Father Dallanach fell back into his chair with mock exhaustion. Another school week realized and rendered. Dallanach carried himself with a Chevy Chase aloofness that was both fickle and endearing. Scarecrow skinny, he rarely wore the collar, but instead dressed in navy blue pinstripe suits. One wall of the office bore a roll of parchments from Harvard, Weston, and the University of San Francisco. He was an academic first—an educator, not a teacher—and a priest somewhere further down on the list.

“So, Mr. Malone, let’s see what’s been happening within the arcadian confines of our fair campus.” He smirked and then pulled a red marker out of the desk drawer. Dan wasn’t that worried, as Father Argerlich would have vetoed anything within a Ranger mile of controversy from the pages.

“Hmmm, is this an editorial about the NFL players’ strike?” Dallanach tipped his chin into the tumbler while holding the big poster-board layouts smeared stiff with wax and black leading tape. “Didn’t that end a month ago?”

“Yeah, we’re a little behind on our copy flow.”

“I’ll say.” Father Dallanach tapped his heart, looking for the soft pack in his chest pocket. “That’s fine. As long as you haven’t turned this thing into the Daily Worker we should be all right. Oh, so Mr. Tsimboukis concludes that the strike hurt the fans the most. That’s a little safe, no? Look at all this sports bull. This is a school, you know. Where’s the art page?”

Dallanach scanned the rest of the layouts. Dan didn’t think he was reading the articles as much as proving the point he was the principal and publisher, but then he raised the red marker.

“Here, the wrestling coach, Hyman. I don’t want him complaining about how Strake uses illegal holds. The principal there, Father Moran—Lord knows how he gets a copy of our school paper—loves to call and complain. That old goat has nothing better to do. Let’s just change this quote . . .”

“But that’s what he said, don’t we have to—”

“Believe me, Coach Hyman doesn’t remember.” Dallanach knocked his skull. “A few too many thumps on the cantaloupe. Just make it say we hope to win, competition is the foundation of excellence, some crap like that, okay?”

Dan swallowed his concern and agreed. Dallanach handed the layouts back. “Otherwise approved. A little boring, and you need to do more campus life. Do you have anyone who can do that?”

“Not really.” His staff was proving to be reliably unreliable.

“What about you? Oglesby told me you can write.”

Dan’s eyes hit the carpet in bashful reflex. “I guess I could.”

“Listen, Mr. Malone, do you know why Mr. Whalen is no longer editor?”

“Uh . . .” The not-so-diplomatic answer was Father Argerlich thought he was a pain in the ass. “Not exactly.”