“There seems to be a lot of that flu thing going around with RAs today,” Gavin says obliquely, and hangs up.
“Excuse me.”
The second my receiver hits the phone cradle, Rolex Watch is on me like cream cheese on a bagel.
“I’m sorry, I can see you’ve got a lot going on right now, and I really hate to bother you, but what about that Room Change Wait List you mentioned?”
Fed up, I pull open my bottom desk drawer and grab a stack of bright orange forms.
“Here,” I say. “Give your son one of these.”
A small riot ensues as the line surges forward, hands eagerly grabbing to take a form.
I realize I probably should have handed them out sooner, but when a building has been known as Death Dorm as long as Fischer Hall has, it takes a while to adjust to the fact that it’s suddenly gotten to be a place where people actually want to live.
“Here you go, miss,” Rolex Watch says a few minutes later, handing his completed form back to me, seeming to feel no compunction about doing so, even though I’d explained just moments before that only residents were to fill them out. “And can I ask just one more thing—”
Anything to get rid of him. “Go ahead.”
He lowers his voice. “I’m sure you get this all the time, but has anyone ever told you that you look just like Heather Wells the pop singer?”
He seems so sincere, his plump face beaming, that I realize he isn’t putting me on. He genuinely has no idea. I don’t keep a nameplate or anything like that on my desk.
“No,” I say with a smile, taking the form from his fingers. “No one’s ever told me that before. But thank you. I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“Oh, it is,” he assures me. “Such a pretty girl. My daughter loved Heather Wells. She has all her CDs. Still plays them too, sometimes. There was that one song—” He can’t seem to think of the name.
“ ‘Sugar Rush’?”
“That’s the one! So catchy. Oh, darn. Now I’m going to be humming it all day.”
I nod. “Hard to get it out of your head.”
“Oh, well,” he says with a sheepish grin. “Thank you. I knew when people told me New Yorkers were mean that they were all lying. I haven’t met a mean one yet.”
I smile at him. “We aren’t all bad.”
Soon my office has emptied—except for Mrs. Harris and her daughter and her suite mates, and of course the prince and his bodyguards.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” the prince is asking, looking regally worried.
“You can go to your lunch,” Lisa says stiffly. “This is none of your concern.”
“I’m afraid it is,” the prince says. “I’m acquainted with the young lady in question. She’s very . . . amiable.”
I notice Chantelle and Nishi exchange glances as they kneel beside Tricky, who is basking in their attention. Amiable! they mouth to each another in delight. They can’t get enough of the prince’s good looks and royal manners.
I’m probably the only one in the room who immediately thinks, Acquainted with the young lady in question? She hasn’t slept in her room a single night all week. Just how acquainted with Ameera is the prince?
“Could my car be of service?” he asks. “It’s quite roomy. Perhaps it could help transport the young lady to the hospital?”
“That’s what we have ambulances for,” Lisa says coldly. She isn’t impressed with his princely ways any more than Sarah was. “We’ll call one if we need one.” She seems to realize how mean she sounds, and adds, in a gentler tone, “I appreciate the offer, but it’s our job to handle these kinds of situations. You don’t need to get involved . . . Shiraz.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised about any of this.” It may not have surprised Mrs. Harris, but she seems to be relishing the drama. “I knew when you said Ameera didn’t come home last night, Kaileigh, that something like this was going to happen—”
“But we don’t actually know that anything’s happened, do we?” Lisa interrupts, sounding mean again. She’s weaving a little on her feet, as if the industrial carpeting is swaying before her eyes, but manages to stay erect. “So let’s reserve judgment until we do, okay?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Kaileigh says, narrowing her eyes at her mother.
“But I really don’t think Kaileigh should have to put up with this kind of stress, especially when classes start.” Mrs. Harris is like Tricky when he’s got hold of one of his treats. She isn’t going to let go, no matter what. “What’s all this worrying going to do to her grades?”
“Mom,” Kaileigh says sharply. “I’m fine. What’s the big deal? Ameera partied a little too hard last night, and now she’s—wait.” Kaileigh narrows her eyes at her mother. “Is that why you’re in here? You came down to complain about Ameera? Oh my God, I can’t believe you. I happen to like my room, Mom, and my roommates. I’m in college now. Why can’t you let me live my own life?”
“Excuse me,” Lisa says, a greenish tint having suddenly overtaken her. She darts back into her office, slamming the door closed behind her. Thanks to the metal grate, we can hear all too clearly why she needed to be excused.
“Poor thing,” Carl comments from the top of his ladder, making a tsk-tsking sound with his tongue. “Lots of people coming down with that stomach flu. My guys had to snake two toilets this morning. Everybody, wash your hands.” Carl wags his drill with grandfatherly emphasis. “That’s the only way to keep it from spreading.”