The Bride Wore Size 12

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 conspicuously 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.