by Meg Cabot
“So what did you do?” I ask.
“I said, ‘Hey, Ricardo, long time no see,’ and the guy’s so freaked out, he pulls a knife on me. I had no choice but to disarm him.”
I gasp and sit up. “Cooper! Are you crazy? You could have been stabbed.”
“There were ladies present, including your mother,” he says, indignantly. “What was I supposed to do? As soon as she recognized Ricardo, your mom started screaming like she’d seen the antichrist. And even then, it took store security forever to figure out what was going on and call the cops. By the time they arrived, old Ricardo and I were already out on the sidewalk. He tried to push me under a cab—”
“Where was my mom?” I interrupt.
“Disappeared,” Cooper says. “Didn’t see her again once the cops peeled Ricardo and me apart.”
I press my lips together, thinking dark thoughts about my mother, who hadn’t even had the decency to stick around to help my fiancé while he was being half beaten to death by her ex—even if Cooper had eventually turned things around, and ended up winning the fight.
“Anyway, it just goes to show,” Cooper says, playing with a long strand of my hair, “things aren’t always what they seem.”
“What do you mean? I think things are exactly the way they seem. My mother is a no good dirty—”
“Oh, Heather.” Cooper cuts me off, shaking his head, then winces when the pain stops him. “So beautiful, yet so cold. I mean it just goes to show that your mother’s motives for showing up here the other night may not have been entirely duplicitous. Judging by the size of the knife that guy pulled on me, I think she had reason to believe she was in trouble—real trouble—and needed our help, but she didn’t know quite how to ask for it, especially after the way she’s treated you all these years.”
After this speech—which is a bit hard to understand thanks to his busted lip—Cooper reaches for the water glass, and takes a long drink through the straw.
“Why would I help her?” I demand. “Especially now! What has she ever done for me . . . or you? Except nearly get you killed today.”
“I brought that on myself,” he says, when his mouth is less dry, one of the side effects listed on the pill bottle. “As you pointed out, I should have left well enough alone. But . . . well, it’s not in my nature. Let’s face it, though: it’s not in your nature, either, Heather. That’s why we make such a perfect pair. We’re lucky to have found each another. I feel sorry sometimes for people like your mom. Maybe her problem isn’t that she’s a dirty, no good whatever-you-were-going-to-call-her. It’s that she was never lucky enough to find her soul mate, like we were.”
I frown, even though I know there might be something to what he’s saying. Still, this isn’t something a girl likes to admit . . . especially since I can’t help thinking back to Detective Canavan’s unpleasant assertion that I’m a shitkicker. That makes Cooper one, too. So we’re a couple of shitkickers in love?
How romantic.
“What about my poor dad?” I ask. “If my mom’s taken off with Ricardo’s money—and knowing her, you can bet that’s what this is all about—then she’s putting Dad in danger, staying with him.” I snap my fingers. “This completely explains why she didn’t want to stay in a hotel! She knew if she used a credit card, Ricardo could find her. Not that he didn’t manage to find her anyway. Oh, this is a nightmare.” I groan and cover my eyes.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” Cooper says. “Ricardo’s going to be in the Tombs until at least tomorrow morning. Then if he can’t make bail—which I doubt he will, since he resisted arrest, and you know how fondly judges look upon that—he’ll be shipped off to Rikers. So wherever your mom’s taken off to, she’s got a good head start on him. And your dad’s fine. He just ordered in Chinese food.”
“Wait.” I drop my hands away from my face in order to stare at him. “How do you know that?”
Sheepishly, Cooper holds up his cell phone. There’s a text on it from someone called Kenny.
“You’re having my dad’s apartment building staked out?” I cry.
“Of course not,” he says, as if this would be completely unreasonable. “I just bribed the doorman to keep me updated on your dad’s activities.”
“Oh,” I say in mock relief. “That’s so much better.”
“See,” Cooper says. “This is why I never wanted you to know the details of what I do for a living, because it’s not pleasant. I spy on people. I’m always going to spy on people, even when I get beat up for doing it, and even when I’m not getting paid to do it. I like spying on people. It’s what I do, Heather. And if you’re going to be married to me, you’re going to have to get used to it.”
I lean back against the pillows and eye him, taking in the stubborn slant of his jaw, and the challenging gleam in his eye. “Gosh. You mean you wouldn’t quit detecting if I asked you to?”
“No. Would you quit writing songs and working in the dorm if I asked you to?”
“No. Not unless you had some sort of fatal disease and you wanted me to come with you to the south of France to enjoy your last few months of life.”
“Oh,” he says, his features relaxing. “Well, that would be a different story. I would completely quit detecting to nurse you through a fatal disease, especially in the south of France.”
I reach out to brush back a dark strand of hair that’s fallen across his forehead. “I had no idea being a private detective was so . . . complicated. From your billing, it certainly looks boring.”
“It usually is,” Cooper says. “But like I said . . . things aren’t always what they seem.”
“Yes, I can see that now.” I kiss the place on his forehead where the strand of hair had lain. “Well, enough about fatal diseases. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better right now?”
One of Cooper’s dark eyebrows lifts. “I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, my hand creeping beneath the sheet. “Where does it hurt?”
“Well,” he admits. “Kind of everywhere.”
“What about here?” I ask, raising an eyebrow of my own.
He inhales. “I might need a little attention in that area. You did say something earlier about a finger sandwich, if I recall.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not so sure you want one of those. I looked it up a little while ago. That’s when a girl has sex with two guys at once. I could call Hal up here, if you—”
“I very definitely,” Cooper says, “do not want a finger sandwich, ever.”
“Message received,” I say, flipping back the sheet. “Let’s see what I can do to change your mind about my nursing abilities.”
I did change his mind, thoroughly.
28
Students Allegedly Made Homeless by College Administration
College officials are declining to comment
on the fact that nine resident assistants—more than half the staff—have been fired from their positions at Fischer Hall for “behavior not tolerated by this institution” and told to find alternative housing by Sunday.
The “behavior” in which the RAs are alleged to have been engaging is one most New York College students have engaged in at one time or another: partying.
These nine RAs, however, were allegedly partying with the prince of Qalif, and also with underage residents from their floors.
Alcohol is said to have been present at this party in large quantities.
The morning after the party, a fellow Fischer Hall RA, Jasmine Albright, was found dead in her room in Fischer Hall. Cause of death has not yet been released by the medical examiner, but sources tell the Express that the student was not seen drinking at the party.
A petition has already been started by some of the RAs’ freshmen residents in order
to “save” the RAs’ jobs.
“I love my RA,” says freshman Lindsay Chu, “and I don’t think it’s fair that she got fired for something everyone else was doing too. And
it isn’t her fault that that
a girl died. Everyone drinks. Who cares?”
So far the petition has over fifty signatures. None of the Fischer Hall RAs were available for comment.
New York College Express,
your daily student news blog
Cooper is still asleep when I leave for Fischer Hall the next day. The pills—and no doubt exhaustion, since it turns out I possess surprisingly excellent nursing skills—have finally knocked him out. I post a long list of instructions for Hal on the door to the refrigerator, which he eyes nervously.
“I think Coop wanted me to go with you,” Hal says. “You know, to protect you from the crazy person who’s killing people where you work, and from your mom’s boyfriend too.”
I laugh humorlessly. I know things must be pretty bad if Virgin Hal would rather hang out with me, a lady, than Cooper. Cooper’s not exactly someone who enjoys spending time in bed . . . unless I’m there with him, of course.
“I think my mom’s boyfriend is more interested in going after her than me, Hal,” I say. “Besides, it will look weird if I have a bodyguard following me around the residence hall. And someone has to stay here and help Cooper. He’s got a broken rib on top of a fractured ankle. He can’t use the crutches yet. Who’s going to bring him breakfast and make sure he takes his pills?”
The answer to this question should be me, but no way am I calling in sick to stay home to play nursemaid to my injured fiancé, even if he did do something incredibly brave and noble. I have a meeting with Rashid and Ameera at nine, and I’m not missing it, though I plan to come home right after.
Of course, I’ll have to rush out again straightaway, since I have my final wedding gown fitting at noon. No way can I miss that appointment the way I did the one with our wedding planner.
“Well,” Hal says, dubiously eyeing the list I’ve left, which says Bring Cooper breakfast as the first item, with Order egg, cheese, and ham breakfast sandwich from deli (for delivery) beneath it, and the number for the deli under that. Attached to it is a ten-dollar bill (I’ve included money for Hal’s breakfast, and a deli menu), and then, beneath that, because I’m not sure Hal knows, I’ve written, Deli guy is our friend. He will not hurt us. Do not shoot him.
“I don’t know,” Hal says, slowly, still staring at the list.
“Look,” I say. It’s nearly nine. “Have Cooper call me when he wakes up.”
I’m almost out the door before Hal calls me back. “Heather! You forgot something.”
I hurry back only to have him slip the .22 into my purse. Its weight makes the bag considerably heavier.
“It’s loaded,” Hal says, looking furtively up and down the street. The sky is overcast, for a change, and thankfully there aren’t many people around. “The safety is on. Remember what I said. Never, ever give up your weapon, no matter what. Not for any reason. Have you read The Onion Field?”
Oddly, I have. It’s a fact-based novel Cooper keeps around the house and which I’ve flipped through (unlike The Hobbit). That’s because it’s based on a true incident in which a police officer in California surrendered his gun to a criminal who was holding the officer’s partner hostage. The criminal then shot the officer’s partner with the gun. The case caused police departments across the country to enforce a strict new rule: No officer is to surrender his weapon under any circumstances whatsoever.
Although the incident had to have occurred before Hal was born, the fact that he keeps insisting I not give up my weapon, no matter what, gives me sudden insight into why he’s no longer on the force, and also why he himself owns so many weapons. He must have been put into a similar situation as the officer in the onion field, and broken the rule, with similarly tragic consequences.
“I have read it, Hal,” I say gently, instead of what I want to say, which is, Get this thing out of my purse. “I’ll be sure not to let anyone else get their hands on my weapon.”
“Good. If you won’t let me protect you,” Hal says, his eyes looking oddly bright behind the thick lenses of his glasses, “at least protect yourself. You know it’s what Cooper would want.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do. Thank you very much, Hal. And thank you for looking after Cooper.”
Hal nods briskly, then quickly closes the door, probably so I won’t see him looking misty-eyed. I’m glad, because I’ve grown a little misty-eyed, as well . . . which is absurd. Almost as absurd as the fact that I’m taking a target pistol to work. Fortunately, the bottom drawer to my desk locks. I’ll put my purse in it—after I’ve removed all the files—and lock it in there. Explosives, fireworks, firearms, and ammunition are all prohibited in the residence halls, and subject to confiscation and disposal if found, according to The New York College Housing and Residence Life Handbook. I’m fairly certain this applies to employees as well as residents.
I noticed the night before when checking my e-mail that someone at the Express—not Cameron Ripley, obviously—had posted a story online about the RAs being fired. It had garnered a number of comments, most of them in favor of the RAs.
So I’m not surprised when I turn the corner and see student protesters marching in front of Fischer Hall, holding signs that say new york college unfair! and i love my ra! while chanting, “Hire back my RA!”
Most of the students are obviously freshmen. Freshmen, though adorable, are sometimes easily led, especially during the first few weeks of school, before they’ve become hardened and jaded, like me. That’s why so many solicitors gravitate to the park in the autumnal months, offering free microwaves to kids who sign up for credit cards—carrying absurdly high interest rates—and passes to “rock concerts”—which turn out to be prayer meetings with a little live music thrown in.
“Heather!” One of the freshmen holding a sign rushes up to me. I recognize Kaileigh Harris. Two of her suite mates—but not Ameera, I notice—and Kaileigh’s mother are trailing right behind her.
It’s way too early for this.
“Heather,” Kaileigh says, when she reaches me. “Did you hear what happened? They fired all the RAs!”
“Well,” I say. “Not all of them. Only the ones who went to the prince’s party.”
“But it’s not fair,” Nishi, her suite mate, cries. “The RAs are students, just like us.”
“Yeah,” Chantelle, Kaileigh’s other suite mate, says. “Why should they be punished when none of the rest of us got punished?”
No. Not this. Not before I’ve had coffee.
“You guys,” I say. “I’m not saying I don’t think the rest of you should be punished, because believe me, I do. But do you think it’s possible there’s more to the story”—like that a girl died, and the RAs covered up knowing at least a little about why—“and that maybe things aren’t always what they seem?”
I’m consciously echoing Cooper’s words from the night before.
“Oh, no,” a fourth girl says, stomping up to me in her lime-green combat boots, her sign slung over one shoulder. “Things are exactly how they seem. We know everything. My RA, Megan, told me. The fact is that you, the administrators, don’t care about us, the students, the people who pay your salary! Well, it’s time we took charge. We want our RAs back! We. Want. Our. RAs. Back!”
Her chant is quickly picked up by the rest of the students, some of whom I now see are the fired RAs. Megan is one of them. She’s giving me a slant-eyed look through her horn-rimmed glasses as she marches around in front of the hall.
I resolve to make sure Megan’s final paycheck takes quite a circuitous route in getting to her, wherever Megan ends up after moving from the building.
“Ms. Wells,” Mrs. Harris sidles up to me to say. She looks worried. I can hardly blame her. “Do you know anything about this?”
“I do,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face. “Please don’t worry about it, Mrs. Harris. We have some really great candidates in line to replace the RAs we’ve lost.”
Well, one great candidate.
“We’ve already met him,�
�� Mrs. Harris says bleakly. Today she’s dressed all in tones of lemon. How can she look so well put together so early in the morning? “Last night, while we were having dinner in the cafeteria, your assistant, whatever her name is, the one with the frizzy hair, was introducing him around. No offense, Ms. Wells, but are you aware he’s blind? Our daughter’s going from a dead RA to a blind one? Excuse me, but how is that going to work? What if there’s a fire?”
I look upward at the overcast sky, fighting for patience.
“Well, Mrs. Harris,” I say, after I’ve counted to three. “I’m sure if there’s a fire, Dave will hear the alarm, smell the smoke, and get his residents to safety, just like a sighted person. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my office.”
I storm past her, but I don’t head for the office. I head for the cafeteria. I need that coffee and a bagel.
“Morning,” Pete says glumly as I pass the security desk. He knows better than to speak to me too cheerfully in the a.m. He feels the same way about mornings.
“Are you seeing this?” I ask, pointing over my shoulder at the picketers. “Are you picking it up on your monitors?”
“Unfortunately,” he replies, just as glumly. “They’ve been at it since eight. They’ve got a group of ’em protesting in front of the president’s office as well. Some of ’em have got their parents driving in too, from what I hear.”
I roll my eyes. “Shoot me.” Then I remember what I have in my bag. “I mean . . . never mind.”
Pete nods solemnly. He has a cup of coffee and a bagel on his desk, so he’s already several steps ahead of me. “Just so you know, there’s a bunch of ’em waiting outside your office. Couldn’t get in because you changed the locks last night—good move, by the way—but all that seemed to do was raise their fighting spirit.”
I say a curse word I normally reserve for when I’ve stubbed a toe or forgotten to order paper for the photocopier.