Size 12 and Ready to Rock

“We’re so sorry,” Jamie says sheepishly. “It says on the box that it washes easily out of most material.”

“You’re playing paintball inside?” I do not feel sorry for Gavin anymore. In fact, I’m getting really pissed at Gavin. “And you think I’m worried about my clothes?”

Although truthfully, this shirt does happen to be one of my favorites. It’s loose over the parts I don’t necessarily want to show off (without making me look pregnant), while drawing attention to the areas I do want people to notice (boobs—mine are excellent). These are extremely rare qualities in a shirt. Jamie had better be right about the paint being washable.

“Jesus Christ, you guys. You could put someone’s eye out!”

I don’t care that I sound like the kid’s mom from that Christmas movie. I’m really annoyed. I’d been on the verge of asking Gavin McGoren to take care of my collection of dolls from many nations.

“Aw, c’mon,” Gavin says, regarding me wide-eyed. “You’ve been shot at before with live ammo, Heather. You can’t take a little paintball?”

“I never chose to put myself in a position where I could be shot at with live ammo,” I point out to him. “It isn’t part of my job description. It simply seems to happen to me a lot. Now would you please explain to me why Protection Services called me at home on a Sunday night to say there’s been a complaint about an unauthorized party—at which they claim someone has allegedly passed out—going on in a building that’s supposed to be empty for renovations for the summer, except for student staff workers?”

Gavin looks insulted. “It’s not a party,” he says. “It’s a paintball war.” He holds up his rifle as if it explains everything. “Fischer Hall desk and RA staff against the student paint crew. Here.” He disappears for a moment behind the couch, then reappears to pile a spare paintball gun, face shield, coveralls—doubtless stolen from the student paint crew—along with various other pieces of equipment into my arms. “Now that you’re here, you can be on the desk staff team.”

“Wait. This is what you guys did with the programming money I gave you?” I’m barely able to hide my disgust. I know from the class I’ve enrolled in this summer that it takes the human brain until the midtwenties to reach full maturation and structural development, which is why the young often make such questionable decisions.

But playing paintball inside a residence hall? This is a boneheaded move, even for Gavin McGoren.

I throw the paintball stuff back down on the couch.

“That money was supposed to go toward a pizza party,” I say. “Because you said all the dining halls are closed on Sunday nights and you never have enough money for anything to eat. Remember?”

“Oh no, no,” Jamie assures me. For a big girl, her voice can sound awfully babyish sometimes, maybe because she often ends her sentences on an up-note, like she’s asking a question even when she’s not. “We didn’t spend the money on paintball equipment, we checked it out free from the student sports center? I didn’t even know they had paintball equipment you could check out—probably because it’s always checked out during the school year when there’re so many people around?—but they do. All you have to do is leave your ID.”

“Of course,” I grumble. Why wouldn’t the college’s wealthy alumni have donated money to purchase paintball equipment for the students to check out for free? God forbid they’d donate it for something useful, like a science lab.

“Yeah,” Gavin says. “We did use the money on pizza. And beverages.” He holds up the remaining three cans of beer, dangling from the plastic rings of what was once a six-pack. “You wants? Only the best American-style lager for my womenz.”

I feel a burning sensation. It has nothing to do with the paintball with which I was recently shot. “Beer? You bought beer with money I gave you for pizza?”

“It’s Pabst Blue Ribbon,” Gavin says, looking confused. “I thought cool girl singer-songwriters were supposed to love the PBR.”

Perhaps because she’s noticed the anger sizzling in my eyes, Jamie walks over to give me a hug.

“Thanks so much for letting me stay here for the summer, Heather,” she says. “If I’d have had to spend it at home with my parents in Rock Ridge, I’d have died? Really. You have no idea what you’ve done for me. You’ve given me the wings I needed to fly. You’re the best boss ever, Heather.”

I have a pretty good idea what I’ve given Jamie, and it’s not wings. It’s free room and board for twelve weeks in exchange for twenty hours of work a week forwarding the mail of the residents who’ve gone home for the summer. Now, instead of having to commute into the city to see Gavin in secret (her parents don’t approve of him, since they think their daughter can do better than a scruffy-looking film major), Jamie can simply open her door, since he’s living right down the hall from her, as I’ve given him (unwisely, I’ve now decided) the same sweet deal.

“I’m pretty sure your parents wouldn’t agree I’m the best boss ever,” I say, resisting her hug. “I’m equally certain that if anyone in the Housing Office finds out about the paintball—and the beer—I’m not going to be anyone’s boss anymore.”

“What can they do to you?” Gavin asks indignantly. “We’re in a building that’s shut down for the summer, that’s going to be completely painted anyway, and we’re all over twenty-one. No one’s doing anything illegal.”

“Sure,” I say, sarcastically. “That’s why I got a call from Protection, because no one’s doing anything illegal.”

Gavin makes a face that looks particularly ghoulish with the protective shield still pushed back over his hair. “Was it Sarah?” he asks. “She’s the one who called in the complaint, wasn’t she? She’s always telling us to shut up because she’s trying to get her thesis finished, or whatever. I knew she wasn’t going to be cool with this.”

I don’t comment. I have no idea who ratted them out to the campus police. It could easily have been Sarah Rosenberg, Fischer Hall’s live-in graduate assistant assigned to respond to overnight emergencies and assist the hall director with nightly operations. Unfortunately, since the last one’s untimely demise, there’s no director of Fischer Hall for Sarah to assist. She’s been helping me supervise the student skeleton staff and waiting until Housing decides who our new hall director is going to be. I’ve already left one message for her—it’s weird that Sarah didn’t pick up, because she’s taking classes this summer and so is usually in her room. She has nothing to do but study, although she did acquire, around the time that I got secretly engaged, her first ever serious boyfriend.