by Meg Cabot
It’s all beginning to come back to me . . . what it’s like to be popular. People used to line up like this in front of me fifteen years ago, but it was to get my autograph after playing a sold-out concert (back in the days when I was number one on the pop record charts), not to get their kid’s name on a waiting list to move into the residence hall where I work.
“Then,” I say, lowering the binder and doing my Country Bear Jamboree automaton imitation again, “if Kaileigh still feels uncomfortable, she can come down here and fill out a room change request form, and as soon as a space becomes available through the wait list, we’ll contact you. I mean, Kaileigh. But right now Fischer Hall is filled to capacity.”
There is a surprisingly loud groan, not just from Mrs. Harris, but from everyone standing in line behind her.
I decide it’s better not to tell them that the wait list of students clamoring to live in Fischer Hall is already over five hundred students long, and that the chances of Kaileigh—or any other student—receiving a room change is zero.
“Worked here for twenty years, and I never thought I’d see this,” I hear Carl mutter under his breath. “People lining up to move into this dump? What is the world coming to?”
I’ve only worked in Fischer Hall for a year, but I feel the same way. Not that I consider Fischer Hall a dump.
Still, I’m trying to act like a professional, so I don’t agree with him . . . out loud, anyway.
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Harris says. “I’m here. I’ve waited all this time. Why can’t I just fill out the form for Kaileigh?”
“Well, even though I know you’d never do anything against Kaileigh’s wishes,” I say tactfully, “I’ve had family members—and roommates—request that students be moved
from rooms in which the resident was in fact perfectly happy.” Exactly the way spurned lovers sometimes call the electric company and try to get their ex’s power shut off, out of sheer spite. “So that’s why I need Kaileigh—and any other student who wants a room change,” I add, loudly enough for all the other parents to hear, “to come here and fill out the paperwork him or herself.”
Not unexpectedly, Mrs. Harris and all the other parents who’ve been waiting in line for so long groan again.
Seeing Mrs. Harris’s mutinous expression, I hurry to add, before she can interrupt, “Kaileigh hasn’t even tried talking to Ameera about the problem yet, has she? Or their RA?”
Mrs. Harris rolls her eyes. “The RA? You mean that girl Jasmine, who lives down the hall? I’ve been knocking on her door all morning, but she’s not there. I don’t see why you hired her. My Kaileigh would do a much better job of making herself available.”
“Kaileigh’s a freshman,” I point out, trying not to let her dig at our student staff—most of whom are new to the building, just like Kaileigh—irritate me, and go on, “Resident assistants have to be juniors or seniors. Look, I’m sure this whole thing between your daughter and her roommate will have blown over by the time classes start and the girls have to buckle down and start studying. In the meantime, if Kaileigh—or anyone else—really does feel the situation is untenable, they’re welcome to come down here and schedule an appointment with the hall director, or look at this list and see if there’s someone on it with whom they might want to swap rooms.”
While Mrs. Harris continues to fume—she’s a parent who feels all of her daughter’s decisions need to be made for her—I notice a few faces in the line suddenly appear much more cheerful. But those faces all belong to students.
Not the typical sweatshirt-and-Ugg-wearing students I normally see in my office, however. The girls are rocking sparkly eye shadow, tons of bangles, sky-high platform heels, and miniskirts. The boys are even more carefully styled than the girls, sporting pressed oxford-cloth shirts, skinny jeans, and pastel scarves (tossed around necks thinner than my upper arms). They’re making me feel as if I showed up to work today underdressed in my dark jeans, white button-up blouse, and flats.
These kids want to make an impression on someone . . . and it isn’t me. I highly doubt it’s any of these parents either.
I have a pretty good idea who it is, though.
One of the students, a blonde in extremely high heels, leans forward and calls, “Hey. Hey!” to get Mrs. Harris’s attention.
When Mrs. Harris glances at her, the girl says, “Hi, I’m Isabel. I got assigned to Wasser Hall, the building across the park where that guy’s son lives.” She points at Gold Rolex, who blushes from the attention. “Anyway, I’ll totally swap rooms with your daughter. I wouldn’t mind living with a slut . . . especially one who’s never home. In fact, I’d love that. I’ll live with anyone so long as I can be in Fischer Hall . . . and near him.”
The boys and girls all titter excitedly. They know exactly who the him is that she’s referring to, even if Mrs. Harris looks blank.
I knew it. It isn’t the makeover Fischer Hall received, or the reality show that was filmed here over the summer featuring two very well-known celebrities, my ex-boyfriend and future brother-in-law, Jordan Cartwright, and his wife, Tania Trace (though the show is in “postproduction” and won’t air until after Christmas), or even all our hard work that’s catapulted the building to such heights of popularity.
It’s our Very Important Resident (for whom Carl’s installing the security monitors, and the surveillance crew has been stationed down the hall). Word about him has spread faster than I ever imagined . . . not surprisingly, since he hasn’t kept a very low profile, despite his insistence on being called by his self-chosen “American” name instead of the one his parents gave him.
I wonder which was the biggest tip-off to his fellow students: the newly installed security cameras in the lobby and our office, as well as on the fifteenth-floor hallway and exterior ledges outside his windows? Or the fact that he’s the only student in the history of New York College ever to be assigned an entire suite to himself, two bedrooms and one bathroom for one person?
Or is it the chauffeured white Escalade that’s parked outside the building twenty-four hours a day, available for his personal use any time of day or night?
Or perhaps it’s his constantly updated social media networking feed (over a million followers and growing), shots of him playing competitive tennis, riding horses in the desert, skydiving onto his own personal yacht, even dancing in nightclubs with the locals, to the frustration of his diligent yet exhausted bodyguards and now the entire New York College housing staff?
It couldn’t possibly be his father’s $500 million donation to the college, a donation so large—only after his son was admitted—that it became front-page news in every paper in the city?
Clearly all of this has done nothing to lower our VIR’s profile.
But it’s done everything to boost Fischer Hall’s reputation as the place to live.
Mrs. Harris, however, has no idea about any of this.
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Harris says, in some confusion, to Isabel’s offer. “That’s just it. Kaileigh would never want to move out of Fischer Hall. She adores all the people she’s met since she’s moved in here, especially the girls in the room next door, her suite mates, Chantelle and Nishi. And she’d never request a room change.” Mrs. Harris darts a nervous look in my direction. “That’s why I’m here to do it for her. She wouldn’t want to hurt Ameera’s feelings. Kaileigh’s got such a tender heart, you see.”
I hear a snort from behind Mrs. Harris, though it doesn’t come from the direction of the students. I see that a wild-haired young woman in overalls has entered the office, a teacup and saucer balanced carefully in her hands.
“Excuse me,” apologizes Sarah, looking genuinely contrite when she sees that her derisive snigger at the words “tender heart” was overheard. She’s the graduate student assigned to assist the Fischer Hall director’s office, and she knows she isn’t supposed to smirk at the parents. “I was . . . I was just—” She’s at a loss for words.
“Taking that tea in to Ms. Wu?” I
ask, rescuing her. “Go ahead.” I nod at the hall director’s closed office door. “She’s been waiting for it.”
“Sorry that took me so long.” Sarah quickly opens the door to Lisa’s office, allowing me a glimpse of my boss, miserably resting her head on top of her desk, as Sarah goes in. “The line in the caf was unbelievable. Here you go, Lise. This will make you feel better—”
A soft moan escapes from Lisa before the door closes behind Sarah.
Mrs. Harris stares after the younger girl, apparently having missed the snort at her expense.
“If the hall director is in,” the older woman says, a calculated expression on her face, “perhaps I’d be better off speaking with her about getting Kaileigh a room change, since she’s in charge. My husband and I leave here to go back to Ohio on Saturday, and if Kaileigh’s going to move, it will have to be soon. She can’t possibly cart all her own things, she’ll need our help. As I said, I’m really quite worried about Ameera’s lifestyle. My Kaileigh was looking forward to having a real roommate this year, not someone who—”
“I’m sorry.” I cut her off, though I use my sweetest tone. “The hall director isn’t feeling well. She has a stomach bug. You wouldn’t want to spoil the rest of your trip to New York by catching it.”
Mrs. Harris looks alarmed. “Oh, no. Certainly not.”
In the hallway outside, the elevator doors ding, and the noise level increases noticeably as residents rush to get off the car while others rush to cram themselves, and their plastic bins of belongings, on. Fischer Hall was constructed in the mid-1800s, so the lobby floor is made of marble, the ceilings all nearly twelve feet high (twenty in the cafeteria), with chandeliers that sparkle with the very same crystals they did in the days of Henry James (though they’ve now been retrofitted with energy-saving bulbs instead of real candles).
Therefore the noise during any period of high foot traffic (such as lunch and dinnertime) can get to be a little much, thanks to the voices of so many high-spirited young people mingling together at once, not to mention the pinging of the electronic scanner as they slide their ID cards through it to gain access to the building, and the bark of Pete, behind the security desk, telling everyone to “Slow down, it’s not a race,” and “Have your ID card ready or you’re not going anywhere, no way, no how,” on top of the constant dinging of the elevator doors as they open and close.
But the noise in the hallway increases to a level I’ve rarely heard before, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why when I hear Isabel and her friends whisper excitedly, “Oh my God, he’s coming this way! It’s . . .”
A second later, a tall, dark-haired boy dressed in skinny jeans and a camouflage-print sports jacket—shoulder seams nearly bursting against its owner’s sizable muscles; sleeves pushed casually to elbows to reveal a dazzling diamond-and-platinum watch—strides into my office, followed by a retinue of young women and hulking bodyguards.
“Prince Rashid,” breathes Isabel and her friends, starstruck.
“Please,” His Highness Crown Prince Rashid Ashraf bin Zayed Faisal says, with a wink and a modest tip of his fedora, followed by a slow smile that reveals all of his perfectly white, even teeth. “In this country I go by my American name, Shiraz. Because like the wine, I’m best served chilled.”
3
Falcons, Ferraris, and a Big Fat Inheritance:
Just a Day in the Life for Rascally Rashid of Qalif
What’s Crown Prince Rashid Ashraf bin Zayed Faisal got that you don’t have? Everything.
A competitive tennis player whose father boasts the largest fortune in the Middle East, Prince Rashid never walks. Why should he when he can take one of his gold-rimmed Escalades?
Twenty-one, Rashid’s already earned his country’s only gold medal in the Summer Olympics, but that’s not enough for “Shiraz.” No, now he wants to try to earn a college degree in the good ol’ U.S. of A., right here at New York College.
Don’t worry though, fellow peasants, the Express is on the case. We’ll keep you apprised of all his daily dealings, and let you know if we see him in the dining hall eating spaghetti and meatballs like us proletarians.
New York College Express,
your daily student news blog
The door to the hall director’s office is thrown open. Sarah takes one glimpse at “Shiraz,” his biceps nearly bursting out of his camo sports coat, and looks as if she might follow our boss’s example and lose her breakfast.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she says.
“Well, hey there, pretty lady.” The prince lowers his dark, sooty lashes and flashes an even more dazzling smile, the one that’s caused the press to dub him “Rascally Rashid.”
The smile has no effect on Sarah.
“What do you want?” she growls.
“Me?” The prince seems surprised by her hostility. “I don’t want anything.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Sarah,” I say in a warning tone, worried about the suspicious looks Rashid’s bodyguards are giving her.
While it’s true that most of the New York College community has welcomed Rashid with open arms, a small minority hasn’t been particularly thrilled by the young prince’s enrollment, despite the massive donation his father—His Highness General Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed Faisal, crown prince and deputy supreme commander of the armed forces of Qalif—made to New York College’s School of Arts and Sciences.
This dislike could have something to do with the fact that Prince Rashid is rumored to have scored pretty dismally on the SATs, well below the already minimal average required for admission to New York College.
But it probably has more to do with the fact that Qalif, though famous for its beautiful beaches and architecture—and prodigious oil production—does not allow freedom of the press or religious expression, and its government (led by Prince Rashid’s father) is said to repress women, homosexuals, and the poor.
At a supersecret administrative staff meeting—to which Sarah hadn’t been invited because she’s only a graduate student, not a full-time employee—we’d been told that there’ve been threats on the young prince’s life, some of which may have come from members of the New York College community, who are calling the money Rashid’s father donated to the school “blood money,” and the school’s president, Phillip Allington, “a traitor to his country” for having accepted it.
Fortunately, protecting visiting royalty falls under the responsibility of the U.S. State Department (thank God; the last thing we need is Pete from campus security thinking it’s his duty to keep the heir to the throne to Qalif safe, in addition to forcing all seven hundred of our residents to sign in their guests to the building), so they’ve set up their office in our conference room.
But all that really means is that if Sarah doesn’t watch out, she’s going to find herself getting arrested by the U.S. Bureau of Diplomatic Security . . . if one of Prince Rashid’s bodyguards doesn’t kill her first.
“I’m here with her.” Rashid points at a young woman who’s gotten off the elevator along with him.
“Of course you are,” Sarah says with an unpleasant laugh. “You know in this country, unlike yours, Your Highness, women are not legally required to walk behind men.”
Prince Rashid looks even more surprised, and a little hurt.
“Miss.” The larger of the two bodyguards narrows his coal-black eyes at Sarah. “Do you have a problem with the prince?”
“No,” Sarah says. “I have a problem with his entire country, starting with the way his people treat my people, and by people I mean the people of Israel—”
As the bodyguard takes a step toward Sarah, I rise from my desk, certain that an international incident is about to occur right in the Fischer Hall director’s office.
But Rashid raises a hand to calm his security man, saying something in swift Arabic that ends with, “So chill out, okay, Hamad?”
Hamad doesn’t look very chill, however. His broad shoulders beneath his
impeccably cut charcoal suit jacket are tense. I can’t help noticing a subtle bump in the side of his suit jacket beneath the left arm that I know from living with a private detective indicates a firearm.
Before I have time to feel nervous about this, however, I hear a gasp.
“Mom?” cries the girl who’s followed Rashid into my office.
Mrs. Harris pops up from my office chair.
“Kaileigh?” Mrs. Harris cries. “Oh, my goodness, it’s you! Sweetheart, you didn’t tell me you were going out.”
Kaileigh—she of the tender heart—says woodenly, “Shiraz and Nishi and Chantelle and I were going to go grab some lunch. Why are you in the hall director’s office?”
“Oh, I was just, uh, er . . .” Mrs. Harris’s face turns the color of my That’s Hot pink nail polish.
“Your mom stopped in to ask me a question about the, um . . . Parent Parting.” I rush to Mrs. Harris’s rescue, grabbing a flyer from the top of the pile on my desk. “The final farewell ceremony is Saturday at three in the Winer Sports Complex, Mrs. Harris. We highly recommend you and your husband attend. It’s going to be a beautiful way for the two of you to say good-bye to your daughter until you see her again at Parents Weekend in October.”
I’m quoting directly from the flyer. In the opinion of many of my coworkers as well as myself, the Parent Parting is a joke . . . though considering the way some parents—including Mrs. Harris—seem to think their tenderhearted darlings can’t cope without them, it’s probably not a bad idea. According to administrators at other schools, some parents have begun renting apartments near their children’s dorms so they can “help” their sons and daughters transition through their first semester.
This “help” includes showing up at their child’s instructors’ office hours and demanding that the professors give the child better grades.
So holding a candlelit “parent-parting” ceremony at the end of orientation week isn’t simply a nice thing to do. It’s becoming a necessity on many campuses.
