Trust Fall
It looks like it’s going to be another boring faculty retreat at Mahina State University, “Where Your Future Begins Tomorrow.”
But then the Trust Fall exercise goes horribly wrong. Is it murder, or just the worst meeting of the semester?
Excerpt
Kyle Stockhausen, assistant professor of digital humanities, strode up to the Trust Fall Chair. The Trust Fall Chair wasn’t one of the red, gold, or green conference room chairs (the new school colors, as decided by student referendum). Those chairs all had wheels, and anyway, I’m sure the administration didn’t want us stepping all over the seat cushions with our dirty shoes. No, the Trust Fall Chair was plain, straight-backed, and made of wood. It had probably been ordered online and shipped from the mainland, just for this event.
“Thank you for volunteering, Professor Stockhausen,” Jake nodded at him.
“Please. Call me Kaila.”
I heard Emma snort. Emma, who grew up just a few miles down the road from Mahina State University, had definite opinions about “white people who move here from Nebraska and give themselves Hawaiian names.”
“Mahalo nui loa, brother,” said Kyle/Kaila Stockhausen as Jake helped him up onto the wooden seat. He slowly stood, his spiky blonde hair almost brushing the ceiling.
“Come on, everyone move in closer.” Jake motioned us forward. “You’re all going to have to come together to catch him when he falls. Kyle, sorry, Kaila, turn around and put your arms out.”
He did, displaying the black courier lettering on the back of his pale yellow t-shirt: Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid. –Albert Einstein
“Einstein never said that,” Emma muttered.
“Now the rest of you, move in. Closer, you have to be right underneath so you can catch him.”
“I have to apologize for my colleagues,” Stockhausen said over his shoulder. “They don’t yet realize what a privilege this is. I appreciate the value of these high-touch team-building activities. In fact, I use many of these exercises in my own classes.”
This was the limit for Emma.
“Give it a rest, Stockholm-syndrome,” she shouted. “You teach all your classes online.”
Before anyone could react to Emma’s outburst, the exit door at the far end of the room flew open. Everyone turned toward the welcome distraction. A man wearing shorts and a t-shirt stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“Am I late?” the newcomer asked.
“Here’s our ag person,” Jake said. “Come in, come in. You’re just in time for the—”
Jake’s sentence was cut short by the scrape of wood on marble, and an ugly thud. We all pushed forward to get a look.
Kyle Stockhausen lay face up on the polished marble floor, blood spreading behind his head like a crimson halo.
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