The Bride Wore Size 12

by Meg Cabot

  “Oh, we already have one,” the boy says, hastily pulling some pizza boxes off a chair for me. “Well, it could be a baby rat. I can’t really tell which it is. Anyway, I named him Algernon. He’s supercute. I don’t have the heart to let them set up traps for him. He’s the only other living being I see in here most days, since the rest of the staff hasn’t come back to the city from break yet. Al’s my only IRL friend until classes start.”

  “IRL?” I use a clean napkin to carefully brush crumbs from the seat of the chair he’s offered me. Mice—or baby rats—mean droppings, and no matter how cute Algernon might be, droppings mean disease, which means hospitalization, which means my wedding will be even more of a disaster than it already is.

  “In real life.” The boy sits back down in his chair and studies me. “I’m sorry, have we met? You look familiar.”

  “I don’t know,” I say vaguely. In real life? This boy’s “real life” seems to consist of sitting by himself in an untidy office, churning out copy for a student news blog, with only a mouse—or baby rat—as a companion. I feel sorry for him, but he seems completely cheerful about it. “Do you ever eat in any of the dining halls?”

  He points at me, then snaps his fingers. “That’s it! You’re Heather Wells! You’re totally famous. I knew I’d seen you before.” He lifts his laptop and begins to type. “You interested in doing an interview? Our readers would totally love it. I could set you up with one of our entertainment bloggers when they get back to campus. I know just the one, she’s a huge fan of old crappy pop music—”

  “Uh, maybe,” I say, trying not to feel offended. Old crappy pop music? The pop music I performed wasn’t that crappy. And thirty isn’t that old . . . although maybe it is to a twenty-year-old. “I’m actually here to talk to you about something school-related. What’s your name?”

  “Oh, sorry. Cam. Cameron Ripley. I’m the editor in chief.” He narrows his hazel eyes at me. “Hey, you work in Death Dorm—I mean, Fischer Hall—now, don’t you? This isn’t about the piece I ran this morning, is it? The one about the prince? I’m sorry, but I know that story was solid. I have confirmation that he lives in your building. The admin’s been all over me about my source for that piece, which is not cool. We may be student run and online only, but we’re still journalists and we do not have to tell them shit about our—”

  “It’s not about that,” I interrupt. “Well, it’s peripherally about that. I wanted to see if you’d be interested in a swap.”

  He eyes me suspiciously. “What kind of swap?”

  “Of information.” I cross my legs—which isn’t as sexy as it sounds since I’m wearing cords, but a girl does what she can. “I have information you might be interested in. And you have information I might be interested in. Maybe we could work something out.”

  “I don’t know,” Cam says. He continues to eye me like I’m the enemy. The cords are definitely working against me. Also, I might be a little too old for him, despite the whole cougar thing I’ve apparently got going with Gavin. “We don’t usually work that way. And while a piece on you would be interesting, it wouldn’t be that interesting. No offense, but most of my readers have probably never heard of you. Britney Spears, yeah, but you? You haven’t put out an album in a really—”

  “The information isn’t about me,” I interrupt, beginning to feel annoyed with this kid. Despite the fact that he’s nice to mice, he’s kind of a pill.

  I’m not even really sure why I’m doing what I’m about to do. I know I could get in big trouble—lose my job, even—for doing it.

  But something’s been bothering me ever since I heard Charlie in President Allington’s office say that “the leak” had been traced back to an IP address in Fischer Hall. It isn’t only that I want to prove who the leak isn’t—Sarah.

  I need to find out who it is. Although ever since Eva’s phone call, I have a sneaking suspicion that I already know.

  “It’s about Fischer Hall,” I explain. “You know there was a student death there yesterday.”

  He nearly drops his laptop. “What?”

  I shrug and uncross my legs, beginning to get up from my chair. “But since you’re not interested in making a deal—”

  “No, wait.” Cam leans forward to block my exit from the office. “I’m interested! I’m totally interested. Who died?”

  I sink back into my chair, recrossing my legs. “I’m risking my job just being here. Why should I tell you what I know without getting something in return?”

  “I totally understand,” Cam says. He leaps up to close the door to the office. The minute he does so, the smell of stale pizza and other, less pleasant odors begin to become much more noticeable. “Look, I can’t promise anything, but—”

  “I can’t promise anything either,” I say. “Except another exclusive about the prince.”

  He grabs his laptop, his gaze blazing eagerly. “You’re kidding me. Something else, in addition to info about the kid who croaked?”

  Shame surges over me. I have a sudden urge to throw open the door and flee the room, to get as far as possible from Cameron Ripley and his smelly office and pet baby rat.

  But then I remind myself that he’s a journalist. It’s his responsibility to report the news, no matter how heartbreaking, in as much detail as possible (while hopefully leaving the victim with some dignity) so that the public can be alerted to the danger and the perpetrator hopefully brought to justice.

  He’s only doing his job, exactly like I’m only doing mine. Maybe we’ve gotten a little hardened by some of the things we’ve seen IRL.

  “Yes, both,” I say, after swallowing. “A girl was found dead in her room in Fischer Hall yesterday morning. The night before, she was seen at a party on the floor above, in Prince Rashid’s room.”

  Cam is typing so quickly his fingers appear to be flying over his keyboard. “Holy shit,” he says, grinning, his gaze on his screen. “This is amazing. This is the best scoop we’ve gotten in ages. Names, though. I need names!”

  “Not until you give me a name.”

  He glances up from the screen, confused. “What? How can I give you a name? This is the first I’m hearing about any of this. You’re telling me about it.”

  “I want the name of your source on the Prince Rashid stories you’ve been printing,” I say. “Then I’ll give you the name of the dead girl, and anything else you want, including a story so explosive, it’s going to rock this campus to its core. But the people it concerns most directly aren’t going know about it until five o’clock today. So you’ll have to hold off posting it until then.”

  Cam’s face goes slack with astonishment—then tightens with excitement. “Five o’clock today? What is it? Does it have to do with the faculty’s vote of no confidence on the president? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  I wag a finger at him. “Nuh-uh. I’m not telling you until you tell me. And remember—you’re not using my name in any of this. I’m an ‘inside source.’ ”

  “Of course,” Cam says. He’s so anxious for the story, he’s abandoned all journalistic integrity, rushing back to his desk to hit the keyboard on the desktop computer. “I have it right here . . . uh . . . someplace. But I’m just warning you, those tips were always sent via direct message from a Twitter account, I think. Yeah. Here it is.” He reads from screen. “ResLifeGirl. Sorry, no name. Will that work? Is it enough?”

  “Yes,” I say grimly. “It’s enough.”

  It’s exactly what I suspected. I don’t need a name. I have all the information I need.

  Twitter, Cooper had said in disgust when he’d opened Jasmine’s laptop the day we’d found her dead, because Cooper can’t stand social media.

  But it turns out to have its uses. Like sending anonymous tips to student news blogs.

  ResLife is probably short for “residence life,” which is the programming and counseling aspect of the Housing Office that Lisa, Sarah, and resident assistants specialize and train in (as opposed to the administrative and facil
ity side, which is more my line of work: room assignments and flooded bathrooms).

  Often people don’t know it, but when they look back at the experiences they enjoyed in their dorm during their college years, those were their “res life” experiences.

  Only a female RA (or someone working in a hall director’s office) would choose ResLifeGirl as a screen name.

  “When’s the last time ResLifeGirl contacted you?” I ask.

  Cam studies the screen. “Uh . . . hmm. That’s weird.”

  “What’s weird?”

  “She’s been in contact daily this last week, but since the day before yesterday . . . nothing.”

  This actually makes perfect sense. Last week all the RAs were required to move in to help with preparation for freshman check-in. We’d obviously filled them in at that time about our incoming VIR. And ResLifeGirl wouldn’t have had time to log in with her screen name the night of Prince Rashid’s party, because she’d been busy.

  Busy getting murdered.

  That was when the communications major—who’d admired female news journalists like Katie Couric and Diane Sawyer, and so would have gotten a certain thrill out of leaking secrets to the college’s student-run news blog—had her smartphone stolen, and her voice physically stifled by a hand that had ended up robbing her of her breath as well.

  Despite the fact that the closed door to the office has made it warm and stuffy, I feel a chill.

  Jasmine had been ResLifeGirl, the New York College Express tipster. It seemed reasonable to believe she’d gotten killed for it.

  Only by whom? And for what? Had she seen something at Rashid’s party? Had it been something she’d been about to share with the world via Twitter, something someone didn’t want shared, so they’d silenced her . . . permanently?

  The penalty for premarital sex in Qalif is beheading, I remembered Special Agent Lancaster saying. So the lash is quite mild in comparison.

  Oh, come on. This isn’t Qalif. It’s Greenwich Village, for God’s sake.

  “Did ResLifeGirl ever do any writing for you?” I ask Cameron.

  “No,” Cam says, scooting his chair away from the desk. “No way. I’m not answering any more questions. I gave you what you wanted; now it’s my turn. Who died? And how? And what’s happening at five o’clock?”

  “Okay,” I say. “The dead girl is Jasmine Albright. She was twenty, a junior, and an RA in Fischer Hall, fourteenth floor.”

  He’s on his laptop again, and never stops typing the entire time I’m speaking. It’s clear that he didn’t know Jasmine. I’m not sure if this is a relief to me, or worse, somehow.

  “An RA? Fourteenth floor—that’s one floor below Rascally Rashid’s!”

  There’s no moss gathering on Cameron. “Right. I told you the victim went to a party in his room the night she died.”

  Now he stops typing and stares at me. “You’re telling me an RA died after a party in the prince’s room? What killed her?”

  “I’ll be able to tell you the cause of death after five o’clock today,” I say, “but only if you hold the second part of this story until then.” This is a lie. I have no intention of telling him the cause—or manner—of Jasmine’s death. “I can tell you that there was no sign of an overdose, or alcohol poisoning, or anything like that. The victim did have asthma, though.”

  Cam makes a disappointed face. “She died of asthma?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said she had asthma.”

  Cameron looks less disappointed, and more like someone who’s stumbled across an exciting mystery. Of course, he didn’t know the victim, so it doesn’t matter to him how Jasmine died. He’s just looking for a story that will bring his blog a lot of hits.

  “Okay, so she had asthma, but didn’t die from it.” He keeps typing. “What’s the deal with the five o’clock thing?”

  “Well,” I say. “She wasn’t the only RA at Prince Rashid’s party.”

  Cameron smirks. “What an ass-kisser. You know the best way not to get caught throwing a rager is to invite the RAs. So what are their names?”

  “That’s the part of the story you can’t print until five o’clock.”

  Cameron shakes his head, confused. “Why? What happens at five o’clock?”

  I lift my purse from the floor and shoulder it. “At five o’clock today, all the RAs from Fischer Hall who were at Prince Rashid’s party are going to receive notices that their employment with the New York College Housing Office has been terminated.”

  “What?” Cameron jerks his fingers from his keyboard as if they’ve been singed.

  I nod. “You heard me. And don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be hearing from all those RAs about the injustice of what’s happening to them as soon as they get their letters. You’ll have their names soon enough. Just keep in mind that they were asked by their employer—my boss—if they’d seen Jasmine the night before she died, and they all said no. They lied to save their own skins, even though if they’d told the truth, it might have helped the investigation into Jasmine’s death. It’s too late now. But you did not hear any of this from me.”

  “No worries.” Cameron shakes his head in disbelief as he turns back to his keyboard. “Heather, do you even realize how huge this is? Not only is a girl dead, and a bunch of RAs are getting fired, but it all happened because of a party being given by the heir to the throne of Qalif, whose father donated five hundred million dollars to New York College. This story could get picked up by the print media.” His tone has turned reverential. “It could make CNN.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I remark drily. “You know what I would do if I were you? Not that I’m telling you how to do your job.”

  He shakes his head again, this time in answer to my question. “No, what?”

  “I’d try to get in touch with ResLifeGirl. Maybe she could tell you more about what happened at that party.”

  “Hey,” he says, nodding. “That’s a good idea.”

  So he hasn’t yet figured out that ResLifeGirl was Jasmine.

  “Also, you should ask the facilities office of this building for a live trap,” I say as I open the office door. “Then you can catch Algernon and let him go out in the park. I know it’s nice to have a friend in real life and everything,” I add, “but he’ll be happier there, and then you’ll have a slimmer chance of catching the hantavirus, which is spread by mouse droppings. It can make people really sick. People even die from it.”

  Cam looks up from his keyboard.

  “Is that what killed Jasmine Albright?” he asks excitedly. “Hantavirus? I know Death Dorm—I mean Fischer Hall—is an old building. Are you stating there’s a mouse infestation in it, causing people to die? Because that would make insanely good copy.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, Cam,” I say. “And if I were saying that, I wouldn’t be stating anything, remember? Because this is all coming from an ‘inside source.’ ”

  “Right, right,” he says, putting his earbuds back in. “Don’t worry, I got you covered. No names.” Then he begins typing away, lost in his cyberlife.

  I pull the door closed behind me on my way out, deciding that maybe it’s better Cameron keeps Algernon around after all. He seems to need the company, even if the company is only a baby rat.

  18

  There’s the dress mess

  There’s the veil travail

  There’s the guest guess

  Might as well as bail

  “The Whole Shebang,”

  written by Heather Wells

  You did what?” Cooper’s voice cracks on the word “what.”

  “Well, I knew the leak wasn’t Sarah, but how else was I going to prove it to everyone in the president’s office?”

  I’m walking swiftly across the park toward Fischer Hall, anxious to get back to work, my cell phone pressed to my ear. I’m late for Lisa’s interview with the new RA candidate. Not that she needs my help, necessarily, but she wasn’t in the best condition when I last saw her.

 
; “It’s not your job to prove Sarah isn’t the leak,” Cooper says. “Sarah’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

  “Of course she can. But they already fired more than half the staff,” I say. “I couldn’t let Sarah be next. I had to find out who the leak really was. I figured if I offered to swap intel with the editor of the Express—”

  “Swap intel with the editor of the Express?” Cooper interrupts, sounding weirdly echo-y, as if he’s in a tunnel or something. But I can still hear the incredulity in his voice. “Heather, are you listening to yourself?”

  “Whatever, it worked. And now we know the reason Jasmine was killed was because she had information that someone didn’t want her spreading, probably on her phone that you kept pointing out was missing.”

  “We know no such thing,” Cooper says. “And don’t sound so proud of yourself, because if it is true, you just put yourself—not to mention the staff of the Express—in serious danger.”

  “Aw,” I say, my ponytail swinging behind me as I hurry through the crowded park. “Are you worried about me? That’s so sweet. I know I should be offended, because I’m a feminist, and the whole overprotective boyfriend thing is so Twilight, but whatever, I love it, keep it coming.”

  “Heather, I’m not joking.” He sounds irritated. “Whatever it was Jasmine found out, recorded on her phone, and was apparently ready to Tweet to the world was worth killing her for. And that means it will be worth killing whoever uncovers the truth about it.”

  “But I didn’t tell the Express about it. How could I? I don’t know what it is that Jasmine found out. Whoever killed her did it before she got a chance to spill the beans. They have no idea we know Jasmine’s the leak, or even that there was anything to leak. So why would I, or anyone who works for the Express, be in danger?”

  “Because we’re not talking about a girl killed in a lovers’ quarrel. We’re talking about a young woman who was murdered because of something to do with the heir to the throne of one of the richest countries in the world. Are you sure no one you know saw you come out of the student center? There’s no one following you?”