The Bride Wore Size 12 Read online

  Still, she doesn’t demur. She nods, and says faintly, “I will,” and walks into Lisa’s office like Joan of Arc on her way to the stake.

  Now that I have the two residents I’ve most wanted to question since Jasmine’s death exactly where I want them, I turn to the RAs in the outer office and say, “As you can see, I’m about to have a very important meeting. I understand how frustrated and upset all of you are, but you’re not going to accomplish anything hanging around here. Lisa’s not going to be back until noon. I suggest you go visit President Allington’s office now that it’s open. One word of advice before you go, though.”

  I pause to take a sip of my coffee—thank goodness I’ve fortified it with extra whipped cream, because I really need it.

  “One thing I’ve noticed is that not a single one of you has said the words ‘I’m sorry.’ When you get over to the president’s office, if you do manage to get an appointment with him or any other administrator, that’s something you might want to consider doing—taking some responsibility for your actions. A girl died, you know. I’m not saying her death was your fault, or even that she died as a result of the party, but the whole reason residence halls exist is to help students transition safely into adult life. The whole reason RA jobs exist is to assist them in doing that.”

  I take a deep breath. I have their full attention—even Hamad’s. It’s a bit like when I used to perform onstage, only instead of touching the audience’s hearts with a tender love ballad, I’m giving the RAs the speech they should have had before they were hired. Unfortunately, Simon Hague, the director of Wasser Hall, hired them, and he knows as little about responsibility as I do about nursing—real nursing, not below-the-sheets nursing.

  “But you guys not only failed to do your job, the night of the party you actually encouraged young people to behave irresponsibly. So a nice ‘I’m sorry for violating New York College student code and setting a terrible example’ might go a long way with some of the people you talk to today. It might have gone a long way with me, or with Sarah, or even Lisa, if you’d also said, ‘I’m sorry for deeply disappointing you guys after all the hard work you did training us and making our rooms so nice before we moved in.’ It definitely would have gone a long way with me if you’d said you were sorry for making Lisa cry, because you did: you made Lisa cry. For that alone, I have no more time for any of you. So get out of my building.”

  All of the RAs blink at me in astonishment. I don’t think any of these particular students have ever been rebuked by an adult in their lives. Because these are the type of kids who, in the words of Detective Canavan’s irrepressible probie, always got awards simply for participating.

  Well, not anymore. New York College may not be perfect, but over on this side of the park, we do things the right way, not the easy way.

  I’m gratified to see that a few of the RAs—even the boys—have tears in their eyes.

  None of them leaves, however. They stand in the office in awkward silence.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I not make myself clear? That last part wasn’t an invitation. It was an order. Get. Out.”

  Carl nods. “Clear enough for me,” he says, and begins packing up his drill bits.

  “You c-can’t tell us what to do,” Howard Chen says, sticking out his chin. He’s one of the RAs who’s crying. “You’re not the hall director.”

  “No,” I say. “But she’s not here right now, so I’m in charge. And you don’t work here anymore, and you never will again. So sayonara.”

  “Come on, buddy,” Joshua Dungarden says, slapping Howard on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I called my dad, and he’s on his way into the city. He’s friends with the dean of the law school. He’ll get this bitch fired, and we’ll get hired back.”

  Bitch? Could he be referring to me?

  Carl’s drill begins to whirl dangerously as he turns it toward Joshua. Since he’s standing on the ladder, the bit is eye level. “Pardon me, young man. What did you call her?”

  “Uh,” Joshua says, swallowing. “Nothing.”

  Quickly, the RAs begin to file out. Only three of them—the two other Jasmines and Joshua Dungarden—murmur “I’m sorry” as they leave, and Joshua only says it out of fear of Carl, so it doesn’t count. Howard Chen gives me a look of such burning hatred that it could almost have come from Hamad.

  Only Carl’s departure is at all affable.

  “Well, that was interesting,” he says to me as he leaves, ladder and toolbox in hand. “Hope we can do it again sometime. Have a nice meeting!”

  30

  Fired Fischer Hall RA Staff a Bunch of “Pussies” Says Tom Snelling

  “I’m sorry, but they are,” says the director of Waverly Hall, the building that houses the Greek fraternities. “They had it easy. All they had to do was be on duty a couple nights a month and not drink while they were doing it, and they blew it. Wait, are you recording this? You little pissant, give me that!”

  This is the only comment any administrator at New York College has been willing to give the Express thus far.

  As always, we will be delivering the story as it unfolds!

  New York College Express,

  your daily student news blog

  Sarah,” I say, shouldering my handbag and heading into Lisa’s office. “If anyone comes in looking for me—”

  “You’re in a meeting,” she finishes for me from behind her desk. “I get it.”

  Her eyes are wide, her gaze darting from me to Hamad to Rashid’s other bodyguard, who’s taken a watchful position by the main office door.

  I don’t blame Sarah for being nervous. I’m counting at least three firearms—all illegal by college housing standards, some illegal by New York State licensing standards—in this room alone . . . the guns in the bodyguards’ shoulder holsters, and the target pistol in my purse.

  Sarah doesn’t know about my gun, of course, but she knows about the ones in the bodyguards’ shoulder holsters. Who knows what other heat they’re packing in ankle holsters, however, or wherever else bodyguards from the kingdom of Qalif might hide weapons? Not to mention whatever the special agents down the hall are carrying, in the conference room that’s been converted into a special office for security monitoring.

  Fischer Hall probably hasn’t seen this many sidearms since it was a speakeasy and allegedly served bootleg gin to card-carrying members, which it supposedly did from a secret passageway in the second-floor library (long since converted to student rooms) back in the 1920s.

  “Thanks, Sarah,” I say, slipping through the door to Lisa’s office. “And take messages if anyone calls, okay?”

  “Got it,” Sarah says. “That was quite a speech, by the way. Thanks. Though I think you’re probably going to get fired for it, if Joshua Dungarden’s dad has his way.”

  I shrug. “Then I can just take another week off for my honeymoon.”

  I don’t mean it, of course. If I get fired, I’ll fight it tooth and nail. How else will I ever be able to afford a college degree without my tuition remission?

  Rashid and Ameera are sitting about as far apart as they can be in Lisa’s tiny office without one of them being outside it. Ameera seems to be hugging the file cabinet where I plan to keep Baby Wu—although I guess Lisa’s baby will probably take Cory’s last name, which is Esposito. Emily Esposito. Hmm, that name might not work—while Rashid is over by the windows, his dark hair being ruffled by the air-conditioning unit.

  Except that I got the sense, as I walked in, that the chairs weren’t always spaced that far apart. I can’t explain it, but as I ease the door open to make room for myself and my voluminous bag—well, I guess I’m a little more voluminous than my bag—I sense a rustle of some kind—almost like two bodies coming apart—and then what can only be the sound of chair legs scooting on carpeting.

  Lisa’s door opens in to her office, and both visitors’ chairs are kept behind the door. By the time I let myself in and close the door, Rashid and Ameera are sitting cons
picuously far apart. There’s no denying what I heard, though.

  Judging by their body language, they could not be less interested in each other. Rashid is flipping through a copy of The New York College Housing and Residence Life Handbook as if it is the most engrossing thing he has ever read, and Ameera’s legs are crossed and twisted toward the office wall, her arms folded, and a finger inserted into her mouth so she can chew on what’s looking like an already ragged set of nails.

  Both their faces, however, are scarlet beneath their similarly olive skin tones, and Ameera’s hair looks as if it’s had some fingers run through it recently—and not her own, since she’d have been more careful not to pull out the tortoiseshell barrette which now hangs forlornly along one side of her head.

  I don’t comment on the very obvious fact that these two have been making out in Lisa’s office while I was reading the RAs the riot act, however. This is, after all, the girl Mrs. Harris kept insisting to me was a “slut.” Though I’ve dealt with actual “sluts” before—or rather, girls (and boys) who’ve brought so many strangers back to their rooms for sex that we’ve had to cut off their guest privileges, as they were infringing on their roommates’ rights for a safe living environment—and Ameera in no way seems to fit the bill.

  But, as Cooper said last night, things aren’t always what they seem.

  “Hi, you two,” I say, placing my bag on Lisa’s desk and sinking into her chair. It’s incredibly uncomfortable. Lisa has what she calls an “Asian butt,” which she’s explained is “no butt.” To combat this, she’s made me purchase all manners of padding for her office chair from the supply catalog.

  I have plenty of natural padding on my size-twelve white-girl butt, so all of Lisa’s cushions make it quite difficult for me to sit in her chair without towering over everyone like that blond lady knight on Game of Thrones.

  “So,” I say, looking down on Rashid and Ameera like I’m sitting on a draft horse. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry for dragging you both down here so early in the morning, and I’m also sorry too for that outburst you must have heard out there—”

  “Please,” Rashid interrupts with a charming smile. He closes the student handbook to show that I have his full attention. “Don’t concern yourself about that. I’m sorry about the difficult time you must be going through right now. I’m so glad to see that you received my flowers.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Thank you for those. They’re very beautiful. I noticed that you also sent some to Ameera.”

  Rashid throws a look at the girl that I recognize. It’s the same one he wore in the outer office that day he’d heard her roommate say that Ameera was ill, an expression of worried concern that you rarely see on boys’ faces unless they’re speaking about . . .

  . . . well, about a girl they love.

  “I did,” he says. “She had quite a shock. I don’t think she’s picked them up from the desk, though.”

  “She hasn’t,” I say. “Ameera, do you want to tell me why you didn’t pick up the flowers Rashid sent you?”

  “Please,” Rashid says with a smile. “I told you. My name is Shiraz in this country. Because I’m chilled, like the—”

  “Fine wine,” I say, gritting my teeth. “Yes, I know, we got it. Ameera? The flowers? What’s wrong with them?”

  Ameera squirms uncomfortably in her chair, removing her finger from her mouth and giving me a shy smile.

  “I never received a notice about a flower delivery. Is that why I’m here? I can go get them now, if that’s all this is about. I didn’t know it was against the rules not to pick up flowers.”

  She’s a good liar. I might believe her if I didn’t know Gavin had already talked to her about the flowers.

  “This isn’t about the flowers, Ameera,” I say, “and you know it. It’s about your roommate Kaileigh.”

  The smile vanishes. She looks genuinely shocked—and worried . . . more worried than the statement warrants. Where before her cheeks had been flushed with color from whatever she and Rashid had been doing behind the door, suddenly they’re pale again.

  “Kaileigh? What’s the matter with her?” Ameera asks, her fingers now going to clutch her chair seat. “I saw her in the room a little while ago, and she was fine—”

  Ameera glances at Rashid, who meets her gaze, then does something that completely and utterly surprises me:

  He reaches out across the distance between their two chairs for her hand . . .

  . . . and she releases her seat and takes it, clutching his fingers so tightly, and gazing at him so deeply, that I’m certain in that moment that she loves him every bit as much as he loves her, and I love Cooper.

  It’s not the kind of look you can mistake.

  “Of course Kaileigh’s all right,” I say, bewildered. I’d been about to introduce the topic of Kaileigh’s mother’s complaint—Ameera’s failure to spend a single night in her own bed for most of orientation week. I’m fairly certain I now know in whose bed Ameera has been sleeping. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “I don’t understand,” Rashid says, still holding tightly to Ameera’s hand. There’s something protective, but also possessive, about his grip on her. “If Ameera’s roommate is all right, then why are the two of us here?”

  “Why don’t you tell me why the two of you are here, Rashid? And don’t ask me again to call you Shiraz,” I add quickly as he opens his mouth. “I’m sorry, but that name is ridiculous. I don’t believe any of your true friends really call you that—and it’s obvious you two are a little more than friends.”

  Ameera stares at me with wide, frightened eyes. Rashid’s gaze flies immediately to the grate above Lisa’s doorway. His expression has gone as wary as hers. Only now does he drop Ameera’s hand, and then it’s to raise a finger to his lips.

  “Shhh.” He points to the grate.

  I look at the grate, then back at him, and nod that I understand—though of course I don’t, not really. Now the expression on Ameera’s face is one of absolute terror.

  Rashid gets up from his chair and pulls the blinds on both of Lisa’s windows so that no one walking by on the street can see us. I reach over to Lisa’s computer and turn on her Patsy Cline playlist, loud—Patsy, we’ve discovered, makes excellent ambient background noise so that anyone who might be eavesdropping in the outer office can’t hear a thing that’s being discussed in the inner sanctum. The only problem is that sometimes we forget to turn her on.

  Not this time, however.

  “Okay,” I say to them, keeping my voice low. “I get it. You two are dating, and it’s bad form for the prince of Qalif to have a commoner as a girlfriend, right? But why did you get so worried when I asked you about your roommate, Ameera? Is it because you thought the same thing might have happened to her that happened to your RA, Jasmine?”

  Rashid has sunk back into his chair—but not before moving it next to Ameera’s so he could put a comforting arm around the girl’s trembling shoulders.

  “No, Miss Wells,” he whispers. “You don’t understand. Ameera is not my girlfriend. She is my wife.”

  31

  Cute “Save the Date”

  Ideas If You’re Getting Married in an Exotic Locale:

  Send your guests a coconut with “Save the Date!” inscribed on it! For instance:

  Rashid and Ameera

  are getting married in Qalif

  (Invitation to follow)

  In my country,” Rashid explains, “for me to marry a woman who is not a member of the royal family is a sin punishable by death. Stoning for her. Beheading for me.”

  “Oh,” I say. Good Lord. I’ve never thought of my future in-laws as particularly warm, but at least they don’t want to execute me. “Well, as long as you both die, and they keep it fair between the sexes.”

  I’m being flippant, but I don’t really feel that way. I’m horrified . . . horrified for them, and horrified at myself. My butt may more than fill Lisa’s chair, but I don’t know what I’m doing in it. I’m completely
out of my depth. I’m the assistant resident director of Fischer Hall! I’m used to dealing with complaints about hair-clogged shower drains, roommates who won’t stop eating one another’s cereal, and making sure the payroll gets done.

  I don’t have the slightest idea how I’m supposed to deal with a resident who is going to be executed if his countrymen find out he’s married outside the royal family.

  Rashid has smiled weakly at my pitiful joke.

  “We met at the Summer Olympics,” he says, tightening his arm around Ameera. “I had no idea women like her even existed—or that if they did, one of them would ever be interested in an idiot like me.”

  “Don’t,” Ameera says, reaching up to stroke his face. She still looks frightened, but not as much now that Rashid is beside her. “Don’t speak about yourself that way. You’re not an idiot.”

  “I am,” the prince informs me. “She’s the smart one. Perfect test scores! She’s here on a full scholarship, can you believe it? But for some reason she likes me.”

  “Everyone likes you,” Ameera says warmly.

  “Not my father,” Rashid says, with a scowl. “He thinks I’m a wastrel because I’m not interested in his missiles and defense systems. But when I told him I wanted to give up tennis and go to college in the States, he was overjoyed. He moved heaven and earth to get me into this school. The only thing I didn’t tell him was why it was so important that I go to New York College, of all places—that I was following my strong, beautiful, intelligent wife there. She wants to be a pediatrician—”

  Ameera laid a hand on his chest and said, blushing, “Darling, stop it.”

  “I won’t. I wish I could tell everyone in the world about how wonderful you are. But for now I’ll have to settle for Miss Wells.”