by Meg Cabot
“No, he isn’t bothering me,” I say. “This is my friend Cooper. Cooper, this is Gavin.”
“Hey,” Cooper says, holding out his right hand.
But Gavin just ignores the hand.
“This guy your boyfriend?” he demands of me, rudely.
“Gavin,” I say, mortified. I can’t look anywhere in the vicinity of Cooper’s face. “No. You know perfectly well he’s not my boyfriend.”
Gavin seems to relax a little. “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “You like those pretty-boy types. Jordan Cartwright. Mr. Easy Street.”
Cooper has dropped his hand. He is staring at Gavin with an expression of mingled amusement and derision. “Well, Heather,” he says. “Delightful as it’s been meeting one of your infant charges, I think I’ll be going now.”
“Hey!” Gavin looks insulted. “Who you calling an infant?”
Cooper barely acknowledges Gavin’s presence, saying only, “I’ll see you at home,” to me, with a wink, then turning to leave.
“‘See you at home’?” Gavin is staring daggers at Cooper’s departing back. “You guys live together? I thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend!”
“He’s my landlord,” I say. “And he’s right. You are an infant. Ready to go? Or do you want to stop by the liquor store on the way back to the hall so you can buy a bottle of Jäger-meister and finish off the job?”
“Woman,” Gavin says, shaking his head, “why you gots to be that way? Always up in my business?”
“Gavin.” I’m rolling my eyes. “Seriously. I’ll call your parents….”
He drops the gangbanger act at once.
“Don’t,” he says, the goatee drooping. “My mom’ll kill me.”
I sigh and take his arm. “Come on, then. Let’s get you home, before it starts snowing. Did you get a note from the doctor, to excuse you from class?”
He scowls. “They won’t give notes for alcohol poisoning.”
“Poor baby,” I say cheerfully. “Maybe this will teach you a lesson.”
“Woman,” Gavin explodes again, “I don’t need you to tell me how to act!”
And we walk out into the cold together, bickering like a brother and sister. At least, I think that’s how we sound.
Little do I know Gavin thinks something entirely different.
5
My poor heart cracks
Like broken glass
Breathing’s hard
Starting to cough
This must end
It’s got to stop
Does anyone know how
To turn this Stairmaster off?
“At the Gym”
Written by Heather Wells
The rest of the day does not exactly fly by. It’s amazing, in fact, how slowly time can pass when all you want to do is go home.
At least, when I get back to Fischer Hall from the hospital, the deed has been done—Lindsay’s family has been notified of her death…which means it’s okay for us to start telling the building staff and residents about what happened to her.
But this, as I’d suspected, does not exactly make things any better. Reactions upon being told the truth—that the cafeteria is closed because of the discovery of a cheerleader’s severed head there, and not a gas leak—vary from stunned astonishment to giggling, crying, and even some gagging.
But it isn’t like we can keep the truth from them…especially when it hits the local all-news television station, New York One, which Tina, the student desk worker, very conscientiously runs to come tell us when she sees it on the television set in the lobby, then turns up as high as she can when we hurry to join her:
“The New York College campus was shocked today by a gruesome discovery at one of their dormitories, Fischer Residence Hall,” the news anchorperson says, in an urgent voice, as behind him flashes a shot of the exterior of Fischer Hall, New York College banners fluttering in the wind from twin poles over the front door—at which we’ve posted extra security, to keep out thrill-seekers and the press, who are all clustered in the chess circle across the street, annoying the die-hard chess fans who’ve braved the cold to come out and play.
“Some may recall last fall’s slayings of two young women in this very same dormitory,” the reporter intones, “a tragedy that has led some on campus to refer to the building as Death Dorm.”
I glance at Tom when the announcer says this. He presses his lips together, but otherwise says nothing. Poor guy. His first professional gig out of grad school, and it has to be at Death Dorm. I mean, residence hall.
“This morning, Fischer Hall cafeteria workers arrived at work to make another grisly discovery: a human head in a pot on the school stove.”
This is met by a collective “EW!” by Tina and most of the rest of the students—not to mention a few administrators—gathered in the lobby to watch the broadcast. Tom actually groans and drops his face in his hands in anguish. Pete, the security officer, doesn’t look too happy, either.
“The head has been positively identified by grieving family members as belonging to New York College sophomore and varsity cheerleader Lindsay Combs,” the reporter goes on, as a photo of Lindsay fills the screen. It’s the photo that was taken the night she was crowned Homecoming Queen. Her smile is as dazzling as the tiara in her honey-colored hair. She’s dressed in white satin and holding a dozen red roses in her arms. Someone outside the frame of the photo had flung an arm around her shoulders and the tiara had tipped rakishly over one of Lindsay’s unnaturally green eyes. I seriously don’t understand why she thought this was a good look.
“According to witnesses, Lindsay was last seen yesterday evening. She left her room at approximately seven o’clock in the evening, telling her roommate she was going to a party. She never returned.”
This much we already knew. Cheryl had come by the office in tears earlier, heartbroken over what had befallen her friend—and roommate…a roommate she’d never even gotten a chance to swap midnight giggles or shots of Southern Comfort with, since Lindsay had been dead before Cheryl ever even moved in.
Lindsay’s original roommate, Ann, had taken the news a little less hysterically, and had been able to give the police their only lead…the one about the party. Of course, relations between Ann and Lindsay apparently not having been the best, the girl hadn’t been able to tell Detective Canavan WHICH party Lindsay had been going to…and Cheryl, incoherent with sobs, hadn’t been much help in that department, either. In fact, Tom had had one of the RAs escort Cheryl to Counseling Services, where she’s hopefully getting the help she needs to cope with her grief…and the fact that she’s pretty much guaranteed a single room for the rest of the year.
Of course, Cheryl is the one person on campus who didn’t want one.
“How Lindsay ended up in the Fischer Hall cafeteria kitchen is a mystery that has authorities here baffled,” the reporter goes on. The shot shifts to one of New York College President Phillip Allington standing at a podium in the library lobby, Detective Canavan looking rumpled and cranky at his side. Coach Andrews, for some reason, is standing on the president’s other side, managing to look calm, but at the same time somewhat confused. But then, that’s how a lot of athletic coaches look, I’ve noticed, as I’ve flipped past ESPN.
The anchorman’s voice goes on, “A spokesperson from the New York City Police Department insists that even though no arrests have been made, the police have several suspects and are following more than a dozen leads. There is, college President Phillip Allington assured the academic community at a press conference earlier this afternoon, no need for alarm.”
Footage from the press conference begins to run.
“We would like to take this opportunity,” President Allington says woodenly, obviously reading from something that he’d had someone else write for him earlier in the day, “to reassure our students, and the public in general, that the law enforcement officials in this city are using every measure available to us to track down this vicious criminal. At the same time
, we’d like to urge our students to take extra safety precautions until Lindsay’s killer is apprehended. Although it is the goal of our residence halls to foster a feeling of community—which is why we call them residence halls and not dormitories—it’s important for students to keep their doors locked. Do not allow strangers into your room or into any campus building. While the police believe this senseless crime to be, at this time, an isolated act of random violence, we cannot stress enough the necessity of exercising caution until the individual responsible is brought to justice….”
No sooner were the words “keep their doors locked” out of President Allington’s mouth than half the students in the lobby abruptly disappeared, heading toward the elevators with anxious looks on their faces. It’s the habit of a lot of kids in buildings like Fischer Hall to leave the door to their room propped open to welcome drop-by visitors.
This is apparently about to change.
Of course, the fact that Lindsay hadn’t been killed in her room didn’t appear to occur to any of them. Any more than the fact that there hadn’t been anything “random” about the act of violence that had ended Lindsay’s life. Her killer had obviously known her—and also the Fischer Hall cafeteria—at least passably well.
But if this fact hadn’t sunk in to the student population, it had been driven home to the cafeteria staff, who were only just now being allowed to go home after a day’s worth of grueling questioning. I’m shocked to see them come streaming out of the cafeteria shortly after the end of President Allington’s press conference, at quarter to five o’clock…well after those who were assigned to the breakfast shift usually got off work. Detective Canavan and his colleagues had really grilled them…no pun intended.
Still, tired as she must have been, Magda manages a smile as she comes toward me. She’s slathered her fingers with Purel, and is wiping them with a Kleenex. As she gets closer, I see why: her fingertips are black with ink.
Magda’s been printed.
“Oh, Magda,” I say, when she’s close enough. I put an arm around her shoulder, leading her out of the lobby and back toward my office, where it’s quieter. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Magda says, with a sniffle. The whites of her eyes are pink, her eyeliner and mascara smudged. “I mean, they are only doing their jobs. It isn’t their fault one of my little movie stars—”
Magda breaks off with a sob. I hustle her into the hall office, where at least she’ll be hidden from the inquiring gazes of the residents gathered in front of the elevator bank, home after their first day of classes—only to discover that they’ll have to seek their evening meal elsewhere.
Magda sinks into the institutional orange couch in front of my desk and buries her head in her hands, sobbing. I hasten to shut the outer office door, which locks automatically when closed. Tom, having heard the disturbance, comes out of his own office and stands, looking at Magda uncomfortably as the words “Little movie star,” and “Byootiful little baby” drift up incoherently from her knees, which is where she’s sunk her face.
Tom looks at me. “What’s the deal again with the movie star thing?” he whispers.
“I told you,” I whisper back. For a gay guy, Tom can be surprisingly clueless sometimes. “They filmed a scene from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles here at Fischer Hall. Magda was working here at the time.”
“Well.” Tom stares at her some more as she cries. “It certainly seems to have made an impression. Considering it’s a movie no one ever saw.”
“People saw it,” I say to him crossly. “Don’t you have something you should be doing?”
He sighs. “I’m waiting for someone from Counseling Services. We’re going to be holding grief counseling here in the office from five to seven, to help residents cope with what happened to Lindsay.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. He already knows.
“I told them no one was going to show up,” he says beleagueredly. “Except maybe Cheryl Haebig and the RAs. But it came down from the president’s office. The administration wants to look like we care.”
“Well.” I nod at a sobbing Magda. “Here’s someone who needs some grief counseling.”
Tom pales at my suggestion. “She’s your friend,” he says accusingly.
I glare at him. “You’re the one with the master’s degree.”
“In college student personnel! I have to tell you, Heather.” He looks frightened. “I don’t know about this. I mean, any of this. Things were a lot simpler back in Texas.”
I glare at him even harder. “Oh, no,” I say. “You are not quitting on me, Tom. Not because of one little murder.”
“Little!” Tom’s face is still ashen. “Heather, nobody back home ever got their head whacked off and left in a pot on a stove. Sure, couple kids got crushed to death every year under the bonfire structure. But murdered? Honestly, Heather. Home’s looking pretty good right now.”
“Oh, right,” I say sarcastically. “If it was so much better back there, how come you waited until you got here to come out of the closet?”
Tom swallows. “Well…”
“Let’s talk about your quitting later, okay?” I flop down on the couch beside Magda. “I’ve got other things to worry about right now.”
Tom throws Magda one last panicky look, then mutters, “Okay, I’ll just, um, finish up this paperwork,” and disappears back into his office.
I sit beside Magda, resting a hand on her back as she cries. I know this is the right thing to do as a friend…but as someone who works in a helping field, I’m not sure this is what I’m supposed to do. How could Dr. Jessup have hired someone like me? I wonder. I mean, I know I’m the only who applied, and all. But I am thoroughly unfit for this job. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do in the face of sorrow like Magda’s. Where is that grief counselor, anyway?
“Magda,” I say, patting her back through her pink cafeteria smock. “Um. Look, I’m sure they don’t really suspect you. I mean, anyone who knows you knows you couldn’t have had anything to do with…what happened. Really, don’t worry about it. No one thinks you did it. The police are just doing their job.”
Magda raises her tear-stained face to peer at me astonishedly.
“That’s…that’s not why I’m upset,” she says, shaking her head until her—tiger-striped blond, this week—curls swing. “I know they’re just doing their job. That’s all right. None of us did it—none of us could do that.”
“I know,” I say hastily, still rubbing her back. “It’s horrible of them to suspect you. But, you see—”
“It’s just,” Magda goes on, as if I hadn’t spoken, “I heard…I heard it was Lindsay. But that couldn’t be. Not little Lindsay, with the eyes, and the hair? The cheerleader?”
I stare at her. I can’t believe she didn’t recognize Lindsay back when she’d been looking into the pot. It’s true I probably saw Lindsay more often than Magda did, on account of her affection for my condom jar. So it isn’t any wonder I had no problem recognizing her. Is it?
Or is this the job I’m suited for? Recognizing the faces of dead people who’ve been boiled for a while? What kind of position would this even qualify me for? I mean, there can’t be any demand for someone with a skill like this, except maybe in the few societies that are left that still practice cannibalism. Are there even any of these?
“Yes,” I say, in answer to Magda’s question. “Yes, I’m sorry. But it was Lindsay.”
Magda’s face crumples again. “Oh, no!” she says, with a wail. “Heather, no!”
“Magda,” I say, alarmed by her reaction. Which, really, if you think about it, is way more natural than mine—which had been to flee the area for the warmth of the St. Vincent’s ER. Or Sarah’s, which had been to make bad jokes. “I’m so sorry. But if it’s any consolation, Cooper told me the coroner thinks she was strangled first. I mean, she didn’t die from…from having her head chopped off. That didn’t happen until later.”
Not surprisingly, Magda
seems to find little comfort in this piece of information. I really do suck at grief counseling. Maybe I should go into accounting.
“It’s just…” Magda sobs, “it’s just that Lindsay—she was so sweet! She loved it here so much! She always wore her uniform on game days. She never did anything to anybody. She didn’t deserve to die like that, Heather. Not Lindsay.”
“Oh, Magda.” I pat her arm. What else can I do? I notice that each of Magda’s nails has been painted in the New York College school colors of gold and white. A major college basketball fan, Magda never misses a game, if she can help it. “You’re right. Lindsay never did anything to deserve what happened to her.” That we know of.
Oh, see? There it is again! Where does that kind of jaded cynicism even come from? It can’t be because I’m a washed-up former pop star trying to put my life together, only to be told I have to take remedial math.
Can it?
“People are gonna try to make things up.” Magda’s gaze on mine is intense. “You know how people are, Heather. They’re gonna try to say, Well, she shouldn’t have been seeing so many boys, or something like that. But it wasn’t Lindsay’s fault she was so pretty and popular. It wasn’t her fault boys buzzed around her like bees to honey.”
Or flies around horse manure.
God, what is wrong with me? Why am I blaming the victim? I’m sure Sarah, if she were here, could tell me. Is it out of some desire to distance myself from what happened to Lindsay, so I can be, like, Well, that could never happen to me, because the boys aren’t exactly buzzing around me like bees to honey. So no one will ever strangle me and then chop my head off?
Or is there some other reason I can’t help thinking there might be something more to Lindsay’s death than a “random act of violence”? Was she really all sunshine and school spirit? Or was she actually hiding something behind those iridescently green contact lenses?
Magda reaches out and grasps my hand in a grip so tight that it hurts a little. Her eyes—still swimming with tears—are bright as the rhinestones she sometimes has implanted in her nail tips.
