by Meg Cabot
I ignore this offer.
“Did you call her?”
“I did,” Dad says.
“And did you make amends?”
“I tried to,” Dad says. “But your mother can, as you know, be very difficult. She refused to admit that I had hurt her in any way. In fact, she reminded me—as you did, just now—that it was she who leftme, and that if anyone should be making amends, it’s her. But that she doesn’t care to, because, according to her, I deserve everything I got.”
I nod. “Yeah, that sounds like Mom, all right. It really sucks when you say I’m like her, by the way. If you tried to make amends with me, I’d be much more receptive.”
“Well,” Dad says. “That’s good, because you’re next on my list.”
I shrug. “Amends accepted.”
“I haven’t even made them yet.”
“Yeah, you have,” I say. “This dinner is enough. It’s totally delicious.”
“This dinner is hardly enough,” Dad says. “You were basically deprived of a father figure during your formative teen years. That’s the kind of hurt that can’t be cured with a single steak dinner.”
“Well,” I say, “now that you’re living here, maybe you can cure it with multiple steak dinners. Like every Friday night, or something. Although you might want to vary the menu a little. I like pork chops, too. Oh, and fried chicken.”
“Heather,” Dad says, sounding sad. “Food can’t serve as a balm for all the harm I’ve caused you. I understand that, of all the people I hurt when I broke the law, you are the one who suffered the most. Leaving you alone with your mother, who then put you on that mall tour. Even if you did enjoy it, that’s no way for anyone to spend her childhood, living in a trailer and traveling from mall to mall, being exploited by the one person who should have been looking out for your best interests.”
“It was more fun than going to school,” I point out. “And, like you said—it was hard to get me off the stage back then.”
“But you were deprived of the normal joys of childhood. And I can’t help but feel that that deprivation is partially responsible for the way you are today.”
I stare at him. “What’s wrong with the way I am today?” I ask.
“Well, for one thing, you’re nearly thirty and you don’t have a husband or children. You don’t seem to realize that family is the most important thing in the world—not that guitar I hear you plinking late into the night, and not your job.Family, Heather. Take it from someone whose lost his—family is what matters.”
I lay my fork down again and say gently, “There are lots of different types of families nowadays, Dad. They don’t all consist of a husband and wife and kids. Some of them consist of a girl, her dog, a PI, her dad, her best friend, and the various people she works with. Not to mention the drug dealer down the street. My feeling about it is, if you care about someone, doesn’t that person automatically become your family?”
“But don’t you worry,” Dad says, after he spends a moment digesting this information, “that if you don’t have children, there’ll be no one to care for you in your old age?”
“No,” I say. “Because I could have children, and they could turn out to hate me. The way I see it, I have friends who care about me now, so I’ll probably have friends who’ll care about me when I’m old, too. We’ll take care of each other. And in the meantime, I’m putting the max into my 401(K), and setting aside as much as I can into a SEP IRA as well.”
Dad gazes at me over his steak. I’m disturbed to note that there are tears in his eyes.
“That’s very profound, Heather,” he says. “Especially since I sense that, in many ways, these so-called family members of yours have been kinder to you than your actual blood relations.”
“Well,” I admit, “at least none of them has stolen all my money and fled the country. Yet.”
Dad raises his Diet Coke can. “I’ll drink to that,” he says. I clink his can with my wine glass. “So you really don’t mind,” he says, when we’re done clinking, “if I stick around and try to make amends—even though you say I don’t have to?”
“I don’t care,” I say. “Just so long as you aren’t expecting me to take care of you in your old age. Because I’ve only been contributing to my 401(K) for a couple of months. I don’t have enough money in it to support myself, let alone an aged parent.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Dad says. “Why don’t we agree to support each other emotionally only?”
“Sounds good to me,” I say, spearing the last of my steak.
“Looks like you’re ready for salad,” Dad says, getting up and going to the fridge, from which he takes the salad bowl into which Jordan did not, thankfully, barf. In it is what appear to be various types of lettuce, some cherry tomatoes, and—much to my delight—croutons.
“I’ll toss,” Dad says, proceeding to do so. “I hope you like blue cheese dressing.” Without waiting for an answer (because, really, why would he need one? Who doesn’t like blue cheese dressing?), he goes on, “Now. About you and Cooper.”
I nearly choke on the sip of wine I’ve taken.
“This is just my opinion,” Dad says, “and I’ve been out of the dating scene for a long time, I’ll admit. But if you really want things to progress to a romantic level with him, I’d suggest not spending quite so much time with his younger brother. I realize you and Jordan were together for a terribly long time, and that it’s hard to let go. But I sense a certain amount of friction from Cooper concerning his family, and if I were you, I’d limit my interactions with them. Especially Jordan.”
I stab at some of the lettuce he’s spooned onto my plate.
“Gee, Dad,” I say, “thanks for the tip.” Because what else can I say? I’m not going to get into my love life—or lack thereof—with my dad.
But he apparently doesn’t realize this, since he goes on.
“I think that once Jordan is married, and Cooper realizes you’re finally over him, you’ll have a much better chance with him.” Dad sits back down and starts on his own salad. “Though it wouldn’t hurt if you’d make a little more effort to be pleasant in the mornings.”
I eat more salad. “Good to know,” I say. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Although you did seem to make quite a positive impression last night,” Dad comments.
I stop chewing. “Last night? You mean when Cooper caught me hauling his dead-drunk brother in the door?”
“No,” Dad says amiably. “I meant the fact that you were wearing a skirt. You should do that more often. Young men appreciate a girl in a skirt. I saw Cooper staring.”
I don’t bother telling my dad that the reason Cooper was staring wasn’t because I was in a skirt and he appreciated it, but because I was in such a short skirt that I looked like a hooker. Probably Cooper was trying not to laugh.
Still, these aren’t the kinds of things you can say to your father.
“I never even asked you,” Dad says, a little while later, over dessert (Dove Bars, of course). “Did you have plans for tonight? Am I keeping you from something?”
“Just America’s Next Top Model,” I say.
“What’s that?” Dad asks innocently.
“Oh, Dad,” I say. And show him. I mean, if he really wants to make amends, watching ANTM with me is an excellent way to start.
27
Don’t count me out
Who’s counting?
I won’t be numbered
I’m not wasting breath
I’m not going under.
“Drowning”
Written by Heather Wells
Dad is asleep after our fourth episode of ANTM in a row. I guess I can’t really blame him. While women find watching pretty girls play complicated mind games with one another endlessly fascinating—like today in the café, with Cheryl and Kimberly—your average heterosexual man can only take so many hours of it before he—like Dad, and Patty’s husband, Frank—passes out from sheer boredom.
H
e’s sleeping hard enough that when the phone rings, it doesn’t even wake him. There might be something to this yoga stuff after all, if it makes you sleep so hard even a ringing phone can’t wake you.
“Hello?” I whisper, after checking the caller ID—Unknown Number—and picking up.
“Hello, Heather?” asks a vaguely familiar male voice.
“Yes,” I say. “Who’s this?”
“Oh, I think you know,” the voice says. “Who else would be calling you at midnight on a Friday night?”
I think about this. Actually, I don’t know anyone who would call me at this hour, with the exception of Patty. But she wouldn’t dare pick up a phone this late, now that she has that disapproving live-in nanny.
Also, Patty doesn’t sound like a guy.
“Is this… ” I know I sound ridiculous, but I say it anyway. “Tad Tocco? I’m sorry I didn’t call you back earlier, but I’ve been busy.”
I hear convulsive laughter. Whoever it is on the other end of the phone is having a really good time. I instantly suspect students.
Drunk students.
“No, it’s not Tad,” the voice says. “It’s actually a friend of yours from last night. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”
And suddenly the memory of those ice-blue eyes on mine comes flooding back.
And all the blood seems to leave my extremities. I’m sitting there, frozen to the spot, holding the phone with my dad asleep on one side of me, and Lucy asleep on the other.
“Hello, Steve,” I manage to say, through lips that have gone cold. “How did you get my number?”
“How’d I figure out your last name and look it up, you mean?” Steve asks, with a laugh. “A little bird told me. Do you want to speak to him? He’s right here.”
The next thing I know, a voice that is unmistakably Gavin McGoren’s is swearing—steadily, and with much imagination— into the phone. I’d recognize those “motherfuckin’s” anywhere. They are the same ones Gavin regularly uttered back when I used to catch him elevator-surfing.
Then I hear a smacking sound—like skin on skin—and a second later, Steve is saying, “Tell her, goddamn you. Tell her what we told you to say.”
“FUCK… YOU,” is Gavin’s response. This is followed by a scuffling sound, and more smacking. When I hear Steve’s voice again, it’s out of breath.
“Well, I think you get the idea, anyway,” he says. “We’re having another party. And this time, you’re actually invited. And to make sure you show, we have your friend Gavin here. Unless you do exactly what I tell you, he’s going to suffer some bodily injury. And you wouldn’t want that, now, would you?”
I’m so horrified I can barely breathe. I say, “No.”
“I didn’t think so. So here’s the dealio. You come here. Alone. If you call the cops, he will get hurt. If you don’t show, he—”
“HEATHER, DON’T—” I hear Gavin start to bellow, but his voice is quickly smothered.
“—could get very, very hurt,” Steve finishes. “Got it?”
“I got it,” I say. “I’ll be there. But where’s here? The Tau Phi House?”
“Please,” Steve says, sounding bored. “We’re here, Heather. I think you know where.”
“Fischer Hall,” I say, my gaze going toward my living room windows, which look out at the back of the twenty-story building that is my place of work. It’s still early, by New York College residence hall standards, which means that most of the lights in the windows are blazing as the building’s occupants prepare to go out, apparently completely unaware that down on the first floor, in the closed and locked cafeteria, something unspeakable is about to take place.
Which is when I stop feeling cold, and start feeling angry. How dare they? Seriously. How dare they think they can get away with this again? Do they really believe I’m going to sit idly back and let them turn Fischer Hall into Death Dorm?
And okay, maybe it already is Death Dorm. But I’m not going to let it stay that way.
“Heather?” Steve’s voice is warm in my ear. It’s amazing how charming psychopathic killers can be, when they put their minds to it. “Are you still there?”
“Oh, I’m here,” I tell him. “And I’ll be right over.”
“Good,” Steve says, sounding pleased. “We’ll be looking forward to seeing you. Alone, like I said.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I’ll be alone.” Like I need any help kicking his skinny ass. Steve Winer is making an extremely bad decision, challenging me to a confrontation on my own turf. He might have been able to off a girl as tiny as Lindsay without getting caught, but if he thinks a girl like me is going to go down without a fight—a fight loud enough to bring the entire building banging on the cafeteria doors—he’s got another think coming.
But then again, he, like his brother, doesn’t strike me as the sharpest knife in the drawer.
“Good,” Steve says. “And remember. No cops. Or your boyfriend’s a dead man.”
I hear a thump, and then a scream. The scream comes from Gavin.
And I know that, stupid though he might be, Steve Winer isn’t someone to underestimate.
I slam down the receiver and spin around to see my dad sitting up, blinking groggily.
“Heather?” he says. “What’s the matter?”
“Something’s going down at the dorm,” I say, grabbing a piece of paper and writing a number on it. “I mean, residence hall. Something bad. I need you to call this person and tell him he needs to get over there as fast as possible. Tell him I’ll meet him in the café. Tell him to bring backup.”
Dad squints down at the number. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Fischer Hall,” I say, grabbing my coat. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Dad looks confused. “I don’t like this, Heather,” he says. “They don’t pay you enough for you to be hurrying over there in the dead of night like this.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, and I’m out the door.
The walk to Fischer Hall has never seemed so long. Even though I’m half running, it seems to take forever to get there. Partly because of the slick sidewalks I have to navigate, but also, I’m convinced, because of how hard my heart is hammering inside my chest. If they did anything to hurt Gavin… if they so much as bruised him—
I’m so intent on getting where I’m going that I don’t even see Reggie until I crash into him.
“Whoa, little lady,” he cries, as we collide. “Where would you be off to in such a hurry so late at night?”
“Geez, Reggie,” I say, struggling to catch my breath. “Don’t you ever go home?”
“Fridays are my best nights,” Reggie says. “Heather, what’s the matter? You’re white as—well, a white girl.”
“It’s those guys,” I pant. “The ones I told you about. They have one of my residents. In the café. They’re going to hurt him if I don’t get there, fast—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Reggie has hold of both my arms and doesn’t seem eager to let go. “Are you serious? Heather, don’t you think you should call the police?”
“I did!” I have to windmill both my arms before I manage to break free of his grip. “My dad’s calling them. But someone has to get in there in the meantime—”
“Why does that someone have to be you?” Reggie wants to know.
But it’s too late. I’m already off and running again, my Timberlands pounding on the newly shoveled sidewalk, my heart pounding in my throat.
When I throw open the door to Fischer Hall, the mystery of how Doug and his fellow frat brothers—not to mention his real brother—got into the building to kill Lindsay without actually being signed in is cleared up the minute I walk through the door and see the security guard.
“You!” I cry. It’s the crusty old guard from the security desk in Waverly Hall.
“ID,” he says.He doesn’t even recognize me.
“You were at Waverly Hall last night,” I pant, pointing at him accusingly.
I’m flipping open my wallet to show him my staff identification. “I’m the assistant director of this building,” I say to him. “I know you let a bunch of Tau Phis in here tonight without making them sign in. Just like you did Monday night, when they killed someone.”
Crusty Old Guard—his name tag says Curtiss—grunts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says grumpily.
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, you’ll find out in a minute, believe me. In the meantime, I want you to phone up to the building director and tell him to head to the café. And when the cops show up, send them there, too.”
“Cops?” Crusty Curtiss looks startled. “What—”
But I’m already running past him.
I don’t head for the main doors to the café, though. I’m not about to go walking blindly into their trap—lame as it might be. Instead, I dash down the hall, past my office, then the student government’s office—closed and locked, as always—and finally past the dining manager’s office, to the back entrance to the kitchen. The door, as I’d known it would be, is locked.
But I have my master key. I slip it from my pocket and—cradling a can of pepper spray in my free hand—unlock the door as quietly as I can and let myself into the kitchen.
It’s dark. As I’d expected, they’re in the dining hall itself. They don’t have anyone stationed in the kitchen. They haven’t even bothered turning the lights on in here. Amateurs.
I creep along the galley, straining my ears. I can hear the murmur of male voices out in the dining area. There’s a light on there, as well… but not the lights in the chandeliers. They haven’t turned on the overheads. Instead, they’ve got some kind of flickering lamp on… flashlights?
Or flames?
If they’re burning candles in there, they are in so much trouble. Burning candles isn’t allowed in any of the residence halls.
