I say. “You need a visitor’s pass.” She stops and gazes back and forth at the lobby, which has an oily yellowish floor and the same tan brick walls as the outside of the building. The first bell must be about to ring, because students gush through the entrance, babbling loudly and scattering toward the school's various wings. A bunch of guys in letter jackets leer at Sammie as they lumber by, and I have strange visions of hitting them over the head with chairs. We make our way toward the office, whose glass exterior allows passersby to glimpse the long counter and chairs inside. I hold the door open for Sammie, then follow her in, immediately getting a blast of the warm office air. Several students occupy the chairs, gazing at their knees. Sammie gives me a hesitant look, and I yank my head at the counter, behind which a lady with curly gray hair scrawls on some papers. “Excuse me,” I say. The lady looks up and smiles at me, then continues writing. "Yes, dear?" "I need a visitor's pass for my, uh…" "Cousin," Sammie says.
