by Meg Cabot
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.”
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About the Author
MEG CABOT was born in Bloomington, Indiana. In addition to her adult contemporary fiction, she is the author of the bestselling young adult fiction series The Princess Diaries. She lives in Key West, Florida, with her husband. Visit her at www.megcabot.com.
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Also by Meg Cabot
SIZE 12 IS NOT FAT • SIZE 14 IS NOT FAT EITHER
QUEEN OF BABBLE • QUEEN OF BABBLE IN THE BIG CITY
THE BOY NEXT DOOR • SHE WENT ALL THE WAY
BOY MEETS GIRL • EVERY BOY’S GOT ONE
ALL-AMERICAN GIRL
READY OR NOT: AN ALL-AMERICAN GIRL NOVEL
NICOLA AND THE VISCOUNT • VICTORIA AND THE ROGUE
TEEN IDOL • HOW TO BE POPULAR
AVALON HIGH • AVALON HIGH: CORONATION
PANTS ON FIRE • JINX
THE PRINCESS DIARIES
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME II: PRINCESS IN THE SPOTLIGHT
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME III: PRINCESS IN LOVE
THE PRINCESS DIARIES VOLUME IV: PRINCESS IN WAITING
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV AND A HALF: PROJECT PRINCESS
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME V: PRINCESS IN PINK
THE PRINCESS DIA
RIES, VOLUME VI: PRINCESS IN TRAINING
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VI AND A HALF: THE PRINCESS PRESENT
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VII: PARTY PRINCESS
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VII AND A HALF: SWEET SIXTEEN PRINCESS
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VII AND ¾ THS: VALENTINE PRINCESS
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VIII: PRINCESS ON THE BRINK
PRINCESS LESSONS: A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK
PERFECT PRINCESS: A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK
HOLIDAY PRINCESS: A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK
THE MEDIATOR 1: SHADOWLAND • THE MEDIATOR 2: NINTH KEY
THE MEDIATOR 3: REUNION • THE MEDIATOR 4: DARKEST HOUR
THE MEDIATOR 5: HAUNTED • THE MEDIATOR 6: TWILIGHT
THE 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU BOOKS
WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES • CODE NAME CASSANDRA
SAFE HOUSE • SANCTUARY • MISSING YOU
Credits
Cover design by Mary Schuck
Cover photograph © Jan Cobb
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BIG BONED. Copyright © 2007 by Meg Cabot. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2007 ISBN: 9780061803895
Version 09202013
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