The Bride Wore Size 12

by Meg Cabot

  “How should I know?” she replies. “I assumed he was only sending them to you and Lisa to suck up because he knows he’s been busted for throwing that party.”

  “But it’s not like Lisa can discipline him,” I say. “The college would never let her, considering how much money his father’s donated. So he didn’t have to send us flowers. And he certainly didn’t have to send them to Ameera.”

  “No,” Sarah admits reluctantly. “But Ameera’s gorgeous. And she’s sad. He’s probably hitting on her while she’s in an emotionally weakened state because he wants to get in her pants.”

  I glare at her.

  Sarah’s right, of course. It’s likely Rashid sent Lisa and me the flowers out of guilt because he—or one of his employees—is somehow responsible for Jasmine’s death, and Ameera the flowers because she’s hot.

  Still, I can’t shake the memory of Rashid’s face the day before in our office when he’d heard Ameera was ill, how his dark eyebrows had knit with concern. That concern hadn’t seemed fake. He’d forgotten all about his glamorous lunch reservation at Nobu, even offering the use of his chauffeur-driven Escalade to transport her to the hospital.

  Maybe I’m a romantic fool, but any boy willing to do that can’t be all bad . . . or thinking solely about getting into a girl’s pants.

  “You don’t think there’s the slightest possibility,” I say to Sarah, “that he might have done it out of genuine decency—”

  Sarah rolls her eyes. “Really, Heather? After everything you’ve been through, you still think there are decent guys out there? And that Prince Rashid might be one of them? Prince Rashid?”

  “Well . . .” I say. “Okay, it was bad that he threw that party, but he isn’t from this country, and he was only trying to make friends—”

  “Oh my God, you’re so naïve. But it’s not totally your fault. You didn’t really have a normal childhood—” Now Sarah has launched into her psychologist’s tone. “And you got the last decent guy. And Cooper’s a total exception to the rule.” She thoughtfully chews a french fry. “Well, Tom Snelling is decent too, but he’s gay, so he doesn’t count. There are definitely no decent heterosexual guys left.”

  Even though I know it stems from her having been disappointed in love, I find Sarah’s jadedness a little annoying.

  “What about Cory, Lisa’s husband?” I ask.

  “He works in investment banking.” Sarah gives a mock shudder. “And anyway, we hardly ever see him. The jury is still out on him.”

  “What about Gavin?”

  Sarah throws me a sarcastic look.

  “Okay, he still has some growing up to do,” I admit, “but under our tutelage—”

  “Face it, Heather: guys are scum.”

  It’s kind of ironic that as she says this, Kyle Cheeseman, one of the new RAs—the one with the Justin Bieber hair, who also wears jeans that droop so low below his waistline that I’m able to read the band on his underwear, especially since his shirt is completely unbuttoned, revealing his hairless chest and stone-hard abs—saunters off the elevator and into the office to check his staff mailbox (all the RAs are required to do so at least twice a day).

  “Hey, sexy ladies,” Kyle says. “Wow, Heather, nice flowers.”

  “I believe I’ve told you to stop calling us sexy ladies, Kyle,” Sarah snaps from her desk. “We’re your supervisors.”

  “Whoa,” Kyle says. “Never mind. You aren’t sexy. You’re both mad pimpin’.”

  Behind Kyle is Rajiv—who’d worked as an RA last year and also through the summer—and Howard Chen, looking considerably healthier than when I’d last seen him vomiting into the fourteenth-floor trash chute the day before.

  “It’s physically impossible for us to be pimps,” Sarah says. “Pimps are men who control prostitutes, taking a large portion of their earnings in return for providing them with their clients. Do either Heather or I resemble men who procure clients for prostitutes to you?”

  “No.” Howard Chen looks furious on behalf of both Sarah and me. “What is wrong with you, Kyle?” Howard is wearing a hoodie from Harvard, where his parents wish he’d gone. They’d had to settle for Howard’s safety school, New York College, instead.

  “Shut up, Howard,” Kyle says. “Jesus Christ, I was only trying to pay them a compliment!”

  “Kyle,” Rajiv says calmly. “Has anyone ever told you before that you’re an imbecile? Why is your shirt unbuttoned? Are you expecting to be mobbed by Beliebers later?”

  Kyle pouts. He’s felt inside his staff mailbox, which I knew without a glance would be empty. The termination letters won’t be delivered until just before five o’clock so the president and his cronies can arrange to be long gone when the RAs receive them, and therefore not have to field their—or more likely, their parents’—complaints.

  “How about simply asking us how our day is going,” Sarah says. “That’s the customary way of greeting one’s coworkers.”

  Kyle looks a little lost, but asks gamely, “How is your day going?,” swallowing so hard I can see his Adam’s apple bob.

  I’m starting to wonder if maybe Sarah is right: could it be that there aren’t any decent guys left?

  As if on cue, the door to Lisa’s office is thrown open, and she stands there with a clipboard in hand, looking paler than usual, some of her dark hair slipping out of the clip into which she’s attempted to tuck it, but otherwise seeming like her normal self.

  “Hi, guys,” she says, moving aside to make room for someone who’s been inside her office to pass through the doorway. “I’d like you to meet our newest staff member, Dave Fernandez.”

  As soon as Sarah lays eyes on Dave Fernandez, who waves amiably in the general direction of everyone in the office, she begins to choke on the fry she’s just swallowed.

  I don’t blame her.

  “Dave will be moving onto the fourteenth floor,” Lisa goes on, ignoring Sarah’s sputters, “just as soon as Jasmine’s room becomes available.”

  “Hi,” Dave says. His voice is deeply melodic, his manner easygoing. “Lisa’s told me a lot of nice things about you guys, and Jasmine too. Wish I could have known her. Sorry to be meeting all of you under these circumstances, but I’m glad to have the privilege, just the same.”

  He’s several years older than the other boys—older than Sarah, and possibly even Lisa—which might explain his self-assured nonchalance, but I think there’s something more than that. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, though. Possibly it’s the fact that he’s wearing well-scuffed cowboy boots beneath his jeans. Cowboy boots, in New York City! His underwear isn’t showing either, and he’s wearing a shirt that’s properly buttoned.

  He still manages to look cool, however. So cool that in comparison to him, Kyle looks like a middle schooler. Maybe it’s because the cowboy boots give Dave an extra couple inches in height over everyone else in the room.

  “It’s great to have you here, Dave,” I say. “I’m Heather Wells, assistant hall director. When you figure out what day you’re moving in, let me know. I can make sure the room is clean and ready for you.”

  Dave nods in my direction. “Thanks, Heather,” he says with a smile.

  Sarah has swigged some water from her New York College stainless-steel water bottle to wash down the fry, and now she nearly gags on it. I suspect that’s because Dave’s smile is so dazzling and his biceps so defined, they put even Prince Rashid’s to shame.

  Sarah very badly wants to introduce herself to him, but she can’t quite seem to get the words out.

  “Unh,” Sarah says.

  “I need someone to show Dave over to the Housing Office so we can get his paperwork in order,” Lisa says. “Anyone care to volunteer?”

  “Gurk,” Sarah chokes, eagerly waving an arm to volunteer. “Murg.”

  “Not you, Sarah,” Lisa says. “I need you to stay here.”

  Dave’s dark eyebrows lower with concern. “You all right over there, Sarah?”

  “Oh, um,”
Sarah says. She chokes some more, her face turning a delicate shade of magenta. “Yes, thanks, I just, ahem, swallowed wrong.”

  “I hate when that happens,” Dave says with another one of his amazing smiles.

  “Howard, Kyle, would one of you mind?” Lisa asks.

  Kyle whips out his cell phone and glances at it. “Ooo, can’t, Lisa, I’m late to meet my trainer.”

  “I c-can’t either, Lisa,” Howard stammers. “I have to study.”

  Lisa frowns at Howard. “Classes haven’t started yet, Howard.”

  “I’m t-trying to get a head start on my reading,” Howard says. “I’m premed, remember?”

  Lisa gives Howard an odd look, but it doesn’t matter. There are plenty of other volunteers.

  “I’ll do it,” Rajiv says. “I’m heading in that direction anyway.”

  “No, no,” Sarah says, leaping up from behind her desk. “Really, I don’t mind doing it. I’m free.”

  “You aren’t free, Sarah,” Lisa says, looking annoyed. “I’m expecting Jasmine’s parents within the hour. I need you here.”

  Sarah looks crushed but, never one to shirk her duty, says, “Of course. Well, nice to meet you, Dave.” Having recovered from her embarrassing drooling incident, she thrusts her hand toward the new hire. “I’m Sarah Rosenberg, the building GA.”

  “Hi, Sarah Rosenberg, the building GA,” Dave says, thrusting out his own strong brown hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  It’s only when his fingers end up dangling about twelve inches higher than Sarah’s that I take a closer look at Dave’s face and realize the truth.

  20

  Whoever thinks of her own marriage

  With a calm heart and a clear eye

  Has never considered the savage

  Ways the whole shebang can die.

  “The Whole Shebang,”

  written by Heather Wells

  Sarah’s incredulous. “You hired a blind RA?”

  We’re standing in Lisa’s office. Kyle and Howard have left, as has Rajiv. He’s gone to escort Dave to the Housing Office to get his paperwork completed, though at first Dave protested that he didn’t need an escort.

  “I’ve already taken a tour of the campus,” he’d said cheerfully. “The Housing Office is straight across the park, then another two blocks straight from there, then it’s the first door to the right, on the corner.”

  It was a strange way to put it (to a sighted person), but he was completely correct.

  “I’m headed to the bookstore,” Rajiv had said, “which is in the same direction, but two doors down. Might as well go together.”

  Rajiv seemed fascinated by the sight of the collapsible white cane Dave suddenly produced from his backpack, unfolded, then slashed about like a cowboy with a whip (we all backed away to avoid getting hit). I got the feeling Rajiv wanted to see Dave swinging that thing through the park. I wanted to too.

  “What if I did hire a blind RA?” Lisa demands, folding her arms across her chest, then wincing and dropping them to her sides again. It was obvious—to me, anyway—that her nipples were still sore. “I never expected you, of all people, Sarah, to be so close-minded. Dave may be limited visually, but he makes up for it by being far from limited mentally.”

  Sarah’s mouth sags open. “I didn’t mean—I just meant, how is he going to . . . ?”

  “ . . . do the job for which he’s been hired?” Lisa finishes for her. “This is only a guess, but I’m thinking he’s going to do it better than either Howard or Kyle.”

  “And he’s literally going to do it blind,” I point out.

  Neither Lisa nor Sarah smiles at my little joke. I’m not surprised. Many of my finest witticisms go unappreciated.

  “Dave may no longer be able to drive, or make out people’s facial expressions, or even tell what kind of food he’s feeding his cat,” Lisa goes on, “but during my interview with him, it was obvious to me that he sees a lot more than most sighted people. It might interest you to know that he served in the military over in Afghanistan. His vision problems are the result of head trauma from a roadside bomb.”

  I can’t help inhaling sharply. “Oh, how terrible.” Sarah’s mouth sags even further.

  “But according to his application,” Lisa says, tapping the manila file on her desk, “he’s already learned how to read braille. He’s decided to go back to school to get his master’s degree in computer science, and none of the people who recommended him for the RA position believe his lack of sight will stand in his way. His parents are deceased, so he’s here on a full academic scholarship, which means he’s also a work-study student.”

  As soon as I hear the words “work-study student,” I pounce. Work-study students are like gold, because 35 percent of what they earn working for us comes out of the college’s budget, not the building’s individual budget. That leaves me more money to buy fun things, such as snacks and soda for staff parties . . . although technically I’m not supposed to be using money from the budget to purchase these kinds of items.

  But after seeing the orgy of finger sandwiches in the president’s office, I’m going to be buying all the pizza and Diet Coke for the staff—what’s left of it—our budget can afford.

  “We could give him a work-study position at the front desk,” I say. “There are always night and early-morning shifts open. Classes will be starting soon, and as much as Gavin might disagree, he can’t work twenty-four/seven—”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Lisa says with a smile at me. “Dave says he has this thing, some kind of label maker that prints things in braille.”

  “Perfect,” I say, thinking of my emergency contact list. It would look even more brilliant shrunk down to pocket size in braille. “Working the desk will be a big change after dodging IEDs in Afghanistan, but it pays, and we definitely need the help.”

  “I don’t think Dave’s going to mind,” Lisa says. “He says he’s ready to make a completely new start, he and Itchy, his cat.”

  I hear a whimper from Sarah’s direction. When I glance at her, I’m surprised to see that her face has crumpled.

  “Sarah,” I ask in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  Lisa frowns at her. “Sarah, I know residents aren’t allowed to have pets in the building, but I told Dave we’d make an exception for Itchy because it’s a therapy cat. My understanding is that the animal has really helped him through his recovery—”

  “God!” Sarah cries. Tears are beginning to trickle down her face. It’s a repeat performance of yesterday, only this time there’s no dead body in sight. “What kind of person do you think I am? I’m not upset because you’re bending the rules for his cat! I think it’s incredibly sweet that he has a cat. I think it’s incredibly sweet that you—oh, Lisa!”

  Sarah raises her arms, and to my surprise—and Lisa’s too, evidently, judging from her stunned expression—throws her arms around Lisa’s neck, embracing her in what looks to me like a stranglehold of a hug.

  “This is just . . . You’re just . . . This is all just so great,” Sarah sobs into Lisa’s neck. “This is exactly what the staff needs after everything that’s happened with Jasmine. Someone like Dave. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Oh,” Lisa says, her eyes widening at me over Sarah’s broad shoulder. “Um. Okay. Well, I wouldn’t thank me yet, Sarah. I haven’t told you the bad news.”

  “I don’t care,” Sarah says, still clinging to Lisa. “I don’t care, I don’t care. I’m so happy right now. I’m so happy someone like Dave’s going to be joining our staff.”

  “I bet you are,” I say. “I saw you checking out his biceps. Guess there are some decent guys left after all, huh, Sarah?”

  “Shut up, Heather,” Sarah says, but happily, without a trace of her usual rancor. “You’re such a great person, Lisa. I’m serious. I know I usually have a bad attitude, and I may come off as kind of bitchy sometimes”—sometimes?—“but I want you to know that I genuinely love this job, and I genuinely love you.”
She lifts her head and looks over at me. “Both of you. For real. You’re my best friends. Well, my only friends, really. But I want to make sure you know it.”

  “Okay,” Lisa says, patting Sarah on the back. “That’s great, Sarah. We feel the same way about you. Don’t we, Heather?”

  “You know,” I can’t help pointing out, “we don’t even know for sure that Dave’s heterosexual. He could have a girlfriend. You’re kind of just assuming—”

  “Don’t we, Heather?” Lisa says again, through gritted teeth.

  “Yes, Sarah,” I say, patting her on the back the way Lisa had. “We both love you too.”

  “Great,” Lisa says, prying Sarah’s grip from her neck. “But you and I are still going to have to have a little chat about some other stuff that’s going on around here, Sarah. Stuff I don’t think you’re going to like very much. But first I have to have a talk with Heather really fast. Could you give us some privacy for a few minutes? Like I said, Jasmine’s parents should be here soon, so knock on my door when they show up. And please take that dirty plate back to the cafeteria, it’s stinking up the entire office. I’ve asked you before not to eat at your desk. Bagels in the morning are one thing, but cheeseburgers are disgusting.”

  “Of course,” Sarah says, practically floating.

  Lisa pauses as she’s about to close the door to her office with me inside. “Where did those flowers come from?” she asks, noticing the bouquet on my desk.

  “Prince Rashid had them delivered,” Sarah replies. She’s in such a good mood now, she doesn’t make any disparaging remarks about the repressive regime in Qalif, or large flowers being overcompensation by men concerned about the size of their genitalia. “He sent some to you too, Lisa. They’re up at the desk. Want me to get them and bring them back for you?”

  “Ugh, no,” Lisa says, swinging the door closed. “The smell is making me sick.”

  As soon as the door is shut, Lisa sinks down into her office chair, pulls open a desk drawer, and brings out a little white plastic wand. “Take a look at this,” she says to me grimly.