by Meg Cabot
They’re here, Muffy explains, to “troubleshoot this here itty-bitty little thing.” In times of crisis, Muffy’s southern drawl becomes more pronounced.
“How about y’all take a seat now, and let’s get right to business,” Muffy says as she tucks her cream-colored skirt beneath her in a ladylike manner. We all do as she suggested and take a seat, with the exception of Special Agent Lancaster, who declares he’d prefer to stand. I suppose if he sat down, the stick up his butt would lodge so deeply into his brain that he would instantly expire, and then we’d have another corpse on our hands, so it’s just as well.
“So,” Muffy says. Her lipstick is a very bright red, as are her fingernails. “I’m sure y’all know why y’all are here—”
“Yes,” I say. “A girl in our building died yesterday.”
“Another one?” President Allington cries in surprise. A bite of egg salad sandwich falls out of his mouth and tumbles down the front of his blue-and-gold tie. “Jesus Christ!”
Gloria comes rushing over with a napkin to sponge the mayonnaise stains off his tie while the rest of us politely avert our gazes.
“Er, yes, Phillip,” Muffy says. “Remember, I told you? She died yesterday, of asthma.”
“Who the hell dies of asthma?” President Allington wants to know.
“Nine people a day,” I volunteer. “It’s one of this country’s most common and costly diseases.”
“Jesus Christ,” President Allington says again, this time less loudly. “Who knew?”
“Yes,” Muffy says, trying to take back control of her meeting. “Well, sad as that is, it’s not what we’re here to talk about. This is about the piece that appeared on New York College Express this morning. As y’all know, we’ve gone to great strides to keep that information out of the press—”
“I know, Muffy,” Dr. Jessup says apologetically, “and I just want to assure you that a lot of the particulars in that piece were pure lies.”
“Right,” Lisa says. “That kid does not have a water bed. His people asked if he could have a water bed, but we said no, right, Heather? Heather?”
“True,” I say, startled. I’d been distracted by the finger sandwiches. “Water beds are restricted in residence halls.”
“Really?” Bill asks. “Why?”
“Because the weight from the water could cause the bed to fall through the floor, endangering the residents below.”
I can’t help noticing that Lisa, President Allington, and I are the only ones touching the finger sandwiches. I think about putting back the one I’ve just taken, but Lisa is right: they’re really good. Plus the one I’ve snagged is salmon. Everyone knows salmon is good for you. It’s filled with omega-3 fatty acids, which are excellent for brain health.
“The prince doesn’t have a Jacuzzi either,” I add quickly, just so people don’t think I’m not paying attention. “The plumbing in Fischer Hall is so old, there’s no way it would support a Jacuzzi. So both those things weren’t true. I don’t know about the wet bar or home theater.”
“He’s got both of those,” Special Agent Lancaster confirms.
“Hot damn,” Bill says. “That kid’s living the dream.”
“Okay,” Muffy says, sounding a little frustrated. “Those things aren’t really the issue here. The issue we’re concerned with is who gave the Express the information about the location of the prince’s security surveillance team. We have good reason to believe it was a member of your staff, Lisa.”
Lisa’s face goes whiter that Muffy’s skirt. “Who” is the only word that comes out of Lisa’s mouth. I get the feeling that she doesn’t risk saying more. Also that she’s probably regretting the cucumber sandwich.
“Well, that’s the dang problem,” Muffy says. “We just don’t know for sure. We think the Express knows, but of course they’re claiming freedom of the press and all that fiddle-faddle.”
I cannot believe that Muffy just called the First Amendment fiddle-faddle. Fiddle Faddle is a delicious candy-coated popcorn snack food. It has nothing to do with the Bill of Rights.
“But since this is a private institution and the Express is funded by donors,” Muffy continues in a more cheerful tone, “we had the school’s IT department pull all their communication records, didn’t we, Charlie?”
Charlie, a balding man in glasses who is sitting across the conference table, laughs diabolically. “We sure did!”
Dr. Jessup has begun to perspire visibly. “And what precisely did the IT department discover?”
Charlie opens an expensive leather briefcase that’s been sitting at his feet, then pulls out a file and reads from it.
“Someone with a New York College campus IP address has been sending e-mails to the New York College Express for some time. The techs haven’t been able to trace precisely who it is, but they have been able to pin down that it’s someone from the west side of Washington Square Park. There’s only one building owned by New York College on the west side of Washington Square, and that building,” Charlie concludes dramatically, “is Fischer Hall.”
To quote President Allington, Jesus Christ.
“Excuse me,” Lisa says, and throws a hand over her mouth as she darts from the room.
15
I have the nice dress
White froth princess
But I might lose
With the shoes
Buckle strap
Pump or sandal
Won’t hide from them
That I’m a scandal
“Might Lose with the Shoes,”
written by Heather Wells
Everyone’s gaze follows Lisa as she flees for the ladies’ room.
“Is she all right?” Gloria, President Allington’s assistant, asks in concern. “Shall I go after her?”
“No, she’s fine,” I say. “She’s getting over the flu.”
Now everyone’s gaze flies to the pile of finger sandwiches, into which Lisa had been digging energetically.
“I don’t think she’s in the contagious phase anymore,” I add quickly.
“Well, that’s good,” Bill says, leaning in for a roast beef and honey mustard on a croissant. “These things sure are tasty.”
“I think we can move on without her,” Muffy says, sounding impatient again. “Heather, do you know of anyone on your staff who has a reason to feel disgruntled about the prince, or the country of Qalif, or the college?”
“No,” I say, determined not to mention Sarah. “Prince Rashid seems popular and well liked. People are lining up out my door—literally—for a chance to move into the building so they can be near him. And not to kill him, to party with him. To be totally honest, his partying is getting to be a bit of a problem. Lisa was going to send him a disciplinary letter about it today, as a matter of fact, because—”
“If I may,” Dr. Jessup interrupts quickly. “She hadn’t cleared that through me. Just because the boy enjoys a social gathering is no reason to discipline him.”
“Heck,” Bill says, licking his fingers. “If we spent all our time writing disciplinary letters to every boy in this school who likes to party, we’d never have time to party ourselves!”
All the men, with the exception of Special Agent Lancaster, laugh at Bill’s hilarious joke.
“Actually we have first-year students on camera going into the prince’s room, where alcohol is being served,” I say when they’re done laughing, with a glance at Special Agent Lancaster. “I imagine you’re aware of this, right?”
Special Agent Lancaster shakes his head, but not in denial. “The bureau doesn’t comment on the behavior of those we’re protecting. We only provide for their safety.”
I narrow my eyes at him for giving such a wishy-washy response, then continue: “Well, it’s a violation of the student code of conduct for residents over the age of twenty-one to provide alcohol to students who haven’t yet reached the legal drinking age, and that’s exactly what Prince Rashid is doing. I understand that in his homeland, the drinking la
ws might be more lax, but here in the U.S.—”
For the first time ever, I hear Special Agent Lancaster laugh. It’s a sarcastic laugh, more of a single Ha! of derision. But it’s still a laugh, and draws everyone’s attention, including mine.
“Pardon me,” the agent says, the stoic mask of professionalism falling back into place. “I only meant to observe that in the prince’s homeland, consumption of alcohol of any kind is illegal, and the penalty for being found with it is imprisonment and fifty lashes.”
“Holy crap!” Bill cries, choking a little on his eighth sandwich. Not that I’m counting, except that he’s bogarting all the egg salad and salmons, which are my favorite. “People still use the lash?”
“The penalty for premarital sex in Qalif,” Special Agent Lancaster observes casually, “is beheading, so the lash is quite mild in comparison.”
“Oh my,” purrs Muffy, looking at Special Agent Lancaster from beneath her eyelashes. “How atrocious.”
I know Muffy well enough to tell that she likes what she sees. Muffy has recently gotten out of a long-term relationship—well, long term for her—with a professor ex-boyfriend of mine, Tad, who turned out to be a little too vegan for Muffy’s taste.
It appears that a special agent for the U.S. State Department who has intimate knowledge of the human rights violations of the country of Qalif might be a little . . . meatier for Muffy.
“Isn’t Fischer Hall where that girl lives?” one of the men whose name I didn’t catch asks. “The one who was dating that fellow who was head of the GSC?”
My amusement over Muffy’s flirting with Special Agent Lancaster quickly dies when I realize they’re talking about Sarah.
“GSC?” President Allington looks bewildered.
“Graduate Student Collective,” Charlie, the guy with the file folder, says. He pulls a small laptop from his briefcase and opens it. “You remember, they were the ones whining last year for better wages and benefits or some silliness.”
I’ve never been to a meeting in the president’s office before, but now that I’m here, I can’t believe this is what goes on. I’m constantly hearing how there’s no money in the budget for things we need—security cameras in the second-floor library, or pens, for instance—but there appears to be plenty of money for finger sandwiches.
Then people sit around eating them while bad-mouthing excellent employees like Sarah, who works so hard for the school. She wasn’t whining when she went on strike last year. She was hoping to improve conditions for many hardworking staff members like herself.
“I think I know who you’re talking about,” I say, “and—”
“The GSC is planning on joining the faculty in the upcoming no-confidence vote on the president,” Charlie goes on, as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Hey,” President Allington says, offended. “Why doesn’t the faculty have confidence in me?”
“We explained this to you already, Phil,” Muffy says in a tired voice. “They’re a little miffed about the money you accepted from Prince Rashid’s father . . . and maybe a few other donors who might not have the most stellar reputations.”
“Who cares where the money comes from if we do good things with it?” the president demands. “What else am I supposed to do? It’s not like this school’s got an endowment, like the Ivy Leagues. We gotta take whatever money we can get. If that means letting in dumb rich kids who’ve got parents who can pay their tuition—and some who can donate extra—well, then, by God, I’m going to do it. I’m trying to educate young people here!”
“We understand that, Phil,” Muffy says in a soothing tone. “But you can’t blame the faculty, let alone the students, for objecting when they find out their shiny new classrooms have been paid for with money donated by murderers, misogynists, and anti-Semites.”
“Now hold on there,” a businessman in a yellow power tie cries, almost spilling his coffee in his haste to put it down. “That’s not what we’re doing.”
“Isn’t it?” Muffy asks sweetly. “Do you remember what all those college kids did back in the eighties when they found out their schools held financial investments in South Africa?”
Dr. Jessup dutifully holds up his hand as if we’re in a classroom, but Muffy doesn’t call on him.
“They set up little ol’ tent villages outside the administration buildings, demanding divestment and an end to apartheid,” she goes on. “I was only a little girl myself when that happened, but even I remember it was not a pretty sight.”
“But we’re not invested in Qalif,” Yellow Power Tie says in exasperation.
“Aren’t we?” I ask. “The heir to its throne is living in one of our residence halls. We’ve taken half a billion dollars from his father. I could see how that might be enough to anger some people.”
“Like that girl in the GSC,” Charlie says. “What was her name?”
“That’s not who I meant,” I say hastily. “Sarah’s our office’s grad student assistant, and while she’s no fan of Qalif, I can personally guarantee that she isn’t the leak.” At least, I hope I can. “Sarah loves New York College, just like she loves Fischer Hall and its residents. She would do anything to protect them. She’s the one who brought the piece in The Express on Prince Rashid to our attention this morning.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t write it,” Yellow Power Tie says with a bitter laugh. “If she showed it to you, it’s probably because she is the leak. Leaks can never wait to show off their handiwork.”
I glare at him. This is a classic example of how wars get started, I think, because some blowhard sitting in an ivory tower, high above the commoners, starts spouting off about something of which he knows nothing.
“No,” Muffy says, coming to my (and Sarah’s) defense. “Heather’s right. I know Sarah. She might not agree with the school’s politics, but she wouldn’t do anything to endanger her residents.”
“But we know the leak is coming from somewhere in your building!” Charlie cries. “Who else could it be? I thought only the freshman and transfer students had checked in this week. What would any of them care about where we’re getting our donations? They’re still feeling lucky to have been admitted here at all.”
He has a point.
“It’s possible it could be someone else on the staff,” I admit. “Someone besides Sarah. There are a lot of new resident assistants this year, and some of them haven’t exercised the best judgment. They were all at Prince Rashid’s party, for example. One of them died afterward, and the rest of them didn’t even admit to us that they’d been there themselves, or that they’d seen her there. We caught them on the video monitors. Lisa’s planning on putting them on probation to teach them a lesson.”
There are a few seconds of silence as the men—and Muffy and Gloria, who is just coming in with a plate of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies—digest this. Then Bill says, “Well, heck. Skip the probation. Why not fire them?”
Charlie closes his briefcase with a snap. “Sounds good to me.”
“The damage is already done,” Muffy says musingly, “but if one of them is the leak, termination would eliminate the problem. They’ve already violated their employment contract once, and proved they can’t be trusted.”
“Agreed.” Yellow Power Tie lifts his coffee cup again, clearly in a celebratory mood. “But before they move out, we’ll have to make sure they sign confidentiality agreements that they won’t discuss anything they’ve seen inside the building, or they’ll be expelled.”
A guy in a blue tie begins making a note on his smartphone. “I’ll have Legal write something up. Should have it ready to be placed in their mailboxes by five o’clock. That way,” he adds with a diabolical grin, “when their parents start calling our offices to bitch and moan about having to start paying their room and board, we’ll all have gone home.”
“I like it,” says the president, rubbing his hands together with glee. “How about one of those cookies, Gloria? They smell amazing.”
Gloria
beams and walks toward him. “Fresh baked, the way you like them, Phil.”
“Wait,” I say. My heart is pounding in my chest. “I said it’s possible one of them might be the leak. You can’t kick all of them out of the building . . . especially not without any warning!”
“We just did,” says Charlie with a shrug.
I feel a rush of emotions . . . mainly concern and worry for Fischer Hall. What will happen to the building if we fire nine members of the student staff, then have to replace them all—and train their replacements—a week before classes start?
It’s going to be a nightmare . . . almost as bad as the nightmare of losing an RA to natural causes.
I’d known there’d be repercussions from what I’d seen on the security tape, but that this would be one of them had never occurred to me.
“Now, hold on here a minute.” Dr. Jessup looks uncomfortable. “I don’t mean to be the bad guy here, and I agree these RAs screwed up and need to be disciplined. But they’re still students. We can’t throw them out onto the street. They were promised room and board for the academic year.”
“They fucked up, Stan,” Bill says, munching on a cookie. “When you fuck up, shit gets real.”
“We don’t even know for sure any of them is the leak,” I say, grasping at straws. “We can’t punish all of them for what one of them may have done.”
“Really?” The guy in the blue tie presses send on his phone and smiles at me. “Seems to me they all bit from the forbidden fruit by going to the prince’s party. Now they gotta pay the price, like Adam and Eve.”
Lisa comes hurrying back into the room, looking flushed but much better than she had earlier, and takes her seat.
“I’m so sorry,” she says brightly. “What did I miss?”
