunate student out the door under the polished pretense of a wonderful new opportunity. A stepping stone. A chance they’d be foolish to pass up.
It’s manipulation dressed in bureaucratic kindness, and the worst part is that it works.
A lot of students here don’t have the financial standing to push back against a decision handed down from the dean’s office.
And I already know, with the kind of certainty I wish I didn’t have, that whoever ends up on that list will fall squarely into the category of talented but too poor to make noise.
“Amalia Sanchez would be a strong candidate.”
Camila’s voice cuts clean through the room, and just like that, the course notes in front of me cease to exist.
“Why her?” I hear myself ask. My arms cross over my chest before I’ve made any decision to move.
“She’s brilliant, the partner universities have programs that would suit her well, and...” Camila pauses just long enough to make it worse. “She doesn’t come from a family with the means to push back.”
The words leave her mouth so easily. So calmly. For a brief, vivid moment I have to actively remind myself where I am and who’s watching.
“No.”
It comes out with enough finality that both of them look at me like I’ve just flipped the table.
“What do you mean, no?” Camila’s voice sharpens immediately. “She’s the perfect candidate. She’s an exceptional student, and frankly, a semester at one of our partner universities would be an extraordinary opportunity for her. We’ll bring her back after. Simple.”
Rationally, I can follow the logic. Every word she’s saying is technically defensible.
And yet the idea of sending Amalia away from here sits in my chest like something I have absolutely no interest in tolerating.
“She’s my best student.” My voice stays level, but I make sure there’s no room in it for negotiation.
“I have no intention of handing her off to another program where her talent gets noticed and absorbed. When you brought me here, Rodolfo, part of what got me to sign on was the promise that I’d have the chance to work with students capable of putting this university on the map.
You can’t build that reputation by giving away the strongest mathematical mind you have. ”
Camila looks at me with open suspicion. She can hear the calculation in my reasoning, I’m sure of it. But she can’t argue with the substance of it, and she knows that too.
The truth is, I’m not wrong about Amalia. She is the strongest student in the program, in programming as much as in mathematics, and passing her off to another institution would be a genuine waste. That part of my argument is entirely true.
The rest of it is a mystery I haven’t been able to solve yet, even for myself.
Injustices like this happen at universities every day.
Students get shuffled around for reasons that have nothing to do with merit, and the ones without money or connections absorb the blow quietly and move on.
I’ve never lost sleep over any of it. And yet the thought of not finding her in the front row at every lecture produces a sensation in the center of my chest that I have no useful framework for.
“I’d suggest Gabriel Sierra,” I say, turning to Rodolfo, who has stayed quiet through all of this. “Decent grades, not particularly sharp, and frankly I think a program with fewer quantitative demands would suit him better.”
Could I have named someone else? Of course. But he’s the one who touched her hair. Who stared at her mouth with far too much intention. Who doesn’t seem to understand that there are distances a person should maintain.
What would an appropriate distance look like? Ideally twenty yards. But in the spirit of being reasonable, eight. Close enough to hold a conversation. Far enough that if he sneezes, his germs don’t reach her.
Rodolfo presses his fingers to his temples.
I already know the decision is going my way.
He can’t afford to alienate the professor who brought in additional funding, whose name alone was enough to convince a number of influential families to enroll their children here.
I don’t make a habit of saying that about myself. But I know what my name carries.
“Gabriel Sierra it is. Silas is right, Camila. We can’t transfer a student who may well be an undiscovered genius.”
Something settles in my chest at that. Something that feels uncomfortably close to pride.
Because she is. She genuinely may be an undiscovered genius, and that is the only reason I went to bat for her today.
Sure, Silas. Keep telling yourself that.