by E M Kaplan
While the first four points were irritating, the fifth and final point was downright horrible, as far as Josie was concerned. Which brought up the thought—Ida Mae was the academic equivalent of a shock jock.
The question was, who would want a hate-mongering speaker like Ida Mae at a liberal campus like Bader?
Chapter 9
While Josie was online, she figured she should try to find out more about Professor Sanborn, the main course of her study and the reason for her presence at Bader.
She found numerous photos of him behind a lectern giving talks or wearing a cap and gown with a lot of colored braids and tassels. Much handshaking. Lots of sparkling blue eyes and dimpled smiles. No recent articles written by him in the last four years, which was roughly how long ago he’d received his tenure, according to Greta Williams.
Scrolling down to an article entitled, “Good and Evil as Represented in the films of John Belushi,” she clicked, wrinkling her forehead.
The paper started out, “We’ve all seen Animal House, The Blues Brothers, and Saturday late night television skits. But did you know there’s deeper meaning behind the work of the late John Belushi? Well, I do, and here it is.”
Weird and amateurish. Like a middle schooler’s persuasive paper.
Josie scrolled up to the top of the screen, expecting to see some kind of title indicating that the paper was the transcript of a spoken lecture given somewhere at a certain time. But no. The top of the page listed a magazine in which the article had been published.
She scrolled back down, cringing when she encountered a couple of highly visible typos. Was this a student magazine? She looked back at the top. Aha. In the sidebar on the right was a note that the article was published as-is, direct from the author.
He’d really phoned it in for this paper. It was downright embarrassing in its lack of depth and citations of other works, other than the movies themselves. Was it a joke?
She’d read gum wrappers that had more substance.
And who was she to judge? She was just some fluffy food blogger, for Pete’s sake. If she was left fishing for content, how did Professor Sanborn’s fellow academics feel about it?
Okay, calm down, girl, she told herself. It’s only one article.
The students clearly loved him, based on the line outside his office. He practically needed a bouncer and red velvet rope to keep them from rioting. He seemed to have a kind of cult of personality following.
Maybe that was enough reason for the university to keep him around.
#
After suffering through dinner, which was a minefield of cheesy pasta dishes to avoid and wilted salad, all served buffet-style—and a wedge of cake so sharp and square it looked as if it had been cut with a straight edge—Josie, culinarily whipped, limped her way to the common area of her dorm’s floor.
This might be the toughest damn week of my life, she thought.
It was ten minutes after eight, so the room was already crowded with female undergrads in a variety of dress, including shorts, though it was getting chilly outside for late September. She also spied pajamas, yoga pants, and hey, even one person in appropriately athletic clothes. Josie located the Chinese girl who lived across the hall from her. She also found Leah the smiler—who beckoned Josie over to the spot against the wall next to her—as well as the server from the dean’s lunch earlier in the day. In the center of the room was a beady-eyed, bull-necked guy in a royal blue tracksuit.
“Tonight,” he said in a loud bark that made half the room flinch, “we’re gonna cover soft targets. Somebody name a soft target. Just shout it out.” He cracked his thick knuckles while he waited for a response.
“The nose,” someone said.
“The nuts.” Leah grinned as she spoke up.
“Yep. Gimme some more.”
The room grew silent, and Victor rolled his eyes. “Come on, ladies and gents. This ain’t rocket science. You already know this. Just think about it.”
More silence.
“Eyes. Throat. Fingers. Toes,” Josie said.
“The professor is right,” the guy said, pointing to her as if she were a professor. Seriously? Again with the grown-up shaming. “Also mouth and ears. All the weakest points on the human body. These are the Trojan Horse points. You brainiacs all know what that is, right?”
“I think you mean Achilles’ Heel,” Leah corrected.
Victor’s meaty hands went to his hips. His waist was bigger in circumference than Josie’s shoulders. If his tree-trunk thighs were hollow, she probably could have slithered through one of them as well. “Yeah, I did, smartass. Greek mythology is my Achilles’ Heel, so good thing you were here to correct me. Now get up here because I need a volunteer.” He had an aggressive way of jabbing his fingers here and there as he spoke as if he were doing the five-finger death punch at invisible ninja foes.
Laughter and catcalls filled the room as Leah made her way to the center.
“Leah here is going to demonstrate some basic moves with me.” He held up his hand. “I’m picking on her because I know her. Anyone else I pick on is because they deserve it. So pay attention.”
While the rest of the room watched Leah cheerfully try to poke Victor in his bug eyes and meaty throat, Josie slid to the floor against the wall next to the petite Chinese girl who lived across the hall.
In a nerdy and somewhat endearing gesture, the girl stuck her hand out and introduced herself. “Tiffany Yeo. No hard feelings that I tapped it?”
Josie’s brain scrambled to translate the girl’s words. Then, Ugh. Yuck. “No hard feelings. Brandon’s…a little young for me. Plus, I just met him today. I’m not a sleep-with-a-guy on the first conversation kind of girl.”
Tiffany shrugged her thin shoulders. “I used to feel the same way. But life’s too short not to go for it.”
Josie blindly searched for something else to say. How was he? No. How did a little thing like you get so jaded? Not that either. What’s with the pornstar eye makeup? Josie decided to stick with silence. Often, that was the best course of action, though she didn’t always have control over her mouth.
“I know this sounds like a racist question.” Tiffany nodded at the self-defense demo in front of them. “But do you know any martial arts? You look Asian. I’m Chinese.” Many people weren’t able to identity Josie’s ethnicity, which she sometimes used to her advantage. If it got her an extra thirteenth tamale when she bought a dozen from her friend Lupe, so be it. Given a situation like that, she would try to pass for a Latina mix as often as she could.
“I know enough to realize my best defense is to duck and run,” Josie said. In fact, she’d learned that lesson the hard way, both last year in Arizona and then again in San Francisco this past spring. There were only so many times a person could get beaten up before she learned her lesson—even a person as thick-skulled as she.
“You’re right. That’s the hardest lesson to learn. And I should know. Not to reinforce the stereotype or anything, but I have blackbelts in two styles of kung fu. And a couple years of training in MMA.”
Josie cranked her head to the side and stared at the girl, this time taking in the wiry-strong arms and calculated calmness of her posture, even sitting on this grungy carpet of the common room. Yeah, now she could see it. Tiffany was no poser.
“He should have called you up to demonstrate, not Leah.”
“Nah.” She shook her head with a slight condescending roll of her almond eyes. “I don’t have a strong desire to antagonize Victor. He’s a good guy and his form is decent even though he needs to do more cardio. And just so we’re clear, I could totally kick his ass.
Josie held out her fist, which Tiffany bumped. Yay for girls with no self-esteem issues.
“So what do you guys think?” Leah bounded up to them like a baby giraffe—all legs and neck, mocking the laws of physics—as the room dispersed. The demo had ended without Josie realizing it. “Are you gonna sign up to take the self-defense class at the gym? It starts
tomorrow night. Come on, new girl, you know you want to.”
Josie nodded. “Sure, I will.” After all, it certainly couldn’t hurt in her new line of work. “What about you, Tiffany?”
The smaller girl rolled her eyes and shuddered. “Not for me.”
“Whatever, loser,” Leah said, her chiding boisterous and not serious. “The rest of us are going to be there, if you change your mind. All the cool kids are going.”
Tiffany walked away without another word, not bothering to look back.
“Are you guys friends?” Josie asked. “I’m trying to interpret the signs, but I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“Oh, yeah, we’re friends. Totally,” Leah said. “She’s so utterly badass. She has that evil Chinese mobster daughter mystique—no offense. I’m not saying all Asians are gang members. I mean, not you. You’re like, too kind in a grouchy way. But you guys are so cool. And I have like… Well, whatever I have going on. I mean, I have it going on, if you know what I’m saying.”
No, Josie had no idea what Leah was saying, but nodded anyway as they headed down the hall to her room.
“The truth is, I’m crushing hard on Brandon. I know it’s a lost cause. It’s like wanting a puppy that everyone finds irresistibly cute. Except in this case, the puppy is a super-hot guy with loose morals, right? I mean, I’m at the back of the line, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Uh, sure,” Josie said, unlocking her door. First day in the dorms and the place was already revealing itself to be a primetime soap opera.
Kind, but grouchy? She could live with that, she guessed, as long as the crotchety part came across loud and clear. Josie did not want any late-night boo-hooing on her shoulder about whomever Brandon the Boy-Ho was boffing next.
Leah followed her in and plunked down on the bed, making herself at home. Josie sat in the desk chair and shoved the desk drawer closed when she spied the corner of the stalker letters sticking out.
“So, anyway,” Leah asked, “are you here to figure out who’s threatening to kill Professor Sanborn?”
Chapter 10
Josie considered lying, but thought better of it. By whatever means—trickery, spying, or darned good guessing—Leah had already sussed out her investigative agenda. Misleading the girl seemed not only pointless, but counter-productive. Bader University had approximately 3,500 students, and if Josie was going to find one nut job letter-writer in a haystack of crazies, she’d need help. She was going to need her own Scooby gang, her own band of meddling kids.
So after a calculated silence, Josie looked the girl straight in the eyes and said, “Yes, I am.”
“That is so frickin’ rad. What can I do to help? Did they tell you what the letters said? That’s the part I’m really dying to know.”
Josie pinched the bridge of her nose, the sting of instant regret zinging through her sinuses. Maybe this was a mistake. “What exactly do you know?”
Leah jumped to her feet. “Hang on. Let me go get Sarah. She’s my roommate.”
“Sure. Go ahead and leave the door open—”
But Leah had already disappeared from sight.
In less than five minutes, she was back again, pulling another girl behind her. Fair-haired, freckled, and blushing from being thrust into the limelight, the new girl smiled.
“Hey, I know you,” Josie said. “You’re the server from lunch today.”
“Yup,” the girl—Sarah—said. “That’s how I figured out who you are. I hear everything working Dean Handley’s lunches.”
“Dean Handsy, you mean,” Leah scoffed which caught Josie’s attention.
“I’ve never seen him get gropey with anyone. Not with me, thank the gods. But that’s the word on the street,” Sarah told Josie. “Some of my friends say the dean gets a little too hands-on—with females of all ages and marital statuses. Students. Women professors. Everyone. I mean, yuck. He’s old and gross. Not that being good-looking would justify it. I mean, it would still be nasty if it were Professor Sanborn…” Her voice drifted off as if she were imagining that scenario, but the expression on her face was far from the disgust she’d shown when she’d mentioned the dean.
Josie grimaced, unable to imagine the scrawny, obsequious Dean of Humanities getting familiar with anyone. Except donors with deep pockets. He probably would do a two-dollar, back-alley special for the right donation.
“Hey, what are you guys all doing in here?” Brandon, the boy Tarzan, poked his head in Josie’s doorway, then came in uninvited. He had little Tiffany from across the hallway tucked under his beefy arm.
Leah scowled at them. Tiffany scowled back, but Josie understood that to be the girl’s natural expression.
Josie’s single-occupant room was reaching maximum capacity. As she stood to shut the door, yet one more face peered in.
“Is this a party? I thought you were the new RA on this floor.” The latest party crasher was a tall, dark-skinned boy. “Tyshawn,” he said, holding his hand out to Josie, who shook it automatically, feeling like he was there to pick up her daughter on prom night.
“For the love of God, let me close the door.” Josie threaded her way through the crowd of kids who, one-by-one, made themselves comfortable on her bed and floor. In a show of submissiveness, they left the desk chair for her. She had a brief take me to your leader moment. Like C3PO in his golden splendor in front of a crowd of adorable Ewoks.
Was she their chief? Was she ready for this kind of responsibility?
“What’s going on?” the new guy wanted to know, plunking down on the floor against the end of the bed.
Sarah, the waiter, said, “This is Josie Tucker. She’s here to find out who wants to kill Professor Sanborn. And we’re going to help her.”
To no one in particular, Josie said, “This may be the worst lapse in judgment I’ve ever had.”
Part 2: Study
I didn’t go to college for the food, which, as it turned out, was a darned good thing. Some people gain the “freshman fifteen” pounds their first year away from home, making bad choices in the swampland of starches and sugars that is cafeteria food.
Goopy day-of-the-week pasta was enough to make a foodie cry for mercy. Monday Mostaccioli. Tuesday Tetrazzini. Wednesday Will-it-never-end? Thursday This-is-almost-over. Friday…fugetaboutit. Because the hell that is institutional food starts all over again.
I lost weight that first year. Call me a picky eater—although I would never call myself fussy in the food department—but even when my mind was cramming for a midterm, my stomach was still calling the gastronomical shots. I’m telling you now—always pay attention to your gut. It will never let you down. Your brain, on the other hand…
Josie Tucker, Will Blog for Food
Chapter 11
“First things, first,” Leah said. “We’re ordering Chinese food from Fu Manchu’s. We need sustenance. Dumplings, anyone?”
A girl after Josie’s own heart. And her stomach. After the dinner-hour fiasco at the cafeteria, her mouth was watering at the thought of decent comfort food. A nice fried rice would be—
“Word of advice. Don’t order fried rice from these guys,” Tiffany told her, tip-tapping on her cell phone screen with her tiny, pale fingers. “It’s nasty. Totally overcooked and over-soy-sauced. Crunchy like bug casings and brown like hamster droppings. Gimme your orders, everyone, I’m on it. And Mom here is paying.” She darted a pointed look at Josie, who sighed and dug her wallet out of her pocket. Because even mention of rodent poo failed to curb her appetite.
After the bartering and bickering over what to order died down, Josie raised her voice, ready to call the meeting to order. “Here’s the thing. No one here—absolutely no one—is to do anything that will jeopardize his or her studies, academic standing, or criminal record. Despite what you think, I am neither a friendly nor a nice person, so get rid of your misconceptions immediately. If any of you are caught snooping or doing things you’re not supposed to do, I will disavow all knowledge of it and you. I w
ill drop you faster than a hot potato.”
“Damn,” Brandon said. “This is making me aroused.” While it was instinctive to glance at the guy’s crotch because he’d mentioned it, Josie was able to refrain. The idea of macking on someone who’d still been in diapers when she was in high school was downright revolting.
“Yeah, what doesn’t turn you on?” Tiffany said, shoving him away. She slithered to the floor to sit next to Tyshawn, leaving Brandon with a befuddled expression. Apparently, he had some research ahead of him before he completed his slapdash thesis on the campus single women.
Tiffany spoke rapid-fire Cantonese into her phone. After what seemed like an interminable length of arguing and cursing, she hung up. “Victuals will be here in twenty.”
Food ordered, Josie got down to business. After all, she still had two unread letters from the stalker burning a hole in her desk drawer. The quicker she got the Scooby gang fed and sent on their way with a couple of menial tasks, the quicker she could read the final letters.
“Introductions, please. Tell me your hometown, your major, and your hopes and dreams. Thirty seconds or less,” she said.
Tiffany said, “Pasadena, undeclared, no hopes or dreams. They all died when I was a toddler, about the same time I learned to walk and talk.”
Boy Tarzan said, “Northam, Pre-Med, world peace and an endless stream of lovely ladies.” Tiffany reached across Tyshawn and slapped his leg, and he yelped.
Leah said, “Northam also—same class as Brandon since kindergarten. Nursing because I don’t want to be a doctor. I’m way more hands-on than that. Also, I just have simple hopes. A family, a job, a house with a white-picket fence. And to win a multi-million dollar lotto.”
“Nice,” Tyshawn said, approving. “I’m from Atlanta. I’m a Poli-Sci and Chinese double major. I’d like to live in a world that’s a true meritocracy. I want to be judged on my talents, abilities, and work. And I want others to experience the same thing.”
