Size 12 and Ready to Rock (32 page)

“Yeah,” Pete says from behind the desk. “I guess so. Wynona, did you see this girl sign in?”

Pete, in his quest to earn more overtime, happens to be covering the lunch shift at Wasser Hall. With Fischer Hall closed—only the Tania Trace campers are allowed to eat in its cafeteria—Wasser has been getting slammed at mealtimes, and they’ve needed to double up on the Protection Services staff to make sure everyone entering the building uses the correct sets of doors . . . one set goes downstairs, to the cafeteria, through which there is no access to the rest of the building. The other set goes into the main residence hall.

“No,” Wynona says irritably. She’s earning overtime covering the Wasser Hall lunch shift as well. “I can’t be watching every single person who comes in here, only the ones on my side of the desk. You have to be watching yours. Hey!” she yells at a student carrying an enormous backpack. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The student, looking terrified, says, “Lunch?”

“Other doors,” Wynona says, and points. The student turns around, his face flushing crimson, and heads toward the appropriate doors. “You’re okay,” Wynona says to him more kindly as he passes by. “Just remember next time.”

“There’s your answer,” Pete says to me. “Wynona did not see this girl get signed in. Must have been Eduardo, he was on before we got here. Why, is there a problem?”

“Yeah, there’s a problem,” I say. “This girl is fifteen. She’s here for Tania Trace Rock Camp.”

Pete makes a hissing noise. “Ay-yi-yi,” he says. “Mommy’s mad.”

“I’m not her mother,” I say to Pete, yanking Bridget’s ID card. “And I’m not mad. I’m just saying. Let me see who signed her in.”

Pete slides the log toward me, looking defensive. “I’m supposed to be keeping an eye out for every kid from Fischer Hall who gets invited over here to eat lunch? It’s
lunch,
for chrissakes. How much trouble could a kid be getting into at lunch?”

“If she was only going to lunch, she wouldn’t need to be signed in. Obviously, the guy took her to his room. If it was your daughter Nancy and she was at one of those sleepaway camps you’re working all this overtime to pay for, wouldn’t you want someone to be looking out for
her?
”

“Nancy,” Pete says, “wouldn’t go to Tania Trace Rock Camp, because she’s going to be a pediatrician. I wouldn’t pay to let her go to anything so—”

“Watch it,” I growl at him. “And these girls aren’t paying for this camp, they auditioned and got in. In fact, they’re getting paid to attend. So anyway—” I push back the hair that’s fallen into my face during this exchange and run my finger along the list of names in front of me. “Bill Bigelow? That can’t be right. He’s supposed to be an Orthodox Jew. Also, Bill Bigelow . . .”

I let my voice trail off. Why does that name seem so familiar to me?

Pete turns the sign-in log toward himself. “ ‘Bigelow’ doesn’t sound very Jewish to me either. Wait. Did that sound racist?”

“Dude.” A group of students walks up to the security desk. “I need the logbook. I gotta sign these guys in.”

“In a minute,” Pete says to them. He shows Wynona the logbook. “Wyn, have you ever seen this guy? Does he wear a yarmulke?”

“How would I know?” Wynona asks, glancing at the name. “The minimum stay in this place in the summertime is only two weeks, and they’ll rent a room out to anyone who pays in advance. I can’t remember every face, let alone the name that goes with it.”

“Dude,” the student who asked for the logbook says, “can I please sign in my guests? We’ve got to shoot a film for my intensive screenwriting class.”

“Do I look like a dude to you?” Wynona asks, her voice rising. “And there’s no filming in the residence halls.”

“But if I don’t finish this project by Friday,” the student whines, “I won’t graduate.”

“You should’ve thought about that before now,” Wynona says. “You’re not bringing that equipment in here. It’s a fire hazard.”

Bill Bigelow. Bill Bigelow. Bill Bigelow.

“Whoa, dude,” the resident’s friend says. “What a bitch.”

“Who are you calling a bitch?” Wynona demands, rising from behind her desk.

The resident’s friend grows pale. “No one.”

To Pete, I say, “I need access to the student ID system from a computer. I have to look up this guy, find out how old he is, and also see if he’s a full-time student or just living here for the summer.”

Pete shakes his head. “Sorry, Heather,” he says. “The only computer around here is in the director’s office, and that’s closed. It’s always closed this time of day.”

“It’s always closed, period,” Wynona says. She’s settled back down into her seat, having chased the film student away. “Wish I had that job. I wouldn’t mind having to work two days a week and still getting paid for five.”

I need to think fast. Bridget is in Bill Bigelow’s room now, right this very moment, maybe,
probably,
having sex.

This is none of my business, of course. I’m not her mother, as I pointed out to Pete. For all I know, Bill Bigelow could be her age and living in a New York College residence hall for the summer because he, like her, is a talented prodigy, taking classes in computer science or violin. Maybe they’re up there playing chess. Maybe—

Oh, screw it.

I pull out my cell phone and am about to punch in Lisa’s number when two large, familiar figures saunter into the Wasser Hall lobby, one of them wearing a warm-up suit and the other dressed in linen trousers and a polo shirt, both looking as if they own the place. Relief surges through me as I rush across the lobby.

“Hey, you guys,” I say, “can either one of you access the student system with your phone?”

“Well,” Tom says, looking affronted, “nice to see you too, Heather. And how is
your
day going?”

“This is serious,” I say to him. “I need to look up a student, but the residence hall office is closed, and my phone is a zillion years old.” I hold up my mobile to prove it.

“Is that an
antenna?
” Steven asks in horror.

“Oh, you sad little thing,” Tom says, taking his phone from the pocket of his linen trousers and pressing the screen. “Who am I looking up and why? And are you joining us for lunch? I hear it’s beef macaroni and cheese, your fave.”

“Bill Bigelow,” I say. “And maybe. One of the Tania Trace campers is signed in to his room, and I need to make sure he’s on the up-and-up. If he’s not, I have to go up there and drag her back to Fischer Hall.”

Tom gasps delightedly. “Before he’s besmirched her honor? Oh, can we help? Steven
lives
to defend the honor of young maidens, don’t you, Steven?”

Steven looks annoyed. “That was just that one time,” he says. “I’m really sorry about that, Heather, I hope it hasn’t happened again—”

Tom gasps again, this time at something he’s seen on his phone. “Wait, how old is the girl?” he asks.

“She’s fifteen,” I say. “Why? Did you find Bill Bigelow?”

“I sure did,” Tom says, looking, if anything, even more delighted. “It says here he’s
not
a full-time student at New York College, but he’s signed up for seven weeks of summer housing in Wasser Hall while taking an intensive course in musical theater. A musical theater intensive! I think I just wet my pants a little.”

“Musical theater?” My hypervigilance has kicked into high gear. “
Bill Bigelow?
”

“I know,” Tom says. “Right? That’s what I thought. And he likes girls? But it happens, I guess. Look at Hugh Jackman.”

“No,” I say. “That’s not what I mean.” I remember now where I’ve heard the name. “
Billy Bigelow.
That’s a character from the musical
Carousel.
”

Tom gasps. “That’s right! My mom used to sing that song Billy Bigelow sings to my sister and me every night before bed, the one about little girls, pink and white as peaches and cream.”

“I don’t want to say this, but someone has to.” Steven shakes his head. “It’s no wonder you’re gay.”

My heart has begun to pound. “You guys, this isn’t good. How old does it say he is?”

“Oh.” Tom looks down at his phone. “Um . . . twenty-nine.”

I whirl around and head back to the security desk.

“Wait.” Tom trots after me. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going up there,” I say, taking the sign-in log from Pete and rechecking the number of the room Bridget is in. “I’m going to room . . . 401A, and I’m seeing who this Bill person is for myself. Then I’m telling Bridget—and Bill,
if
that’s who he really is—that this whole thing ends now.”

“Oh,” Tom says. “Beef macaroni and cheese can wait.”

Chapter 24

Only once we step into the Wasser Hall elevator and the doors close do I begin to have reservations.

This is crazy.
I
’m crazy. It’s not him. Gary Hall could
not
be living in a New York College residence hall, not even Wasser Hall, where the residence hall director takes extended long weekends in the Hamptons, and the lobby is so packed due to the crowds at mealtimes that it would be quite easy to slip in and out without being noticed.

It’s not
im
possible. Simply highly unlikely.

What would be the point, though?
Why
would he take such a crazy risk? And why befriend a Tania Trace camper?

We’ve been learning about the different personality disorders in Psych 101. It’s hard to read about them and not apply them to people you know. Schizoid, narcissistic, obsessive-compulsive, borderline, depressive. What would Gary be?

Antisocial. Complete disregard for the law and the rights of others. But also an obsessive compulsion to get Tania’s attention, even if it’s by hurting her or the people she knows.

I’m dying to test my diagnosis by seeing if Tom and Steven agree with it, but a kid with bright blue hair has gotten onto the elevator with us, so I can’t.

The kid’s not the only one who’s joined us. Wynona insisted on our taking Pete.

“Oh please,” she’d said, rolling her eyes when Pete asked if she could handle the lunch crowd without him. “Go on. You know you’ve been wanting to use that Taser since the day they handed them out.”

So Pete’s come along, his right hand resting lightly on the grip of his Taser. This isn’t as reassuring as one might think. I keep my gaze on the poster on the back of the Wasser Hall elevator urging residents to come to the “Wasser Hall Family Franks ’n’ Fun Night.” I’m seized by an almost overwhelming urge to write “
FU
” on it.

Sadly I can’t, because of the blue-haired kid, and the fact that I don’t have a pen on me, and of course this would be super-immature.

The elevator doors open at the third floor, and the blue-haired kid steps off. As soon as the doors close again, I say, “I hate this building.”

“It does seem smug,” Tom agrees. “For a building.”

“Who says frankfurters?” I ask, pointing at the sign. “Everyone knows they’re called hot dogs. Simon just called them that for the alliteration.”

“Simon’s a dick,” Tom says.

“Simmer down, you two,” Steven says.

“You guys,” I say, “I think Bill Bigelow is—”

The music hits us as soon as the doors open on Four. It’s almost shockingly loud, and I’ve worked in a residence hall long enough to know from loud music. I recognize it at once:

Tania Trace’s new hit single, “So Sue Me.”

My heart begins to beat a little faster. I wonder if I should call Cooper, then remind myself that there’s nothing he can do. His job is to protect his client.

“Wow,” Tom says as we step into the hallway. “Somebody likes their Tania Trace, huh?”

That, I think to myself, may be the problem.

Even though Wasser Hall is so much newer than Fischer Hall—made of concrete cinder blocks and drywall, whereas Fischer Hall is made of wood and bricks and, I sometimes think, Manuel’s floor wax—the walls are much thinner. The pulsating bass seems to be coming right at us.

Then I turn and see that it
is
coming right at us. Room 401 is right next door to the elevators, and it’s from this room that the music is emanating. Surprisingly, the door is ajar. This often happens in residence halls. To foster a feeling of community—but more often because they’re too lazy to carry their keys—students will leave their doors open, thinking that no one on their floor would ever steal from them because they’re too close of a family unit.

This kind of false thinking is, of course, how their laptops, cell phones, and expensive leather jackets get stolen all the time by guests other residents have signed in.

In the case of 401, the open door turns out to be to a suite. Bill Bigelow’s room, 401A, shares a common room containing a kitchen, bathroom, and small living area with rooms 401B and 401C. It’s the door to this living area that is open. The pounding music is coming from 401A, Bill’s room, the door to which is closed.

I step into the common room. It’s depressingly bare, the college-issued furniture—a vinyl-covered couch and chairs—having seen better days. There are no posters on the walls, but there are Chinese food delivery bags stuffed into the single trash can, as well as a significant number of bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade.