by Meg Cabot
“Really,” I say, dropping her wrist. “Sebastian is going to plotz when he sees you. I mean, the man’s just spent the past twenty-four hours in prison. What are you trying to do to him?”
Her blush deepens. “It’s just,” she says. “I know he doesn’t think of me… like that. And I want him to. I really want him to.”
“Well, one look at you in those heels,” I say, “and he won’t be able to think of anything else. You owe Magda. Big time.”
Sarah is chewing her lower lip—not a good idea, while wearing lipstick. Fortunately, she’s carrying more in a little patent leather clutch, which she opens with trembling fingers. “I feel bad, leaving the GSC to cope all on its own,” she says, as she pulls out some lip gloss. “And tonight is the big rally. But this is important, too.”
“Of course,” I say.
“I mean, this is about more than health benefits,” Sarah says, as she dabs gloss onto her lips with a little wand. “Sebastian’s life is at stake.”
“I understand,” I say. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“I just wish he’d realize it,” Sarah says, with a sigh. She puts the lip gloss back into her clutch, and snaps it closed. “Heather, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Sebastian’s not allowed to leave the city, you know, until this whole thing is resolved, and the charges are dropped or whatever. When they are… well, who knows if he’ll even still want to go here, or whatever. I hope so. But until then… his parents are staying in a hotel, but it’s pretty far from campus, and I was just wondering—I know he can’t use the storage room anymore—it was wrong of me ever to abuse my grad assistant privileges that way. But could I sign him in as a guest to my room? I mean, if he wants to visit me?”
I shrug. “Of course.”
Sarah looks at me curiously. “Even though he’s the lead suspect in our boss’s murder? That’s not exactly going to make Sebastian popular around here, Heather. I mean, I don’t want you to say yes just because of your personal feelings for me. I already talked it over with Tom, and he said it was fine with him, but that it was up to you. You’re the one in the building who was closest to Owen, and I don’t want you to do anything that might have emotional repercussions for you later on. You know how you are, Heather. You act all tough on the outside, but inside, you’re just a big marshmallow, a really classic passive-aggressive—”
“Oh, look,” I say. “Here comes an empty cab. You better grab it. You know how hard it is to get an empty cab around here. Unless you want to walk over to Sixth Avenue. But in those heels, I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Oh—” She teeters unsteadily to the curb. “Thanks. Bye, Heather! Wish me luck!”
“Good luck!” I wave good-bye, watch her stagger into the cab, then hurry into the building as soon as she’s gone.
“Tom says to see him as soon as you come in,” Felicia says to me, as she hands me a huge stack of messages. “Did Sarah find you?”
“Oh, she found me, all right,” I say.
Back in the hall director’s office, Tom is freaking out, as usual.
“Where have you been?” he cries, when he sees me.
“Westchester,” I say. “I told you I was going to Westchester. Remember?”
“But you were gone so long,” Tom whines. “Like, forever. And so many people have been calling.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, waving my stack of messages as I flop down behind my desk. “Anything important?”
“Oh, just the fact that Owen’s memorial service is TODAY!” Tom shouts.
“What?” I nearly drop the phone I’ve just picked up to return Tad’s call, the first message in the pile I’m holding.
“Yeah,” Tom says. “And they want you to say a few words. Because you knew Owen better than anyone else did on campus.”
Now I really do drop the phone. “WHAT?”
“Yeah.” Tom leans back in his desk chair, which he’s scooted into the door frame of his office so he can look me in the face as he delivers these bombshells. You can tell he’s sort of enjoying himself. “And it’s at five today. They were going to have it over at the chapel, but the outpouring of grief from the community due to the tragedy has been so great, they’ve had to move it over to the sports center. So you better pull something together fast. And it better be good. Because they’re expecting at least a couple thousand people.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. A couple thousand? At Owen “Don’t Borrow Paper From the Dining Office” Veatch’s memorial service?
And I have to say a few words?
I’m so, so dead.
“But I barely knew him!” I wail.
“Maybe,” Tom volunteers, “you can just sing ‘Sugar Rush.’”
“You’re not helping,” I say.
“I know,” Tom says. “What was it Sebastian wanted you to sing at the GSC rally tonight? ‘Kumbaya.’ That’s what you should sing. Bring a divided community together.”
“Seriously, Tom. Shut up. I have to think.”
I have to write something totally good. Dr. Veatch deserves that. Just for what he was doing—well,trying to do—for Jamie, he deserves that, at the very least.
But first, of course, I have to do Reverend Mark’s PNG. Owen would want that more—he’d want to make sure Jamie was safe.
I fill out the appropriate form, then make multiple copies. It will have to go to the security office—now staffed by Mr. Rosetti’s people, I guess—as well as to the reception and security desk of the building. I’ll have to make sure my staff knows that, even though Reverend Mark is an employee of the college, he isn’t allowed inside, no matter what he might say. I don’t really think he’s going to try to get in—especially since I’m making sure he gets a copy of the PNG… as does his supervisor.
And since I’ve written, under “Reason for PNG”: Inappropriate sexual behavior around female resident, I have a pretty good idea I’ll be hearing from Reverend Mark’s supervisor just as soon as the PNG hits his desk.
I call the student office worker on duty—currently at the reception desk, sorting mail—and hand him the copies of the PNG, then send him to deliver them to the various offices to which they are addressed.
Only then do I turn my mind to the piece for Owen’s memorial service.
What am I supposed to say about Owen? That the resident assistants couldn’t seem to care less about him? I’ve yet to see a single one of them shed a tear over his loss. I’ve had bosses arrested for murder they’ve cried harder over losing (I’m not kidding, either).
That he was a fair boss? I mean, I guess that’s true. He certainly didn’t play favorites. Maybe if he had, he might not have ended up with a bullet in his brain.
Man, this is really hard. I can’t think of anything good to say about this guy.
Wait—he was nice to cats! And Jamie! He was nice to cats and big-boned girls. That’s something, right?
I can’t stand up in front of the entire college community and go, “He was nice to cats and big-boned girls.”
Okay, that’s it. I need some protein. I’ve had way too much cherry crumble. I need a bagel or maybe a DoveBar or something, to calm my nerves.
I tell Tom I’ll be right back and head to the café. It’s closed because it’s that weird period between lunch and dinner, but I know Magda will let me in. She does… but I’m surprised to see she’s not alone in there. Besides the regular staff, there are four small, dark-haired heads bent over what appears to be homework—of the first, third, sixth, and eighth grade variety.
I recognize Pete’s kids, in their blue and white school uniforms, right away.
“Hello,” I say, darting an incredulous look in Magda’s direction. She’s sitting at her cash register, filing her nails. Today, they’re lemon yellow.
“Hi, Heather,” Pete’s kids chime, in various levels of enthusiasm (the girls more so than the boys).
“Hi,” I say. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Waiting for our dad,” the
eldest, Nancy, says. “He’s going to take us home when he gets done protesting.”
“No,” her sister corrects us. “He’s taking us out for pizza, then home.”
“We’re all going out for pizza,” Magda says. “The best pizza in the world, which happens to be in my neighborhood.”
“I don’t know,” Nancy says, looking dubious. “We have good pizza in my neighborhood.”
Magda makes a face. “These kids think Pizza Hut is real pizza,” Magda says to me. “Tell them.”
“Pizza Hut isn’t real pizza,” I tell them. “The way that balloon of Big Bird they fly in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade isn’t the real Big Bird.”
“But the Santa at the end of the parade is the real Santa,” Pete’s youngest informs me, gravely.
“Well, of course,” I say. To Magda, I whisper, out of the corner of my mouth, “Okay, Mother Teresa. What gives?”
“Nothing,” she says innocently. “I’m just watching them for a little while. You know Pete can’t take them home yet, because he’s still on the picket line, protesting.”
“Right,” I whisper back. “You just happened to volunteer to babysit. With no ulterior motives.”
Magda shrugs. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday,” she says, not making eye contact. “There might be a slight possibility I wasn’t exactly clear enough with my intentions. I intend to rectify that. And see what happens.”
I nod in the direction of the kids, who’ve turned back toward their homework. “And what if you end up mother of the year? I thought you were too young for that.”
“I’m too young to have my own,” Magda says, her heavily lined eyes widening. “But I’ll take someone else’s. No problem. Besides, these are already potty trained.”
Shaking my head, I grab a DoveBar and head back to my office. Is it my imagination, or is everyone around me seeming to pair up all of a sudden? I know it’s spring, and all, but really… this is getting ridiculous. Everyone… everyone but me.
Oh, wait. I have a boyfriend, too. God, why can’t I seem to remember that? A boyfriend who has a question to ask me, when the timing is right. That’s not a very good sign, is it? I mean, that I can’t seem to remember Tad when he’s not around. That doesn’t bode particularly well for the future of our relationship.
Nor does the fact that I can’t get some other guy’s smile—and, let’s be frank, hands—out of my head.
What is wrong with me?
My phone is ringing its head off by the time I get to my desk. The caller ID says it’s the head of the Housing Department, Dr. Stanley Jessup.
“Hi, Dr. Jessup,” I say when I pick up. “What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me why you just PNG’d Mark Halstead,” Stan says.
“Oh,” I say. “Because he regularly feels up one of my residents. It’s kind of a funny story, actually. She had a meeting with Dr. Veatch to write up a formal complaint about it the morning he was shot.”
“Are you sure this girl is telling the truth?”
“Um… yeah,” I say, in some surprise. “Why?”
“Because if there’s some way you can retract that PNG, you might want to do it. Reverend Mark is the one running Owen’s memorial service, at which you are speaking. So the next couple hours of your life are about to get very, very uncomfortable.”
17
Step out of the shadows
Step up to the plate
Take a look at what the world sees
Don’t hide who you want to be
“Who You Really Are”
Written by Heather Wells
“Who was Dr. Owen Veatch?”
This is the question, ostensibly rhetorical, with which Reverend Mark Halstead opens his eulogy.
I glance around to see if anyone in the folding chairs on either side of me seems to have an answer… but no one does. Everyone’s head is bent… but not in prayer. My colleagues are all studying the faces of their cell phones or BlackBerrys.
Nice.
“I’ll tell you who Dr. Owen Veatch was,” Reverend Mark goes on. “Dr. Owen Veatch was a man of conviction. Strong conviction. Owen Veatch was a man who had the courage to stand up and say no.”
Reverend Mark spreads his arms out very wide on the word no, and the long sleeves of his robe fly out like a white cape. “That’s right. Owen Veatch said no to this college campus becoming a place of divisiveness. Owen Veatch said no to New York College being held hostage by any one group who maintained their beliefs were more correct than any other’s. Owen Veatch just said no … ”
Muffy Fowler uncrosses her long, black-hosed legs (why didn’t I think of going home to change before coming here? I’m still in jeans. I’m wearing jeans to my boss’s memorial service. I have to be the worst employee ever. Noway am I getting a Pansy this year), leans over, and whispers in my ear, “Don’t you think he’s cuter than Jake Gyllenhaal?”
Tom, fanning himself with a copy of Us Weekly he’d snagged from the reception desk on our way out, and brought with him for moral support, looks shocked.
“Bite your tongue, woman,” he whispers back.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Muffy says. We have to be careful whispering, because we’re in the second-to-the-front row of folding chairs—though considerably off to one side of the wooden podium upon which Reverend Mark is currently hammering his fist. We’ve already been caught whispering once before, and Reverend Mark had given us a dirty look that I’m sure everybody in the gym, even in the very last row, had seen.
In the row in front of us, Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch sits sandwiched between Mrs. Allington, the president’s wife, and a woman who can only be Owen’s mother, Mrs. Veatch Senior, who, at eighty-something, looks as if she might drop dead herself at any moment, no bullets necessary. All three women are staring up at Reverend Mark, tears streaming down their faces. Only Mrs. Allington’s tears are due to the flask I know she keeps in her Prada bag, and nips from regularly, when she thinks no one is looking. Every time she takes a nip, Tom makes a note in his BlackBerry. He’s brought it along because it’s more expedient for note taking, he believes, than his Day Runner.
“And this man, this professional educator, who believed so strongly in his convictions, who strived to make this campus a safe, fair, learning environment for everyone,” Reverend Mark goes on, “this man lost his life for his job—a job he dedicated more than half his years to—to the young people of this country. He was there for our children, for over twenty years.”
Reverend Mark seems to be warming up to his subject. The youth choir, in risers to one side of his podium, are gazing at him rapturously… almost as rapturously as Muffy and Tom are. Not surprisingly, Jamie is not there. No one in the choir appears to be missing her too much. Or at all. In their gold and white robes, the student singers look youthful and angelic and quite unlike their normal selves, a few of whom I recognize as Fischer Hall residents I’ve busted for smuggling kegs into the building under their coats.
“Revered and admired for his gift of communicating with the youths of today, Dr. Veatch will be sorely missed and his passing deeply mourned,” Reverend Mark informs us. “However, take comfort in the words of our Lord Jesus, as written in John, chapter three, verse fifteen, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.”
I glance over at the Mrs. Veatches to see if they are taking comfort from the reverend’s words. Mrs. Veatch Senior appears to have fallen asleep. Pam and Mrs. Allington are staring up at the Reverend Mark, their mouths open. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to either of them that Owen might have attained eternal life in the kingdom of the Lord. I have to admit the possibility never occurred to me, either. But then I have only a passing familiarity with the Bible.
Next to Mrs. Allington, her husband, President Allington, is deeply entranced in his BlackBerry. Except when I look closer, I see he’s not checking his e-mail or surfing the Web. He’s playing Fantasy Football.
“Fellow Pa
nsies,” Reverend Mark goes on, in his deep, melodic voice, “I call upon you not to grieve for Dr. Veatch, nor mourn his passing, but to celebrate his entrance into the kingdom of the Lord.”
Reverend Mark seems to be winding down. I can see that the choir is getting ready to launch into their next number. We’ve already been treated to “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” I wonder, as I flip through my note cards to review what I’m going to say about Owen, what our next musical treat will be. I have no idea what kind of music Owen liked. I recall he once mentioned Michael Bolton, and shudder involuntarily. Tom glances over at me and says, knowingly, “I know. If she keeps up at this rate, they’re going to have to carry her out,” and nods meaningfully at Mrs. Allington.
With a few final assurances that Dr. Veatch is currently dwelling in the house of the Lord—a far better abode than the one-bedroom apartment he’d formerly dwelt in—Reverend Mark leaves the podium, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, the long robes of his surplice fluttering behind him. Muffy smiles her big, toothy Miss America smile at him as he passes by. Reverend Mark smiles back, but not as big—
Then his gaze falls on me, seated next to Muffy, and the smile crumbles, then disappears completely. In fact, you might even say the look he gives me is… well, deadly.
Yeah. Reverend Mark doesn’t like me too much.
He’s so busy giving me the death stare that the Reverend Mark almost smacks into Dr. Jessup, who is making his way up to the podium next. Dr. Jessup shakes the minister’s hand, and Reverend Mark utters a few words and places a comforting hand on the Housing Department head’s shoulder.
The brief lull gives me an opportunity to look around the newly renamed (for reasons best left unmentioned) New York College Sports Center gymnasium. Every folding chair and most of the bleachers are filled with people. People who didn’t know Owen. People who have just come to gawk at the memorial service of a murdered man. The gym floor is filled with flowers… and film crews from the local news channels. Except for the youth choir and the Fischer Hall resident assistants (whose attendance Tom made mandatory, informing them they’d be assigned extra hours at the reception desk if they didn’t show up), I see almost no students.
