by Meg Cabot
Startled, I look around for Stephanie or Jared, but it’s clear she’s speaking to me. “Me? No, I just work here.”
The woman doesn’t seem to believe me. “You look so familiar,” she says. “Weren’t you at the Nashville callbacks?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Lady, like I told you before,” Pete says in a tired voice, “when the people with Jordan Loves Tania are ready for you, they’ll come out and say so. In the meantime, you can’t come in. You’ll just have to wait like all the others—”
“I don’t think you understand. We’ve been waiting here for an hour already,” the woman says, annoyed. “My Cassidy is very special. The producer said so when she auditioned. And now she is starting to sweat.” She points a perfectly manicured nail at a young girl dressed in a lime green tank top and black leggings who does indeed look a little sweaty, but probably because a minute before she was demonstrating how to do a handstand to some of the other girls, who were admiring her perfect form. “How is Cassidy going to look her best on camera when she is sweating?”
“I don’t know,” Pete says. “Maybe if you’d come when you were supposed to, which is at ten—”
“There are some coffee shops in the area where you could take your daughter to get her a soda or something to cool off while you wait,” I hurry to offer, thinking Pete is being a little gruff. These people are from out of town, after all. They don’t know about New Yorkers and their notorious brusqueness. “The Washington Square Diner is right around the corner—”
“Oh, everyone would like that,” the woman steams, “wouldn’t they, for my Cassidy to get addicted to soda and get so chubby that she looks like a blimp at the Rock Off? Well, it’s not going to happen.”
I widen my eyes. I’m finding this lady as familiar as she seems to find me, but I can’t quite put my finger on why that is.
“Tell me this,” she says. “Are professional hair and makeup stylists going to be provided for the girls? Because I don’t see a trailer parked anywhere nearby. Are they in a room inside?”
I’m so confused by this question, I can’t speak. Fortunately, Magda takes over.
“No, ma’am,” she says. “I already asked this, and they said only Tania Trace gets professional hair and makeup, because she’s the star. The rest of us have to provide our own.”
The woman looks so outraged, I half expect, when she reaches into her enormous designer tote, for her to pull out a weapon. Instead, she’s simply diving for her cell phone. “We’ll just see what Cassidy’s agent has to say about this,” she says and stalks away on her spindly high heels, the phone to her ear. “Girls,” she calls to the other mothers, “you will never believe this.”
I glance at Pete, my eyebrows raised. “And I thought the parents of the undergrads were bad,” I say.
“You see?” he asks, calmly taking a sip of his coffee. “You see why I get paid the big bucks? This is what I’ve been putting up with all morning. That’s Mrs. Upton, by the way, also known as Cassidy’s mom.”
I feel a sense of horror come over me. I did all of the Tania Trace Rock Camp room assignments myself, by hand, so I recognize the name instantly. “Oh God,” I say. “Mrs. Upton’s one of the chaperones. I assigned her and Cassidy to the room to Narnia.”
“Nice one,” Pete says with a big smile. “Better hope the deodorizers Manuel put in there work. I don’t think she’s the type to appreciate eau de ganja.”
“This check-in is a disaster already,” I say, dropping my face into my hand. “Why are they making them wait? Why aren’t they letting them in?”
“Bunch of yukkity-yuks in there,” Pete says, nodding toward the door behind us. “Everyone from the president on down wants to stop by and say hi and congrats while they’re setting up. So back to the fanny pack. That’s where a lot of off-duty cops keep their guns when they carry. That or in the pocket of their cargo pants.”
This distracts me completely from my worries about Mrs. Upton and what she might say upon opening the door to room 1621. “Are you serious? Because I hid a pair of cargo pants Cooper’s been insisting on wearing a lot lately—”
Pete looks disgusted. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t hide a man’s pants. What’s so bad about cargo pants anyway?”
“Everything,” Magda says, her heavily made-up eyes rolling toward the sky.
“Seriously,” I say. “They’re all wrong in every way unless you’re a forest ranger. And you’re crazy. Cooper doesn’t own a gun. He told me.”
“Sure,” Pete says calmly. “Of course he told you that, because he lives with you and you’re a woman, the kind of woman who might get upset to learn that there’s a gun in the house.”
When I start to protest that this isn’t true, he gives me a sarcastic look and I shut up. It’s sort of true that I might get upset to learn that Cooper carries a gun, but only because he lied to me about it. And because he might shoot himself with it. Or get shot, drawing it on someone else.
“He’s working as Tania Trace’s bodyguard right now,” Pete points out. “And didn’t I hear on the news that her last bodyguard got shot?”
Until that very moment, I’d forgotten all about Bear, and about Cooper’s suspicion that his shooting might not have been so random after all, given the network’s willingness to move Tania Trace’s rock camp at such great expense.
“Okay,” I say, “but—”
“Shoulder holsters work only under jackets,” Pete goes on. He’s waxing poetic about where he likes to keep his gun when he’s off-duty. New York College protection officers aren’t allowed to carry guns (at least, not officially), only Tasers. “Ankle holsters make you chafe. You can carry a Glock on your belt, but then everybody’s gonna see it, unless you wear a jacket or keep your shirt untucked. You ladies have it easy, with your purses. You can hide anything in there.”
I’m starting to regret that I ever said anything.
That’s when the front door to Fischer Hall bursts open and Gavin runs through it, calling, “Heather! Heather, come quick!”
Chapter 13
So Sue Me
All those times you said
I’d never make it
All those times you said
I should quit
All those times you said
I’m nothing without you
The sad part is
I believed it too
Then you left and
What do you know
I made it on
My very own
So go ahead and sue me
You heard me
Go ahead and sue me
Now that I’ve made it
You say it’s you I owe
Well, you owe me too
For the heart you stole
If I’ve got one regret
It’s all the time I spent
All the tears I wept
Thinking you were worth the bet
Go ahead, go all the way
Take me to court
It’ll make my day
So sue me
Go ahead and sue me
“So Sue Me”
Performed and written by Tania Trace
So Sue Me album
Cartwright Records
Nine consecutive weeks as the
Number 1 Hit Billboard Hot 100
I don’t know how he realized I was there. Maybe it’s that kind of sixth sense animals have when they know their mothers are nearby.
Wait . . . that’s mother bears, and it’s what they use to find their missing cubs. Probably Gavin saw me through the window.
In any case, I shove my coffee mug back at Magda and race into Fischer Hall after Gavin, expecting to find the place on fire at the very least.
Instead, I discover Davinia, one of the RAs, in tears, with Sarah, Lisa Wu, and Gavin’s girlfriend, Jamie, clustered around her. My entire staff, it seems, has gathered in the lobby, as has the crew of Jordan Loves Tania,
minus the stars. Stephanie Brewer is standing in front of the desk, giving instructions of some urgency to her crew, who are for some reason behind the desk, where they have no business being. This is where we keep all the mail and deliveries for the residents.
Or possibly the message isn’t urgent. Maybe she’s shouting at the top of her lungs because Manuel, the head housekeeper, has decided to go over the lobby floors one last time with his industrial electric buffer. The noise is incredible . . . so loud that Dr. Jessup, who has shown up on a Saturday, has his hands over his ears as he stands beside Muffy Fowler, President Allington and Christopher Allington, and, of all people, Simon Hague.
These must be the yukkity-yuks that Pete was talking about. I suppose it makes sense. Why wouldn’t Simon Hague stroll over from his residence hall to mine on a Saturday morning to watch the check-in for Tania Trace Rock Camp? It’s not like he has a life.
“Well, hey, Heather,” Muffy yells in order to be heard above the buffer. “Nice of you to stop on by.”
I narrow my eyes at her. I can tell she thinks the entire situation is funny, but it’s so not. President Allington—dressed, as usual, in the New York College colors of blue and gold, in this case a blue-and-gold velour warm-up suit over a white tank top—is leaning negligently against the security monitors at the guard’s desk, eating fruit salad from a paper plate. There is no guard to tell him not to, because Pete is outside, keeping Mrs. Upton and the other moms from rushing over to Pitchforks “R” Us and instigating a rebellion.
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.”
He slaps a black binder into my hand.
“Why’d you let them back there?” I whisper to him, nodding at Jared and the film crew, who are crowded behind him, sitting on the edge of the air-conditioning unit, the windowsill, and the table where mail is usually sorted, having an earnest conversation about the merits of zombie films over slasher pics. “You know no one’s allowed back there but you guys.”
“Dude in the suit told me to,” Gavin whispers back, nodding at Dr. Jessup. I wonder briefly how the vice president would feel to hear that he’s been referred as the “dude in the suit.” Dr. Jessup tries hard to keep up with what he thinks is the Millennial generation’s lingo. I once heard him refer to a movie he’d seen directed by Woody Allen as “baller.” “They want to film the reactions of the girls as they check in. Their screams of excitement and joy or whatever as they get the keys to their rooms in fabulous New York City.”
He’s trying to sound sarcastic, but I can see that he’s put on a pair of clean khakis—long ones, not shorts—and a white button-down shirt that someone—I’m guessing his girlfriend, Jamie—has taken the trouble to iron. His hair is wet around the edges, indicating that he showered before coming down for work. Normally he rolls out of bed and comes to the desk eating a bowl of Fruit Loops in his pajamas. The distinctly pungent odor of Axe body spray lies heavy in the air.
What is going on? Gavin—who, out of all my student employees, tries hardest to act like he doesn’t care—is actually trying to look good for a goofy docu-reality series being filmed for the Cartwright Records Television network? I’m struck by a sudden urge to cry at how cute this is. Maybe my continuous-cycle birth control pills aren’t entirely suppressing my hormones after all.