Size 12 and Ready to Rock

The entire building, it appears, has hopped aboard the train to Crazy Town.

I hesitate, uncertain where to head first: To the front desk, to demand an explanation for why Stephanie’s crew is standing where they shouldn’t be? To my department head, to let him know that none of this is my fault? To the president, to tell him not to spill fruit salad on our very expensive security equipment? To Davinia, a student in need, to find out what’s wrong? Or to Manuel, to tell him to turn that damned thing off, for the love of God?

I head toward Davinia, making a slashing motion beneath my chin at Manuel, who’s looked up as I’ve entered, waving cheerfully, as is his custom.

When he sees me make the slashing motion, he appears startled. He clearly hasn’t noticed all the activity around him, having been too absorbed in his work . . . which, considering it’s Manuel, who takes extreme pride in keeping Fischer Hall’s brass fixtures and marble floors immaculate, isn’t surprising. He removes his earplugs, then turns off the floor polisher. The noise level in the lobby doesn’t decrease by much.

“Heather,” he rushes over to say to me, looking stricken. “I’m so sorry! I want the lobby to look nice for the movie, and for all those ladies who keep trying to come in.”

“It’s okay, Manuel,” I say. “I appreciate it. The lobby looks great.”

It actually looks so much cleaner than my own apartment, I consider hiring Manuel on the spot as my housekeeper. I know, however, that not only would this idea deeply insult him—he doesn’t do laundry—but he belongs to one of the most powerful unions in New York City and makes approximately three times what I do. Cooper and I could never afford him.

I hurry over to the sobbing girl. “Davinia,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing,” Davinia says, wiping her tears with the back of her hands.

“It’s not nothing,” Simon Hague assures me with malevolent delight, shoveling some fruit salad into his mouth. He has a paper plate too, same as the president. I look around and notice that the doors to the cafeteria are open. The cafeteria is open again, and everyone is helping themselves. Nice.

Sarah sends a dark look in Simon’s direction. “Thanks,” she says to him. “But we can handle it.” To me, she hisses, “That bitch Stephanie—”

“Everything’s all right,” Lisa says, glancing nervously in Dr. Jessup’s direction. Fortunately, he’s deeply absorbed in the plate of fruit salad with which he’s returning from the cafeteria. He’s also snagged a few strips of bacon, I notice, and a bagel. “Ms. Brewer hurt Davinia’s feelings by saying the hallway decorations for the sixteenth floor aren’t any good—”

“She tore down all the mermaid door tags Davinia stayed up until one o’clock in the morning hand-drawing,” Sarah interrupts, practically foaming at the mouth she’s so angry. “Just ripped them down and threw them in the trash.”

I glance questioningly at the resident assistant. Davinia’s a tall art major who got a fantastic internship at the Met but was going to have to turn it down and go back to India because her parents couldn’t afford rent for her for the summer . . . at least not until the Queen of the Island of Misfit Toys, also known as Heather Wells, came along and made it all better.

“The door tags were supposed to be a tribute to The Little Mermaid,” Davinia whispers. “Ariel’s my favorite Disney princess. And Little Mermaid is a musical, so it still fits in with singing camp. But Ms. Brewer said the sixteenth floor’s color scheme should be black and purple, something with more of an edge.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I also can’t believe this is what they’re all so freaked out about.

“Black and purple? Like a bruise?” I ask.

“No, not a bruise,” Stephanie says, so loudly that I jump. I have no idea she’s snuck up behind me. “Catwoman, or in this case, Tania’s face superimposed over Catwoman’s body, with a bubble coming out of her mouth saying, ‘You’re purrfect,’ and the girls’ names. And the Catwoman figure is going to be holding a whip. Lauren, find out how long the art department is going to be on those door tags.”

Lauren, the ever-faithful production assistant, lifts her phone to shoot off a text message.

“Check-in is today,” I remind Stephanie, feeling panic beginning to swell in my chest. “In one hour, actually. The campers and their moms are all waiting outside. They’re really angry we’re not letting them in now—”

“That’s not my problem,” Stephanie says in an infuriatingly calm voice. “No one told them to get here early. We do things on our schedule, not theirs.”

I glare at Stephanie. It’s way too early in the morning—and way too humiliating—to be having this discussion in front of my new boss. And her boss. And his boss, and his son, who is clearly so bored by all of this, he’s taken out his cell phone and is texting someone. Maybe even Stephanie, since she lifts her phone and starts laughing at something. Seriously?

“Does it really matter what the door tags look like?” I whisper, trying to get Stephanie’s attention. I tilt my head at Davinia, who is looking crushed that her mermaids have been replaced by dominatrixes in cat suits. “She worked super hard on them.”

“Uh, yeah, it does matter,” Stephanie says, not looking up from her phone. “The color scheme didn’t work. She had some sort of aquatic theme going, and the sixteenth floor is supposed to be hard rock. Bridget and Cassidy are going to be on that floor, with that Mallory girl. Right?”

I have no idea she’s even addressing me and not her phone until Simon Hague, who of course has been paying keen attention to the conversation, says, his mouth full of honeydew, “Uh, I think she’s talking to you, Heather.”

“Oh.” I spring into action, but only because all of my supervisors are watching. “You need their room assignments? Let me see.”

I hurry to the front desk, where the binder containing the room assignments is kept. None of the front desks at New York College has a computer, allegedly due to budgetary constraints, but actually due to the fact that the front desks are manned by student workers and the president’s office fears the computers will be used to look up porn or stolen.

“Hey,” I say to Gavin. He’s sitting in the tall swivel padded chair behind the front desk, where he has access to the room assignments, the lockbox containing keys to every room in the building, the intercom system (the only way students can be contacted in their rooms to be told a visitor has arrived, unless they’ve given that visitor their cell-phone number), and the student mailboxes. “Give me the roster.”