by Meg Cabot
I look at the glass. I have no idea what’s in it. But I can guess, judging by what happened to Jordan the other night. Rohypnol, otherwise known as roofies, a popular sedative on the college circuit. One dose, already dissolved in water, ought to make me much more malleable, when it comes time for cutting.
It’s right about then that I decide I’ve had about enough. I’m hot, my stomach hurts, and I’m pretty worried about Gavin and Jeff. I wish I had let Cooper kill Doug Winer when he’d had the chance. I wish I myself had taken one of Doug’s pillows and stuffed it over his head and held on until the kid stopped struggling.
No. That’s too kind. I wish I had wrapped my own hands around that thick neck and squeezed, squeezed the life out of him the way Doug had squeezed the life out of Lindsay….
“Come on, Heather,” Steve says, beckoning impatiently with the knife. “We don’t have all night.”
“Uh, Steve,” the other guy next to me says. “Seriously, man. This is getting weird.”
“Shut up,” Steve says to his fellow Tau Phi. He grabs the glass, brings it over to me, and shoves it under my nose. “DRINK IT.”
I turn my face away. “No.”
Steve Winer gapes at me. “What?”
“No,” I say. I can feel that I have the support of the room. The Tau Phis are starting to realize their leader has lost it. They won’t let him hurt me. I’m pretty sure. “I am not going to drink it.”
“What do you mean, you aren’t going to drink it?” The shadow of a smile returns to Steve’s face. “Are you blind? I’m holding a knife to your throat.”
“So?” I shrug. “What’s the difference to me? I’m gonna get killed anyway.”
This is not what Steve wants to hear. The smile fades from his lips, and there isn’t a hint of humor in his face when he hands the glass to the guy on my right, turns around, walks over to Gavin, grabs him by the hair, yanks his head back, and raises the knife toward his exposed throat—
“Steve, man, don’t!” one of my guards yells, just as I say, “Whoa, I’ll drink it, I’ll drink it,” grab the glass, and down its contents.
“That’s it,” the guy who’d been holding the glass says. “I’m out of here. Jeff’s right, you guys are fucking crazy.”
And he begins striding from the cafeteria—along with several other Tau Phis—including all the pledges but Jeff Turner, who is still lying on the floor, still as death.
“Don’t let them go,” Steve barks at the Tau Phis who’d kicked Jeff into unconsciousness. But even they hesitate.
“Did you hear me?” Steve lets go of Gavin’s hair and stands there, staring confusedly as his frat brothers begin to leave him, one by one. “You guys. You can’t do this. You took a pledge. A pledge of total loyalty. Where are you…you can’t—”
Doug is starting to look scared. “Jesus, Steve,” he says. “Let ’em go. Just—”
Doug breaks off midsentence, though. That’s because Steve has dropped the knife, and, from somewhere deep inside his robe, he’s managed to bring out a small handgun, which he is now holding level with his brother’s chest.
“Douglas,” Steve says. “I am getting fed up with you and your whining.”
“Jesus, Steve!” Doug cries again. But this time the fear and tears in his voice cause his fellow Tau Phis to turn around to look.
Which is when I do what I know I have to. After all, no one’s paying the least bit of attention to me. Everyone’s gaze is on Steve, whose back is to me.
Which is why, as soon as I see his index finger tighten on the trigger, I dive, my arms spread wide, at the floor. Because I know something about the floor of the caf of Fischer Hall that Steve Winer will never know: it is squeaky clean. Julio may not be in charge of the floors behind the steam tables, but he’s in charge of the cafeteria floor, and he’s waxed it until it’s slick as ice. Which means I slide across it like an Olympic skater doing a belly flop, until I’ve collided with the elder Winer’s legs, which I then throw my arms around, pulling him down.
Then I reach up, seize Steve’s wrist, and sink my teeth into it, forcing him to drop the gun. Also to scream and writhe in pain and terror.
Doug seems to get over his astonishment at what I’ve just done first—perhaps because he’s the only one who didn’t have the sense to duck when Steve was waving that gun around, and so is the only person in the room still standing. He stumbles forward until his hand closes over the butt of the gun his brother has dropped. His fingers trembling, he raises the pistol and aims it—
Well, at me.
“No,” cries Steve hoarsely. “Don’t shoot, you little fuck! You might hit me!”
“I want to hit you!” Doug screams. Really. He screams it. Tears are streaming down his face. “I am so sick of you always telling me what a fuckup I am! And okay, I may be a fuckup…but at least I’m not a freak! Yeah, I killed Lindsay—but I didn’t mean to. You’re the sick fuck who thought it would be a good idea to leave her head on the stove. Who even fucking does shit like that, Steve? Who? And then you made us stab that poor janitor…and now you want us to kill this lady here…and why? To make yourself look like a badass in front of your frat buddies. Because Dad was a badass when he was a Tau Phi.”
The mouth of the gun Doug is pointing at us keeps straying from me to Steve in a very unnerving manner. Steve, beneath me, is beginning to sweat. Copiously.
“Doug,” he says. “Dougie. Please. Give me the—”
“But Dad didn’t kill people, Steve!” Doug goes on, as if he hadn’t heard. “He didn’t cut people up! He was a badass without doing shit like that! Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see that no matter what you do, you’re never going to be like Dad?”
“Fine,” Steve says. “I’m never going to be like Dad. Now put the gun down—”
“No!” Doug screams. “Because I know what’s going to happen! You’re going to turn this all around and blame it on me somehow. Like you always do! Like you’ve always done! And I’m not putting up with it anymore! Not this time!”
Which is when he points the gun in the dead center of Steve’s forehead.
And also when a calm, slightly familiar voice says from the cafeteria’s doorway, “Drop it, son.”
Doug looks up, his expression one of mingled astonishment and indignation. I turn my head as well, and am quite confused to see Reggie—yes, drug dealer Reggie—leveling a very large and shiny Glock 9mm at Doug Winer’s chest.
“Drop the weapon,” Reggie says. Strangely, his Jamaican accent is completely gone. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, but if I have to, I will. I think we both know that.”
Steve, still pinned beneath my body, cries, “Oh, Officer, thank God you’re here! This guy went berserk and was trying to kill me!”
“Uh-huh,” Reggie says tonelessly. “Give me the gun, son.”
Doug glances down at his brother, who nods encouragingly beneath me. “Go on, Dougie. Give the gun to the nice policeman.”
By this time, Doug is crying too hard to shoot anyway. “You’re such a fuck, Steve,” he says, as he hands the gun to Reggie, who passes it to Detective Canavan, who is looming in the doorway behind him, his gun drawn as well.
“You may not know it, Officer, but you just saved all our lives,” blathers Steve Winer. “My brother was trying to kill me….”
“Right,” Reggie says, reaching to his belt for his handcuffs. “Heather, please get off Mr. Winer.”
Obligingly, I roll off Steve Winer. As I do, I notice that the room kind of spins around. But in a pleasant manner.
“Reggie!” I cry, from where I’m splayed on the floor. “You’re an undercover cop? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he’s a Fed.” Detective Canavan is standing over me, directing about twenty uniformed officers to handcuff everyone in a red robe. “With your usual aplomb, Wells, you managed to stumble into the middle of a sting operation the DEA’s been working on for months. Congratulations on that, by the way.”
“Det
ective!” I cry happily, staring up at Detective Canavan. “What took you so long?”
“We had a little trouble getting in,” he explains. “The security guard was being…resistant. And no one could find a key.” He rolls his eyes. “Typical of this place, by the way. Why are your pupils so big?”
“’Cause I’m so happy to see you!” I cry, sitting up to fling my arms around his neck as he leans down to help me to my feet. “I just love you so much!”
“Uh,” Detective Canavan says, as I cling to him—because the room is spinning around quite a bit by now. “Wells? Are you on something?”
“They made her drink something.” This comes from Gavin, who has been untied by the maid/undercover DEA agent, and whose facial gash is being examined by a pair of EMTs who’ve come in, apparently from nowhere. As I’d expected, the duct tape has left an angry red mark across his mouth, and taken away some of his soft, wispy mustache, making it even wispier-looking.
“Gavin!” I cry, letting go of Detective Canavan and throwing my arms instead around him—much to the annoyance of the paramedics trying to clean him up. “I love you, too! But only as a friend.”
Gavin doesn’t look as happy to hear this as I think he should be. “I think it’s roofies,” he says, attempting to extricate himself from my embrace. Which I find rude, to say the least.
“Okay,” Detective Canavan says, taking me by the arm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I want to know.
“Oh,” Detective Canavan says, “I think the hospital will be a good place to start. Get some fluids into you.”
“But I’m not a bit thirsty,” I assure him. “I could use some ice cream, though. Hey, want a Dove Bar? They’re right in the freezer over there. Hey, everyone should have a Dove Bar. Hey, everybody,” I turn to yell. “Have a Dove Bar! On me!”
“Come on, Wells,” Detective Canavan says, keeping a firm grip on my arm. “That’s enough.”
And then, as he’s leading me out of the cafeteria and into the lobby, I see a sight that makes me forget all about the Dove Bars. And it’s not Crusty Curtiss in handcuffs—although that’s very pleasant to see. And it’s not half the residents standing there, trying to see what’s going on, and Tom and the RAs, along with Sarah, trying to talk them into going about their Friday night business.
No. It’s my father.
“Dad!” I cry, breaking free from Detective Canavan’s grasp and throwing myself into my waiting father’s arms.
“Heather!” he says, seeming very surprised by my greeting, but not unhappy about it. “Thank God you’re all right!”
“I love you so much,” I tell him.
“She loves everyone quite a bit at the moment,” I hear Detective Canavan explain. “She’s on Rohypnol.”
“That’s not why I love you,” I assure my father, worried his feelings will be hurt otherwise. “And it’s not just because you called the cops and kept me from getting decapitated, either.”
“Well,” Dad says, with a chuckle, “that’s good to know. Her mouth is bloody. Why is her mouth bloody?”
And that’s when I notice Dad’s not standing there alone. Cooper is by his side! He’s reaching for one of his ubiquitous handkerchiefs. Handkerchiefs are apparently a very important tool in the private investigations field.
“Oh,” Detective Canavan says. “She bit a guy. That’s all.”
“Cooper!” I cry, throwing my arms around his neck next, as Cooper reaches to dab Steve Winer’s blood from my mouth. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“I can tell,” Cooper says. He’s laughing, for some reason. “Hold still, you’ve got some—”
“I love you so much,” I tell him. “Even though you told Gavin I’m still in love with your brother. Why did you do that, Cooper? I’m not in love with Jordan anymore. I’m not.”
“Okay,” Cooper says. “We’ll take your word for it. Here, hold still.”
“I’m not, though,” I assure him. “I don’t love Jordan. I love you. I really, really do.”
Then Reggie steps into my line of vision one more time, just as Cooper is finishing washing me up, and I shout, “Reggie! I love you! I love you so much! I want to come visit you on your banana plantation!”
“I don’t actually have a banana plantation, Heather,” Reggie says. He’s laughing, too. Why is everyone laughing? Seriously, maybe I should give up the songwriting thing and go into stand-up comedy, since I’m apparently so hilarious. “I’m from Iowa.”
“That’s okay,” I say, as some EMTs gently pry my arms from around Cooper’s neck. “I still love you anyway. I love all of you! You, Tom—and Sarah—and even Dr. Kilgore. Where is Dr. Kilgore, anyway?”
And then the room starts spinning fast—I mean, really fast—and my sleepiness becomes too much to resist anymore.
And I don’t remember anything more after that.
29
You said you love me
And that shit don’t come from nowhere
Nowhere except the heart.
“Gavin’s Song”
Written by Heather Wells
My head is POUNDING.
Seriously.
It isn’t funny.
I can’t believe people do this drug recreationally. If this is how Jordan felt yesterday—was it only yesterday?—at the Stoned Crow, well, it’s no wonder he turned down a beer. I never want to drink again. Anything. Not even water. Not even—
“Heather.”
I open one eye. I can’t believe who I see standing there beside my gurney. My boss. Of all the people in the world to wake up to, I have to open my eyes to my boss’s face? I mean, I love Tom, and all.
But not that much.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like crap,” I inform him.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He holds up a fistful of GET WELL balloons from the gift shop. “From the department.”
I groan and close my eyes. Seriously, it’s a bad sign when the colors of a bunch of balloons are too bright for your eyes.
“You should be feeling better soon,” Tom says. There’s a tremor of laughter in his voice. “They’re pumping you full of fluids and vitamin B.”
“I wanna go home,” I say, with a moan. I can’t even lift my arm, it’s so full of needles.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Tom says. “They aren’t admitting you. Just a few more hours of intravenous fluids here in the ER, and you should be good to go.”
I groan. I can’t believe this. I’m in the St. Vincent’s ER, the same ER where I’ve visited so many students in exactly my current condition.
But I never realized they felt this crappy.
“Listen,” Tom says, in a voice that’s got no laughter left in it. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
I open one eye. “You really are quitting?” I ask.
“Not at all,” Tom says, with a chuckle. “I’m getting promoted. To area coordinator.”
I open my other eye. “WHAT?”
“Stan was so impressed by how I handled the whole Lindsay situation,” Tom explains excitedly, “that he promoted me. I’ll still be in Housing, but now I’ll be assigned to Waverly Hall. The frats, Heather. Stan says he realizes now that the building needs an on-site adult presence…it’s a ten-thousand-dollar-a-year raise. Of course, I’ll have to be working with pills like the Tau Phis…but they shouldn’t be so hard to handle, now that Steve and Doug are under arrest. And Steven—Coach Andrews—says he’ll be happy to help….”
I close my eyes. I can’t believe this. I finally get a boss I like, and they take him away.
And excuse me, but Tom didn’t handle the Lindsay situation. I did. I’m the one who nearly got killed getting her killers to fess up. Where’s my promotion?
In a way, I kind of wish they had killed me. At least my head wouldn’t hurt so much.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s great, Tom.”
“Don’t worry,” Tom says. I feel him pat my hand. “I’ll make sure we get
you a really kick-ass new boss. Okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
I must have fallen back asleep, because when I open my eyes again, Tom is gone. In his place are Magda, Sarah, and Pete.
“Go away,” I say to them.
“Oh, thank God,” Magda says, looking relieved. “She’s all right.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “My head is killing me.”
“That’s the benzodiazepine wearing off,” Sarah says chip-perly. “It’s a central nervous system depressant. You’re going to feel like crap for a while.”
I glare at her. “Thanks.”
“We just wanted to see how you were doing,” Pete says. “And to tell you not to worry.”
“Yes,” Magda says, grabbing the side of my gurney and bouncing excitedly. “They found the cocaine!”
“Right,” Pete says. “They found the cocaine. Doug Winer’s stash. The one Lindsay stole.”
This makes me open my eyes more fully. “Really? Where was it?”
“Where do you think?” Sarah asks. “In Kimberly Watkins’s room.”
“But…” I know I’m out of it. But I can’t believe I’m that out of it. “Kimberly and Lindsay were in on it together?”
Sarah shakes her head. “No. Lindsay taped the bag under her favorite cafeteria table—which is why it wasn’t there when she went looking for it, to give it back to Doug when he figured out she was the one who had it. Because someone else had already found it. Someone who regularly shares that table with Lindsay. Or used to, anyway.”
I stare at her. “Kimberly Watkins? Kimberly had Doug’s coke the whole time?” When Sarah nods, I ask, “How did you find out?”
“Cheryl,” Magda explains. “She was so angry—over what Kimberly said about Lindsay and Coach Andrews, and then, later, over what happened to her poor Jeff—who is going to be all right, just a few broken ribs—that she went to confront Kimberly, and…well…let’s just say they didn’t act like a couple of movie stars.”
“Well, unless you mean Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie,” Sarah says.
“Cheryl beat the crap out of Kimberly,” Pete says. “And Kimberly confessed. She was going to start her own little drug-dealing operation, it seems. She saw Lindsay hide the coke, and stole it next chance she got. Only after what happened to Lindsay, she was too scared to do anything. She was terrified the Winer boys would find out she was the one who had the stuff, and do to her what they did to Lindsay.”
