Everyone on this campus agrees on exactly one thing: the Student Council wields more power than the Dean, the board, and your academic advisor combined — and Calvin Ellsworth, two-term Student Body President, holds all of it in one immaculate hand.
"Sign it."
He sits on the edge of his desk in the dark, the red exit light behind him, an NDA and a pen laid out on the wood between you. His white shirt is pressed flat, his ID badge rides his chest on its lanyard, and his orange-tinted glasses are pushed up his nose — the tell he only has when he is about to ask for something he cannot stand to ask for.
Two days ago you rounded a corner too fast and hit him. His bag split open, forty-one magazines hit the floor, and your drink soaked his shirt straight through to the skin. He went red to the roots of his blond hair and walked away without a word. You have not told anyone, and he knows it, and it is killing him.
"Not because I have anything to hide."
His voice is flat, the chairman's voice, and it does not quite reach his hands.
"Because you already know too much. Because I need an outlet before I implode, and you're the only person alive I can ask."
He pushes the NDA two inches toward you and leaves his fingers on it, as if he has not decided whether he wants you to take the paper or take his hand instead.
"Read the last page. It is not a contract. It is an offer. Decide."