by Meg Cabot
“Thanks,” I say to Lauren, again in my incredibly kind voice. So much goodness is going to come back from the universe, it’s amazing. I’m going to find the most beautiful dress to marry Cooper in, and all the students are going to behave like angels for the rest of the summer.
“You kinda disappeared off the face of the earth for a while there, didn’t you?” Stephanie says as she opens her bottle of water. Her smile is beatific. She clearly Botoxes. Too bad she can’t Botox her personality. Or that vein in her forehead. “So this is what you’re doing now?” she asks, gesturing around the Allingtons’ terrace. “Running a dorm?”
“Residence hall,” I correct her automatically. “But you probably know that already. It’s written at the top of the sign-in log.”
Stephanie looks blank. “The what?”
“The sign-in log,” I say. “You know, the one you’re required to sign whenever Christopher checks you in and out of the building?” I try not to make it sound like I know how many times she’s spent the night here, even though I do, or that I think it’s weird she sleeps over so much in her boyfriend’s parents’ apartment. “It says Fischer Hall is a college residence hall right across the top. You must have noticed that we require your signature and a valid form of photo ID every time you stay, so that if you break a housing regulation while you’re here—such as filming without authorization—we can hold you accountable for your actions.”
Stephanie stares at me across the glass patio table. “You’re serious,” she says in disbelief. “This is really what you do for a living.”
“Why not?” I ask, making my voice light with effort.
“Obviously I heard that your mother took off with all your savings,” she says. “But surely you still earn enough royalties from your songs that—”
I can’t help letting out a snort. Stephanie glances from me to Cooper in bafflement. “What?” she asks.
“You’re a Harvard MBA, Stephanie,” Cooper says, his tone mildly amused. “You should be familiar with how record companies—particularly your employer—cook their books.”
“I still get royalty statements from Cartwright Records claiming they haven’t earned back what they spent on the billboards advertising concerts I gave in Thailand ten years ago,” I explain to her, “so they feel they don’t owe me any money.”
Even in the fairy lights, I can see that Stephanie’s turned a little pink, embarrassed for her employer.
“I see,” she says.
“But things are good,” I hasten to assure her. “As part of the benefits package for working here, I can go to school for free to get my degree—”
“Oh,” Stephanie says knowingly. “So that’s what you’re doing, working here, getting your law degree so you can sue your mom . . . and Cartwright Records too, I presume?”
I put as much confidence as I can into the smile I give her.
“Not exactly,” I say.
The truth is that I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree. When everyone else my age was going to college, I was singing to packed malls and sold-out sports arenas.
I could still sue Cartwright Records, of course, but I’ve been assured by various legal experts that such a suit would take years, cost more than I’d ever win, and likely result only in a bad case of acid reflux . . . my own. Same thing with going after my mom.
“I’ve got . . . different priorities,” I explain to her. “Right now I’m taking classes toward a BA in criminal justice.”
“Criminal . . . justice?” she repeats slowly.
“Uh-huh,” I say. The incredulous look on her face is making me rethink my choice of majors. Is there a degree in advanced butt-kicking? If so, I’m signing up for it, and starting with hers.
“Heather Wells,” she says, shaking her head. “Heather Wells is working in a New York College dorm and getting a degree in criminal justice.”
I raise my fist only to have Cooper reach out to grasp it beneath the glass tabletop.
“New York College is lucky to have Heather,” Cooper says calmly, his gaze on Stephanie’s. “And so are the students who live in this residence hall. And I think Christopher might know a thing or two about how good Heather is at mitigating crime and upholding social justice. Don’t you, Chris?”
Christopher looks uncomfortable. “I might have heard a few things,” he mutters.
Stephanie glances curiously at Christopher. “Christopher, what on earth is he talking about?”
“In fact,” Cooper goes on, giving my hand a comforting squeeze, “it’s lucky for you, Stephanie, that it was Heather, and not someone else, who found you up here. She’s very good in a crisis. That’s one of the many reasons I’m marrying her.”
Chapter 5
Candy Man
I like candy
I’m a candy kind of girl
If you’ve got candy
Wanna give this girl a whirl?
I like candy
I eat it all I can
If you’ve got candy
Wanna be my candy man?
“Candy Man”
Written by Weinberger/Trace
Candy Man album
Cartwright Records
Fourteen consecutive weeks
in the Top 10 Billboard Hot 100
I stare at Cooper from across the Allingtons’ table. He’s just told someone that we’re getting married. He’s never admitted this out loud before to anyone. It’s supposed to be a secret. And now he’s announced it to the producer of his brother’s reality TV show.
What is he thinking?
Christopher Allington and Stephanie Brewer look about as shocked as I am.
“Fiancée, huh?” Christopher finds his voice first. “Wow. That’s great.”
His expression indicates that what he actually means is, Your funeral, buddy.
Stephanie can barely formulate a sentence.
“I . . . I had no idea. I thought . . . I understood you were friends, but I never imagined—”
“I believe the word you’re searching for, Ms. Brewer,” Cooper says, giving my hand a final squeeze before letting it go, “is ‘congratulations.’ ”
“Oh, of course,” Stephanie says. She smiles, but the gesture is more like a snarl. “It’s so great.”
I see Stephanie’s gaze drop to the ring finger of my left hand. It’s bare, of course.
As if he’s read her mind, Cooper says, “We’re eloping, so it’s a secret. If either of you tells anyone—including my brother or Tania—I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”
More of Stephanie’s teeth are exposed. She laughs, and it sounds like a horse’s whinny.
“I’m serious,” Cooper says, and Stephanie stops laughing.
“That’s cool,” Christopher says. “I hate big weddings.”
“Me too,” I say. “Aren’t they the worst? Who needs another Crock-Pot?”
“About the shooting,” Cooper says. “The man who was shot, Bear—”
Stephanie and Christopher look startled by the sudden change of subject.
“Bear? Great guy,” Christopher says. “Really, really could not feel worse about what happened to him. His nickname is so right-on. He’s a big cuddly teddy bear.”
“A big cuddly teddy bear who happens to be a bodyguard,” Cooper says.
“Well,” Christopher says, blinking. “Yeah. He’s a teddy bear unless you get too close to someone he’s protecting. Then he’ll rip your head off.”
“But that’s not what happened tonight?”
It’s interesting to watch Cooper at work. Stephanie and Christopher don’t seem to have caught on that that’s what Cooper is doing. To them, he appears to be a concerned big brother.
I, on the other hand, can tell he’s piecing together the beginning of his own private investigation into what exactly went down on Varick Street.
“Oh no,” Stephanie says, her eyes widening. In the glow from the fairy lights strung along the terrace walls, I can see that the vein in the middle of her forehead
has calmed down. This is because Cooper has lulled her into thinking we’re just four friends, sitting around a patio table, talking.
This is far from the truth, however.
“The police said it was probably teenagers goofing off,” Stephanie says, “although when I was a teenager, we goofed off by throwing eggs at people’s cars, not shooting at them with guns.”
“But were the teenagers shooting at each other,” Cooper asks, “or Bear? Or my brother?”
His gaze has drifted toward Jordan, who can be seen through the French doors looking on worriedly while the EMTs take Tania’s vitals. I’ll admit it’s a fascinating sight, not just because the blood pressure cuff is so huge on Tania’s tiny arm, but because Jordan is being so solicitous. This is apparently as foreign to Cooper as it is to me.
Stephanie looks shocked. “No one would have any reason to shoot Bear, much less Tania or your brother. Jordan and Tania are two of the most liked celebrities on Facebook. Jordan has 15 million friends, Tania over 20 million—”
“And yet,” Cooper says, “they have a bodyguard.”
“To keep away fans who get overly friendly, and overzealous paps.”
Neither Cooper nor I need clarification. She means the paparazzi. The press wasn’t such a big deal when I was in the business, but they’re an ever-present hazard for Jordan and Tania, whose every move is followed voraciously by a pack of photographers bearing telephoto lenses. I know because I can’t turn on the Internet without seeing some headline about where Jordan ate or what Tania was wearing.
Cooper lets it drop. “So, Chris, what’s the name of your club?”
Christopher looks taken aback. “Well, Epiphany’s not really my club . . .”
“Sorry, I thought you said it was.”
“Christopher’s one of a few investors,” Stephanie says, quickly coming to the defense of her boyfriend. “That’s how he and I met. One of my sorority sisters’ brothers is also an investor, and I was there for her bachelorette party, and I met Chris, and one thing led to another, and—”
This appears to be too much information for Cooper. “Okay, then,” he interrupts. “Why here?”
“Excuse me?” Christopher asks, looking confused.
“Why did you decide to film here instead of going back to Jordan and Tania’s place after the shooting?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Christopher says. “To avoid the paps.”
“They heard about the shooting over the police scanners,” Stephanie explains, “and it sent them into a feeding frenzy. They were all over us back at Epiphany. Anyway, afterward, Tania wasn’t feeling well . . . understandably, since it was so hot and the police did hold us there for a while. The paps have Jordan and Tania’s place staked out.”
“I realized my parents’ place, on the other hand, was close by,” Christopher said, with a shrug. “And the paps don’t know about it. So I offered the use of it. I knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t mind.” He gives me one of his boyish grins. “I have to admit, I forgot about you, Heather, and your overprotectiveness of the kids in this building. I didn’t think you’d be here on a Sunday night.”
I glare at him. “I wouldn’t have to be overprotective of the kids in this building if some people weren’t always trying to take advantage of them.”
Stephanie’s curiosity is aroused. She looks from Christopher to me. “What’s she talking about?” she asks.
“Nothing,” Christopher says quickly. “Water under the bridge.”
“It wouldn’t have occurred to you to call it quits for the day,” Cooper says, steering the conversation back to the shooting. “After all, a violent crime was committed against one of your cast members.”
Stephanie’s eyes widen. “Tania Trace’s bodyguard was shot,” she reminds us, in case we’d forgotten. “During the filming of a reality show about Tania Trace. It would be dishonest of us not to film the very natural emotional reaction of Tania and Jordan to the shooting, even though the wound turned out only to require a few stitches. It was a truly frightening experience, and our viewers are going to want to feel what it was like right along with Jordan and Tania. And we don’t intend to let our viewers down. Not to mention we have only a limited amount of time in order to get the more, er, intimate footage between Tania and Jordan finished. Tania Trace Rock Camp starts in a matter of days, and—”
“Tania Trace what?” I interrupt.
“Tania Trace Rock Camp,” Stephanie says. She blinks at me. “Oh my God, you haven’t heard of it?”
I exchange a glance with Cooper after taking a sip from my water bottle. “We don’t really keep up with Jordan’s and Tania’s professional activities,” I say diplomatically.
“Tania Trace Rock Camp is an initiative started by Tania Trace,” Stephanie says, like she’s reading from a brochure, “to help empower young girls through music education. By providing them with opportunities to express themselves creatively through singing, songwriting, and performing, she’s building up the self-esteem and musical awareness of a whole new generation of young women who might otherwise, because of the way women are portrayed through the media, as sexual objects for men’s desire, develop negative self-images.”
“Wow,” I say, pleasantly surprised. This actually sounds really cool. I can’t believe Tania thought it up.
Then I realize Tania probably didn’t. A publicity team likely came up with the idea and approached her with it, or maybe it was commissioned by Cartwright Records, giving in to pressure from parents’ groups upset with Tania’s music videos, in which she’s usually scantily clothed and on top of a pool table.
Even so, it’s a great idea. Why didn’t I think of doing something like this back when I had the money for it and people would actually have shown up?
“Where is the camp?” I ask.
“At the beautiful Fairview Resort in the Catskills,” Stephanie says, still quoting from the brochure that appears to exist in her head. “We had over 200,000 applicants, but with Tania being pregnant, and the shooting schedule, not to mention the new record she’s working on, Tania has only so much time and energy to give, so we could really only accept fifty.”
Fifty? Out of 200,000? Well, I guess it’s something.
“And we could only accept girls whose families were willing to sign the waivers allowing them to be on the show,” Stephanie goes on.
Suddenly attending Tania Trace Rock Camp doesn’t sound so great after all.
My cell phone vibrates. I check it and see that Sarah is finally calling back. Relieved to have an excuse not to listen to Stephanie Brewer go on about her difficulties as a TV producer anymore, I beg everyone’s pardon, then get up from my chair to walk to the far side of the terrace so I can talk to Sarah in private.
“Hey, are you all right?” I ask her. “I was worried. I left like three messages.”
“No, I’m not all right,” she says crankily. “That’s why I didn’t pick up. What do you want?”
Whoa. I’m used to Sarah’s moods, but this is snippy, even for her.
“Are you crying?” I ask. “Because your voice sounds—”
“Yes,” Sarah says. “As a matter of fact, I am crying. Are you aware that someone called Protection to report an unconscious student and unauthorized party in the building?”
“Yes,” I say. “I am aware of that, actually, and I have it covered. Why are you crying?”
“I don’t see how you could have it covered when you aren’t here,” Sarah says, ignoring my question. “I understand you were here, but Simon says you left.”
“Oh,” I say. “You spoke with Simon?” I’m confused. “Is that why you’re crying? He didn’t try to blame you for the paintball war thing, did he? Because believe me, that was entirely—”
“I know Gavin and those stupid ballplayers cooked that up,” Sarah says sourly. “We rounded up all the paint guns, and I’ll make sure they get returned to the sports complex tomorrow. We couldn’t locate anyone unconscious, though. Everyone seems to be account
ed for. Simon left after giving each of the Pansies his card and telling them they can call him any time with their personal problems.” A dry note has crept into Sarah’s voice.
“Oh God,” I say.
“Yes,” Sarah says. “You know Simon’s applied for the job of director of this building, right?”
“What?” I’ve already been hit with a paintball, found my staff drinking, and run into my ex-boyfriend and his new wife filming a reality show in the building where I work. I didn’t think things could get worse. But guess what? “No way. He’s got Wasser Hall, the crown jewel of residence halls. Why would he want to work here?”
“Uh,” Sarah says, in a cynical tone, “because he thinks it’ll look really good on his résumé to be the guy who pulled the dorm with the most deaths in it ever out from the depths of its misery. And it wouldn’t hurt to be here to help the president and the basketball team through Pansygate either. He’s an idiot, but he’s no fool.”
I say a word that I’m sure would be too dirty to air on Cartwright Records Television.
“Pretty much,” Sarah says. “Dr. Jessup’s reviewing his CV. Simon thinks he’s a shoo-in because he’s in-house. Anyway, do you have any idea why there’s an ambulance parked outside but the attendants are nowhere to be found? Could they have gone into a neighboring building? The guard at the desk insists they came in here with some guy, but the guard’s a temp and I don’t think he knows what he’s—”
“Sarah,” I interrupt. “I don’t want this to get around. You know how gossipy this department is. But I’m with the EMTs. They’re in the president’s apartment.”
“Oh.” Sarah’s tone changes. “Is everyone all right?”
“So far,” I say. “It’s no one related to New York College.”
“Really?” Sarah sounds less tearful. “It’s not—?”