Big Boned

by Meg Cabot

  “Um. Thanks. I’m…uh. I’m glad it wasn’t me, too.”

  We’re sitting there like that, holding hands across our three-bean salads, when Sarah strides up, a mulish expression on her face.

  “Hello,” she says, but not in a salutary greeting sort of way. More in a where-have-you-been? sort of way. “There you are. Everyone is looking for you. There’s an emergency administrative housing staff meeting in the second floor library upstairs. Like, now. The only person who’s not there is you.”

  I jump up, sliding a napkin over my mouth. “Oh my God, really? I had no idea. Sorry, Tad, I better go—”

  Tad looks perturbed. “But you haven’t even finished your protein shake—”

  “I’ll be all right,” I assure him—no offense, but that protein shake had tasted like chemical waste. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  I refrain from kissing him good-bye—it’s the cafeteria, crowded with residents on their lunch break, and our relationship is still supposed to be purely student/teacher, after all—and settle for giving his hand a quick squeeze before I follow a still scowling Sarah past Magda’s desk, out into the lobby, and up the stairs to the second floor library, which still contains the nineteenth-century mahogany bookcases that once held the Fischer family’s extensive leather-bound collection of classic literature, and where we’ve attempted, numerous times, to keep books, only to have every single one of them stolen, no matter how battered or cheesy-looking the cover, and then sold on St. Mark’s Place.

  The room is still amazingly popular, however, with residents who have a test to study for and who need to get away from their partying roommates. I’m the one who made up and posted the Shhhh! Quiet Study Only Please! and Group Study Down the Hall in Rm 211 signs and posted them under the plaster cherub moldings that a hundred years earlier had looked down on sherry parties, not kids pounding on Mac-Books. But whatever.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Sarah, as we trot up the stairs. “What’s the meeting for?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Sarah says with a sniff. “Student staff is not invited. Our meeting is tonight at nine. Once again, we apparently aren’t considered good enough to mingle with the exalted professional staff.”

  “I’m sure it’s just because they figured the majority of you would be in class right now,” I say, taken aback—mainly at the bitterness in her tone. Sarah hates not being involved in anything that the professional staff is doing…for which I don’t blame her, exactly. She certainly works as hard (if not harder) as any of us, and for room and board only, on top of which, she goes to class full-time. It really does suck that now the college is planning on yanking her insurance and everything else. She has every right to complain—even to strike.

  I just wish there were some other way the GSC could have gotten the president’s office to listen to them than to resort to such an extreme. Couldn’t they all just sit down and talk?

  Then again, I guess they’d tried that. Hadn’t that been what Owen’s job was?

  Look how well that had turned out.

  “How’s it going?” I ask her, as we reach the second floor—quiet at this time of day, since most of the residents are either in class or downstairs, eating. “I mean, with the GSC stuff, now that Dr. Veatch is…you know. Out of the picture? I know it’s only been a few hours, but has there been any…progress?”

  “How do you think it’s going?” Sarah demands hotly.

  “Oh, Sarah,” I say. “I’m sorry—”

  “Whatever,” Sarah says, with uncharacteristic—even for her—venom. “I bet I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen at this meeting you’re about to step into. President Allington is going to appoint someone—Dr. Jessup, probably—as interim ombudsman—until a replacement for Dr. Veatch can be found. Which is ironic, because Dr. Veatch was a replacement until a replacement for Tom could be found. Sebastian insisted it wouldn’t go down like this—that once Veatch was out of the picture, Dr. Allington would have to meet with us one on one. I tried to tell him. I tried to tell him that would never happen. I mean, why would Phillip Allington sully his own hands with filth like us, when he can hire someone—someone else—to do it?”

  To my surprise, Sarah bursts into tears—right in the second floor hallway, in front of the second floor RA’s safe sex bulletin board display. Concerned—for more reasons than one—I put my arms around her, cradling her head against my shoulder as her crazy frizzy hair tickles my nose.

  “Sarah,” I say, patting her back. “Come on. Seriously. It’s not that bad. I mean, it’s bad that a guy is dead, and all. But your parents already said they’ll pay your insurance. I mean, they just bought a winter place in Taos. It’s not like six hundred more bucks a semester is going to break the bank. And don’t Sebastian’s parents own every movie theater in Grosse Pointe or something? He’s not exactly hurting for cash, either…”

  “That’s not it,” Sarah sobs, into my neck. “It’s the principle of the thing! What about people who don’t have parents with seven-figure-a-year incomes? Don’t they deserve to be allowed to go to Health Services? Don’t they deserve health care?”

  “Of course they do,” I say. “But you know, it’s not all up to Dr. Allington. A lot of the decision over whether or not to negotiate a new contract with you guys is up to the board of trustees—”

  “I told Sebastian that,” Sarah says, abruptly letting go of my neck, and wiping her tears with the backs of her wrists. “God. He’s so…adversarial.”

  I want to warn her about her word choice—especially with the likelihood of the police looking to the GSC for possible suspects in Owen’s murder—but don’t get a chance to, because the door to the library suddenly pops open, and Tom, who’d been my boss here at Fischer Hall a few months earlier, until he’d been promoted, looks out, sees me, then hisses, “There you are! Get in here! You’re about to miss all the good stuff!”

  I know by good stuff he means hilarity in the form of senior administrators making asses of themselves, something the two of us thoroughly enjoy observing, usually seeking the back row during staff meetings, so we can watch it together.

  “I’ll be right there,” I say to Tom. To Sarah I say, trying to push some of her excessively bushy hair out of her face, “I have to go. Are you going to be all right? I’m worried about you.”

  “What?” Sarah lifts her head, and the tears are, miraculously, gone. Well, mostly. There are still a few brimming, unshed, in her eyelashes. But they could be mistaken for an allergic reaction to the pollen season. “I’m fine. Whatever. Go on. You better go. Don’t want to be late to your big important meeting.”

  I eye her uncertainly. “Is Detective Canavan still down in my office? Because if he’s not—”

  “I know,” she says, rolling those tear-filled eyes sarcastically. “Somebody ought to be down there manning it to make sure the residents have someone to talk to about the recent tragedy. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

  “Good,” I say. “When I’m through here, you and I are having a talk.”

  “That’ll be good,” Sarah says, with a sneer. “Can’t wait.”

  I give her one last concerned look, then slip through the door Tom’s holding open.

  “I see Miss Pissy Pants,” Tom says, referring to Sarah, “hasn’t changed a bit since I left.”

  “She’s had a tough week,” I say, in Sarah’s defense. “She’s fallen in love with the head of the GSC, and he doesn’t know she’s alive.”

  Tom doesn’t look the least bit sympathetic. “Now why would she want to go and do that? That guy barely even bathes. And he carries a murse. Like I need to point that out.”

  I nod, then turn to see that the whole of the Housing Department—well, all nine of the residence hall directors; their assistant hall directors; the three area coordinators; the on-staff psychologist, Dr. Flynn; the department head, Dr. Jessup; Dr. Gillian Kilgore, grief counselor; a man I’ve never seen before; President Allington; and, for some reason, Muffy Fowler—are gathe
red into the Fischer Hall library, all perched on the institutional blue vinyl couches (or, more accurately, love seats, since whole couches would have encouraged residents to sleep there, and we want the students to sleep in their rooms, not the common areas).

  “Well,” Dr. Jessup says, when he sees me—and it’s clear Sarah hadn’t been exaggerating. The whole staff really has been waiting on me for the meeting to begin. He pauses while Tom and I find seats—in the back. And, because all the love seats are taken, we’re forced to settle on the beige carpeting (it doesn’t show the spilled soda stains as much) with our backs against the walls, just beneath a bank of windows looking out across Washington Square Park. Tom immediately uncaps the Montblanc his parents got him for graduation and scrawls, Welcome to HELL! across the top of a blank page of his Day Runner.

  Thanks, I mouth back. I miss Tom. Life had been so much better back when he’d been my boss. For one thing, there’d been the fact that we’d taken turns all day going shoe shopping over on Eighth Street, when we weren’t gossiping about the residents and listening to Kelly Clarkson on iTunes.

  And for another, Tom had never cared where I’d gotten our paper for the copier. As long as there’d been some.

  Then there was the small fact that Tom had never been stupid enough to get himself shot in the head.

  “Now that we’re all here,” Dr. Jessup goes on, “let me tell you why you’re here. I’m sure you all know that this morning, we experienced a tragic event here in Fischer Hall that will have repercussions not just through our department, but throughout the college itself. Owen Veatch—interim director here at Fischer Hall, and ombudsman to the president’s office, was killed by a single bullet to the back of the head this morning in his office. While I’m certain none of us really got to know Owen Veatch this semester as well as we’d have liked to, what we did know of him led us to believe he was a good man who didn’t deserve to die in the horrible, tragic way that he did.”

  Tom leans over to whisper, “That’s two.”

  I look at him. “Two what?” I whisper back.

  “Two tragics,” he hisses. “Tragic event, and horrible tragic way.”

  Solemnly, Tom writes the word Tragic at the top of his blank Day Runner page, then makes two hatchmarks beneath it.

  “And we’re off,” he whispers happily.

  “Who’s that guy?” I whisper, pointing at the only person in the room I’ve never seen before.

  “You don’t know who that is?” Tom looks scandalized. “That’s Reverend Mark Halstead. He’s the new interdenominational campus youth minister.”

  I stare at Reverend Mark. He has the bland good looks of a sports announcer. He’s wearing carefully faded jeans with a sports coat and tie. He sitting on one of the arms of the love seat Muffy Fowler is sharing with Gillian Kilgore. Muffy is leaning forward in her seat with both her elbows on her knees and staring up at Dr. Jessup with her lips slightly parted.

  I can’t help noticing that she’s recently reapplied her lip gloss.

  And that Reverend Mark has a bird’s-eye view right down the front of Muffy’s frilly white blouse.

  “We wanted to bring you all together this afternoon,” Dr. Jessup is saying, “to assure you that the police are doing everything they can to get to the bottom of this tragic crime—”

  Solemnly, Tom makes another hatchmark in his Day Runner.

  “—and that this appears, by all indications, to be a random, isolated incident of senseless violence. In no way are any other members of this staff in jeopardy. Yes, Simon?”

  Simon Hague, the director of Wasser Hall, Fischer Hall’s bitterest rival (in my mind), due to its having its own pool in the basement (and also to its not bearing the unfortunate nickname of Death Dorm), lowers his hand and says, in his usual insufferable (to me, anyway) whine, “Um, fine, right. You say that. That no other members of the staff are in jeopardy. But what is anyone doing to ensure that? I mean, how do we know that none of us is next? How do we know other members of the staff aren’t being targeted?”

  Several other hall directors nod their heads. Tom draws a small doodle of a man who looks a lot like Simon. Then he draws his head exploding.

  “So,” he whispers conversationally. “How’s the man?”

  I blink at him. “You mean Tad?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No. I mean the one you actually like. Cooper. How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “He’s fine,” I reply…a little bleakly, I’ll admit.

  And, okay, I know we were at a meeting about my boss, whom I’d found dead a few hours earlier, and it was tragic (as we knew all too well), a man killed for no reason, and in his prime, and all of that.

  But I need some dating advice. And who better to ask than a gay man?

  “Tad asked me this morning if I could take time off this summer, then told me he has something he wants to ask me, when the time is right,” I whisper. “And I don’t think he’s talking about a share on the Jersey shore.”

  Tom looks appropriately horrified.

  “What? Are you serious? You’ve only been dating him, what, a month?”

  “Try three,” I whisper back. “And you’re one to talk. Or are you not basically living with the New York College basketball coach?”

  “That’s different.” Tom is indignant now. “We can’t get married. His parents don’t know he’s gay.”

  “Now, Detective Canavan, from the Sixth Precinct, assures me,” Dr. Jessup says, looking a little bit shiny along the hairline beneath the fluorescent lights (the library’s original chandeliers were removed, along with its asbestos ductwork, and replaced with a dropped ceiling back in the seventies), “that he and his people are doing everything they can to find a quick resolution to this tragedy”—Tom waffles over whether or not to add a hatchmark, but then finally does so—“but he seems quite certain that no one is targeting members of the—”

  “Why doesn’t someone just come out and say it?” The hall director of a building down on Wall Street, which the college had to purchase because there was no more room left on campus, stands up and glares at everyone else accusingly. “We all know who did this. And why! It was the GSC! Sebastian Blumenthal has to have been behind it! Let’s not kid ourselves!”

  Bedlam ensues. Most people seem to be of the opinion that Sebastian had to have done it. This belief seems to be based solely on the fact that Sebastian has long hair and appears to bathe irregularly.

  This causes Reverend Mark to observe that a certain savior could also be described this way, but that he never killed anyone.

  This remark so delights Tom that he looks up toward the dropped ceiling and mouths, Thank you, God. Then he shouts, to no one in particular, “But what about his murse?”

  Dr. Jessup wanders around the room, trying to get everyone to calm down by insisting that in this country, citizens—even long-haired, unwashed graduate students—are innocent until proven guilty, but to no avail. Several of the male assistant hall directors offer to go out and find Sebastian and beat him to a pulp (they, like me, are working on attaining their bachelor’s degrees, in criminal justice, hospitality management, and physical training, respectively). Finally Drs. Kilgore and Flynn attempt to achieve order by standing on their love seats and clapping their hands and shouting, “People, people! Please! People! We are professionals in higher education, not common street thugs!”

  Of course this has no effect at all.

  But Tom grabbing the fire extinguisher off the wall and setting off a burst of CO2 in the middle of the room certainly does. Since this is how he routinely busts up parties over at the frat building, where he lives and works, he does so with an almost comically bored expression on his face.

  “Everybody,” he says, in a monotone. “Sit.”

  It’s amazing how quickly everyone hurries to do so. Tom may know more Judy Garland songs by heart than anyone else in the room, but he’s also a six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound former Texas A&M linebacker. You don’t want
to mess with him.

  “People, please,” Dr. Jessup says, now that Tom has restored order. “Let’s try to remember where we are…and who we are. When the police have the evidence they need in order to make an arrest, they will. In the meantime, please. Let’s not make things worse by rushing to conclusions and pointing fingers where there’s no conclusive proof.”

  Seriously.

  I wonder, though, if I ought to warn Sarah to say something to Sebastian after all. The kid really should be laying low, considering what I’ve just witnessed. At least, if he knows what’s good for him.

  “Mark,” Dr. Kilgore says, templing her fingers (a clear indication, Sarah would be quick to point out, that she thinks she’s superior to all of us). “I wonder…don’t you think now would be a good time to lead us all in a moment of silence in Owen’s memory?”

  “Absolutely,” Reverend Mark says, leaping up from the arm of the love seat onto which he’d sunk once again, and then bowing his dark-haired head. Everyone in the room, including me, joins him.

  “Oh, Heavenly Father,” the reverend intones, in his deep, pleasant voice. “We ask that You…”

  Tom, who’s lowered himself back down onto the carpet beside me, gives me a nudge. I glance at him from beneath my hair. “What? This is supposed to be a moment of silence, you know.”

  “I know. Sorry. But I forgot. What is this?” he whispers. “Your third boss this year?”

  “Yes,” I whisper back. “Shhhh.” His newfound snarkiness is a testament to how comfortable Tom feels in his new job—and romantic relationship.

  And I’m happy for him. I really am.

  But the snark can also be a little trying.

  Tom is silent for another two seconds. Then:

  “You should quit,” Tom whispers.

  “I can’t quit,” I say. “I need the tuition remission. Not to mention the money. Shhh.”

  Silence for another three seconds. Then:

  “Don’t quit yet,” Tom whispers. “You should wait until you’ve had eight bosses. Then you should quit. And you should be like, Eight is enough!”