Size 12 and Ready to Rock (10 page)

It can’t be good news. When has Dr. Jessup ever stopped by anyone’s building to give them
good
news?

I can’t think of a single time. As a vice president—there is only one president at New York College, but there are several dozen vice presidents, all heads of nonacademic divisions of the college—Dr. Jessup is too busy to personally deliver good news. He has his assistant send it to us via e-mail.

Bad news, however, inevitably gets delivered by him via staff meeting—like the time we found out that, because of the hiring freeze and recession, there would be no merit raises. (Which didn’t affect me. As a new employee, I’m not eligible for a merit raise until next year. But Simon took it very hard.)

“I would imagine the news probably has something to do with what happened last week,” Sarah says. “
Remember?
” She’s being purposefully vague. Brad must be in the office with her. The two of us have managed to keep the fact that Jordan Cartwright and Tania Trace were ever in Fischer Hall a secret (one I shared with her only out of necessity, since she caught me destroying the page from the Protection Services log on which Christopher signed them in).

So far the only mentions of the shooting outside of Epiphany have been on entertainment news shows, like Jordan and Tania’s interview on
Access Hollywood
(“America’s Favorite Musical Couple Talks About Their Brush with Death”), and in gossip magazines. (In one photograph captioned “Tania Trace Visits Beloved Bodyguard in Hospital,” Tania is in a hospital room passing a large bouquet of “Get Well” balloons to an extremely large black man sitting up in bed. His gigantic hand makes hers look even tinier as he reaches out to accept the bouquet from her.)

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” I remind Sarah. “The paintball guns were bad, I’ll admit, but they’re owned by the college. No one got hurt. At least,” I add after a second thought, “no students.”

Cooper had reported back from his trip to Beth Israel Medical Center that Tania’s bodyguard’s injuries were a little more extensive than Stephanie led us to believe. Though Bear was expected to make a full recovery, not only had he had to have his spleen removed, but the bullet had gone straight through it and into his foot. He had weeks of physical therapy ahead of him.

Nevertheless, according to Cooper, it looked as if the shooting really had been completely random. The police found a shell casing they thought matched the bullet that struck Bear, but it was on the rooftop of an apartment building across the street from Epiphany that was littered with shell casings from dozens of other bullets as well . . . not to mention the remains of numerous firecrackers, discarded condoms, empty forty-ounce bottles of beer, and even a hibachi grill. This rooftop was obviously a popular hangout for kids, in addition to being accessible by residents of all the buildings across the street from Epiphany. (Access one roof and it was an easy leap to another.)

Other than from Cooper and
Access Hollywood,
I had heard nothing more about the incident. I saw neither Christopher nor Stephanie Brewer again in Fischer Hall, though I checked the sign-in logs for both of them every morning. There was no record of them having come back, though, and no mention in the press of anything related to Fischer Hall.

“I don’t know,” Sarah says. “Do you think Simon told about the beer? And the vodka?”

I grit my teeth. “Everyone was over twenty-one—”

“Well, whatever the deal is, it doesn’t make a very good impression to be caught taking a two-hour lunch on your new boss’s first day.”

She’s right about that. I need to get it together—

As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, I see a yellow streak out of the corner of my eye. At first I’m sure it can only be an illusion, a hallucination brought on by nerves. Then it slides into focus, and I realize my luck might actually be changing for the better: it’s a New York City cab with the light on its roof glowing bright yellow, indicating that it’s unoccupied. This is as rare a sight in this part of town as a hundred-dollar bill floating down from the heavens.

I leap upon it just as quickly. I don’t shout “Taxi!” like they always show New Yorkers doing in movies and on TV shows, because that only alerts the unsuspecting people around you that there’s a vacant cab nearby. Then the people closest to it will try to snag it before you can.

Instead, I make a run for it, yanking on the handle of its back passenger door as the light turns green and the cab begins to move.

“Sorry,” I say to the driver as he jams on the brakes and looks around, startled to find a passenger climbing into his backseat. “I need to go to 55 Washington Square West. Can you take me there?”

The driver pauses in the conversation he’s having on his hands-free cell phone long enough to say, “That’s only eight blocks from here.”

“I know,” I say.

I try not to feel as if he’s judging me. He probably isn’t. He’s probably thinking I’m a tourist who doesn’t know how close she is to her destination.

“It’s eight
long
blocks,” I say. “And I’m super late. And it’s
so
hot.”

The driver smiles, hits the meter, and continues his cell-phone conversation in his native Farsi. I relax, feeling the cool air conditioning blast from the little vent at my feet. I actually might have died and gone to heaven. Maybe everything’s going to be all right . . .

“My God!” I hear Sarah’s voice shout from my hand. I’ve forgotten I’m still holding my phone. “You’re still eight blocks away? They’re going to be here
any minute!
”

“Stall them,” I lift the phone to my face to instruct her. “Tell them I went to Disbursements. Tell them—”

“Oh,” I hear Sarah say. “Hi, Dr. Jessup. You’re here already?”

Then she hangs up on me.

I’m so dead.

Chapter 7

Haters

Take a picture

Write it down

I don’t give a ****

I know you think

You’ll take me down

Well, boy, I wish you luck

I got haters

All around me

Up and in my face

You think you’re gonna

Take me down

Get into my space

Well here’s a tweet

A super text

An e-mail voice iCall

Take more than you

To bring me down

So write that on your wall

“Haters”

Performed by Tania Trace

Written by Weinberger/Trace

So Sue Me
album

Cartwright Records

Eleven consecutive weeks

in the Top 10 Billboard Hot 100

I jump out of the cab as soon as it pulls up in front of Fischer Hall, throwing a ten-dollar bill into the front seat. The driver, still on his phone call, is once again startled, but I don’t stop to wait for change, and he certainly doesn’t stop to give it.

“Thanks!” he cries. “Have a great day!”

Too late.

I’m confused to see a fleet of delivery trucks outside the building. Moving men are unloading bubble-wrapped furniture, using the gray plastic carts reserved for Fischer Hall residents only.

This sight sets my already overtaxed heart beating unsteadily. When I see some of the men pushing the carts toward the Fischer Hall handicapped-accessible ramp, I begin to have palpitations.

“Excuse me,” I go up to one of the men and say, “but who is this delivery for?”

He’s as sweaty as I was a few minutes ago. He’s been working hard for some time apparently and hasn’t had a nice air-conditioned cab ride to cool off.

He looks down at his clipboard. “Heather Wells,” he says, a bit impatiently, “Fischer Hall, 55 Washington Square West,” and goes back to pushing his cart, which appears to be filled with an unassembled Ikea bedroom set.

“Wait a minute,” I say, catching his arm, which is quite buff, if a bit moist with perspiration. “There must be some mistake. I didn’t order any of these things.” There are literally five trucks in front of me. “And this building is closed for renovations.”

The man shrugs. “Well, this person here signed for it,” he says, pointing at the bottom of his clipboard. “So you’re getting it whether you ordered it or not.”

I look at the cursive scrawl he’s pointing to.

Stephanie Brewer.

Now instead of palpitations, my heart feels as if it’s exploding.

How could this be happening? And on the day my new boss is arriving?

I follow the men pushing the cart through the door to find Pete sitting at the security desk, on the interoffice phone. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and asks, “Where have you been? Do you have any idea what’s been going on here? Do you know who’s in your office?”

“I think I can guess,” I assure him sarcastically. A gray plastic cart piled high with accessories from Urban Outfitters rolls by. “Where are they taking all this stuff?” I ask him.

“Upstairs,” he says, with a shrug.

“The penthouse?” I can’t imagine what Eleanor Allington is going to want with a lava lamp.

“All I know is upstairs,” he says. He seems supremely unconcerned. “Magda says hi.” He indicates the phone. He and Magda, my best friend from Dining Services, have become a pretty hot item in recent months, but lately their flirting has to be carried out via telephone because Magda has been transferred over to the Pansy Café while the Fischer Hall cafeteria, where she normally works, is being renovated.

“Tell her hi back,” I call vaguely over my shoulder as I begin wandering toward my office. I have to duck when I encounter Carl, the chief building engineer, striding down the hallway carrying an eight-foot ladder on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says cheerfully. “Look where you’re going. What d’ya want, another body?”

“Not funny,” I say to him. “What’s going on here?”

“Don’t know,” he says. “Got a call from Facilities that I’m supposed to go up to the seventeenth floor to change all the lightbulbs in the vanity mirrors above the bathroom sinks to sixty-watt bulbs from the forty-watt energy-efficients that are in there. So that’s what I’m doing.”

I’m perplexed by this information. “We have sixty-watt regular lightbulbs?”

He snorts. “Been hoarding them for years. I saw this energy-saving bulb thing coming a decade ago. I knew it wouldn’t go over well with you women. You like your lighting bright in the bathroom so you can see to put your makeup on.”

I blink at this, not sure how to react.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, good. I guess.”

I walk away shaking my head. What is going on?

Then I round the corner into the hall director’s office and find Stan Jessup standing there. Beside him is a young woman in jeans and a T-shirt who I’ve never seen before; Muffy Fowler, the head of the college’s media relations department; Sarah; and Stephanie Brewer from Cartwright Records Television.

I freeze in the doorway, feeling all the sweat that dried up during the nice cool cab ride begin to prickle my skin again.

“W-what’s happening?” I stammer, dumbfounded.

“Well, hey there,” Muffy Fowler says in her southern accent. As usual, she’s dressed to the nines, in white high-heeled pumps, a cream-colored linen pencil skirt, and a polka-dotted silk blouse. “So nice of you to join us. Can’t believe you went for such a long lunch and didn’t invite me. I thought we were friends.”

I want to melt into a puddle on the floor.

“I didn’t,” I say. “I wasn’t. I was at Disbursements.”

“I’m just kidding,” Muffy says, bursting into loud guffaws. “Would ya’ll look at her face? Bless her heart. Heather, I think you’ve met Stephanie. She says you two had a little run-in the other night.”

“I wouldn’t call it a run-in,” I say quickly, coming into the office.

“More like we had the pleasure of meeting,” Stephanie says, reaching out to shake my hand. She looks a lot more pleasant than she did the last time I saw her. Her face is wreathed in smiles. She’s wearing a light-gray business suit and clutching a designer tote that probably cost more than I make in a month. “So nice to see you again, Heather. I was just telling everyone how accommodating you were. Tania hasn’t been able to stop raving about you.”

I’m confused. “She what?”

“Heather,” Dr. Jessup says, stepping forward. If I’m hot, he must be even more so, having surely walked all the way across the park from the Housing Office in that dark charcoal suit he’s wearing, even though Sarah’s set the office air conditioner on full blast. I can see a telltale sheen around the edges of his still-thick head of dark hair, peppered at the temples with gray. “We have some great news. So great I had to deliver it personally.”

“Yeah,” Sarah says from her desk over by the photocopier. She’s wearing her everyday uniform of black T-shirt and overalls, but she’s blown her usual mass of frizzy curls dry against the New York humidity and actually put on a bit of eyeliner. Sarah used to leave her face untouched by anything remotely resembling makeup, thinking it was a violation of feminist ethics to enhance what the Mother Goddess gave us, until I pointed out to her that if the Mother Goddess didn’t want us to wear makeup, she would not have given some of us eyelashes so blond they are practically invisible, making us resemble white rabbits without our mascara on. “Wait until you hear this news, Heather. It couldn’t be more great. It’s truly great.”