Meg Cabot - Big Boned

The morning of my first training session—and possible prelude to a marriage proposal—with Tad, I actually managed to get to the hall director’s office before Owen, which is quite a feat. I’d been starting to wonder if maybe my new interim boss lives in the office, since he never seems to leave it.

I’m not the only one who’s surprised to find the office door still closed and locked that morning. A resident, whom I recognize as spring semester transfer student Jamie Price, blond, broad-shouldered, and blue-eyed, scrambles up from the institutional-style couch that sits outside my office, looking anxious.

“Hi?” Jamie’s one of those girls who ends almost every single statement with a question mark, even when it isn’t a question. “I had an appointment? With Dr. Veatch? For eight-thirty? But he isn’t here? I knocked?”

“He’s probably just running a little late,” I say, taking my keys out from the pocket of my backpack. I always carry a backpack, and not a purse, because backpacks are roomy enough to fit all my makeup, hairstyling equipment, spare changes of underwear, etcetera, which has never come in handier more than now that I’m splitting my time between my apartment and my remedial math assistant professor’s place. I just need to remember to buy a travel hair dryer. I’ve kind of got the living-on-the-go thing down. Well, I should, considering how many years I spent on the road, living out of a suitcase with my mom, doing the teen-pop-star-singing-sensation mall-tour thing (no stage was too small for Heather Wells!), slowly moving my way up to bigger venues, like state fairs, until I reached that pinnacle of success, opening for the boy band Easy Street, where I met the then love of my life, Jordan Cartwright, whose father signed me to the mega record deal that made Heather Wells a household name…

… for about five minutes, before I decided I wanted to have my own voice and write my own songs, instead of singing the sugary crap the studio handed to me, and Jordan’s dad finally gave me the boot…

… and Mom took off to Argentina with my manager, and all my money.

Although these are not the sort of things upon which I like to dwell before nine in the morning. Or ever, really.

“I’m sure he’ll be here in a minute,” I tell Jamie.

Unlike whoever gets hired to replace him, Owen doesn’t live in the building. The Fischer Hall director’s apartment has sat empty since the old director, Tom, moved out of it last month, having been transferred into a far swankier apartment in the frat building, Waverly Hall, across the park, where he was currently happily nesting with his new live-in boyfriend, the basketball coach. Owen has a college-subsidized apartment just like Tad, but in a much nicer building on the north side of Washington Square Park.

“Okay,” Jamie says, following me—after I’d unlocked the door—into the outer office, which I share with Sarah and fifteen resident assistants, students who, in exchange for free room and board, each supervise a floor of the building, acting as advisor, confidant, and narc to about forty-five residents each. My desk is on the far side, where I can sit with my back to the wall and an eye on the photocopier, which receives so much daily abuse that I think I could probably moonlight as a copier repair person, I spend so much time fixing it.

The door to the hall director’s office—separated from the outer office by a wall made up of plaster for the first five feet, then a metal grate for the next two, until it meets the ceiling—is closed.

Except that, through the grate, I can smell coffee. Also another smell that I can’t quite identify. And I can hear street noises—a honking car, footsteps on the sidewalk—coming from outside the hall director’s office, which—unlike the outer office—has windows that look out onto a side street of Washington Square.

I assume, from these clues, that Owen is in his office, drinking coffee with one of the windows open. But the door closed, probably due to his wanting some privacy. Hopefully so he can look up Internet porn.

But the truth is, Owen’s never really struck me as the Internet porn type, although he is a divorced, middle-aged male, which one has to assume is Internet porn’s target demo—well, aside from fourteen-year-old boys.

“Owen,” I say, giving his door a tap. “Your eight-thirty appointment, Jamie, is here.”

Jamie, standing by my desk in her baby blue sweater set and jeans, calls, through the grate, “Um, hi, Dr. Veatch?”

Dr. Veatch doesn’t respond. Which is totally weird. Because I know he’s in there.

That’s when I start to get the creepy feeling. And the truth is, I’ve worked in Fischer Hall long enough to know that when you get a creepy feeling, it’s probably right on target.

“Jamie,” I say, trying not to let the growing dread I feel show in my voice. “Go out to the front desk and ask Pete, the security guard, to come back here a minute, will you?”

Jamie, looking bemused but still smiling, says, “Okay?” and goes out into the hall.

As soon as she’s gone, I whip out my key to the hall director’s office, insert it into the lock, and open Owen’s door.

And see why it is that he didn’t respond to my knock.

I quickly pull the door shut again, remove my key, sink down into the closest chair—the one by Sarah’s desk.

Then I stick my head between my knees.

I’m studying the tops of my running shoes when Pete and Jamie return, Pete panting a little, because he’s got the same problem saying no to Magda’s offers of free DoveBars that I do.

“What is it?” Pete wants to know. “What’s wrong? Why are you hunched over like that?”

“I have cramps,” I say, to my shoelaces. “Jamie, we’re going to have to reschedule your appointment for another time. Okay?”

I glance up from my shoes and see that Jamie looks confused. “Is everything all right?” she wants to know.

“Uh,” I say. What am I going to say,Yeah, everything’s fine? Because everything’s not fine. And she’s going to find that out—sooner than later. “Not really. We’ll call you later to reschedule, okay?”

“Okay,” Jamie says, now looking more concerned than confused. “I… ”

But something in my face—maybe the nausea I’m fighting back?Why did I go for that second waffle? — stops her, and she turns and leaves the office.

“Shut the door,” I say to Pete, who does so.

“Heather,” he says. “What’s this all about? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick? You want I should call the nurse on duty?”

“I’m not sick,” I say, and hold out my keys, still keeping my head as close as I can to the floor (I’m hoping this will keep the nausea at bay). “But Owen is. Well, not sick so much as… dead. You better call nine-one-one. I would but… I’m not feeling too good right now.”

“Dead?” I can’t see his face, but I have a good view of his shoes—sturdy black ones, with reinforced steel toes for when recalcitrant residents—or their guests—try to resist being physically dissuaded from whatever half-assed stunt they’re intent on embarking upon. “What do you mean, dead?”

“Dead dead,” I say. “As in dead.”

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Pete swears to himself and grabs my keys. I can hear him fumbling for the right one, but I don’t risk looking up to help. Because things are still swimming around a lot south of my throat.

They’d been chocolate chip waffles, too. That’s just wrong. Why can’t I ever just eat a healthy breakfast? What’s so wrong with whole wheat toast, half a grapefruit, and an egg white omelet? Why do I always have to reach for the whipped cream?Why?

“Why didn’t you try to do something for him?” Pete wants to know, still trying to find the right key. “CPR, or something?”

“CPR won’t help,” I say, to my shoes. “Given that he’s dead.”

“Since when do you have a medical degree?” Pete demands. And finally gets the right key, and shoulders the door open with far more force than necessary.

Then freezes.

I know he freezes because I’m still watching his feet.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“Put down the blinds,” I say, to the floor.

“What?” Pete’s voice sounds funny.

“The window blinds,” I say. “Anyone walking by along the sidewalk can look in and see. I’m surprised someone hasn’t yet.” On the other hand, it’s New York City. Busy, busy New York, filled with busy, busy New Yorkers. “Put the blinds down.” I realize I’m starting to feel better. Not well enough to look into the room Pete’s standing in. But well enough to sit up a little and grab the phone. “I’ll call nine-one-one. You put down the blinds.”

“Right.” Pete’s voice still sounds funny. This might be because he’s swearing, steadily and with a great deal of creativity, under this breath. I hear the blinds slide down.

I still don’t look behind me, though. I clutch the phone receiver to my ear and stab the number 9–9–1–1 into the phone. The extra 9 is so that I can get an outside line.

It’s as I’m doing this that a key is inserted into the keyhole of the door to the outer office—which locks automatically when closed—and a second later, Sarah, our grad student assistant (or, I guess, more correctly,my grad student assistant, since there’s no our anymore), comes in, looking surprised to see me sitting at her desk.

“Hey,” she says. “What’s going on? Why’s Pete in here? Where’s—”

“Don’t!” both Pete and I yell at the same time, as Sarah takes a step toward the open door to Dr. Veatch’s office.

It’s at that exact moment that the emergency operator says, “Nine-one-one, what’s the emergency?” into my ear.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah wants to know, because Pete has put his hands out and is striding toward her, blocking her efforts to get into Dr. Veatch’s office. “What is it? Let me see. Let me see!”

“Hello?” the emergency operator squawks in my ear.

“Yes, hello,” I say. “I need the police at Fischer Hall, on Washington Square West.” I give them the address, even though it’s hardly necessary. Every emergency operator in Manhattan knows where Death Dorm is by now.

“Just go sit down over there at Heather’s desk,” Pete is saying to Sarah, as he pulls the door to Dr. Veatch’s office closed behind him.

“Why?” Sarah demands. “What’s going on in there? Why don’t you want to me see? This isn’t fair. I—”

“What’s the matter with you?” Pete wants to know. “I told you to sit down, so go sit down!”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Sarah cries. “I’m not just a student, you know! I’m an employee of this college, same as you. I have as much right to know what’s going on as any other employee of this college. I’m tired of being treated—”

“What’s the nature of the emergency, ma’am?” the 911 operator wants to know.

“Um,” I say. I can hardly hear myself think, with Sarah’s whining.

“—like a second-class citizen by President Allington’s administration,” she goes on. “We’re unionizing, and no amount of hiding behind a regressive administration’s labor board decision is going to deny us our right to do so!”

“Ma’am?” the operator asks. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” I say. “Sorry.”

“And what is the nature of your emergency?”

“Um,” I say again. “The nature of my emergency is that someone shot my boss in the head.”

Okay, I’ll admit it. I wasn’t Owen’s biggest fan.

Well, whatever! I mean, he was only assigned to Fischer Hall in order to do damage control. That’s what an ombudsman does. It wasn’t like he wanted to be here. The president’s office parachuted him into the hall director’s office to try to do what he could with the whole “Death Dorm” mess.

But it wasn’t even like Owen ever fully concentrated on doing that, since he kept getting distracted by the grad-students-unionizing thing.

And yet he managed to find time to gripe at me about borrowing supplies from the dining office.

Okay, I know, it’s petty to complain about that when the man is dead.

But at least I, unlike Sarah, refrained from saying he deserved to get shot.

Of course, Sarah hadn’t seen the way that bullet had tunneled through Owen’s skull and come out the other side, leaving a black hole—surrounded by blood spatter—in the middle of his Garfield Month-at-a-Glance Day Planner (Garfield: a cat that wears sunglasses and eats lasagna).