“What she told me!” he says, thrusting out his goateed chin.
“Well?” I fold my arms across my chest. “What was it?”
“That she knows why he got shot,” Gavin says. “Your boss, I mean. And she was real upset about it.”
Startled, I drop my arms. “What?Why? ”
“I don’t know why,” Gavin says. “I’m just telling you what she said. She said it was all her fault. That if it weren’t for her, Dr. Whatever His Name Was would still be alive today.”
9
June brought out the boys in linen shirts
Like July and August, talk about jerks
September’s man had the softest hands
October’s took me to foreign lands
“Calendar Boys”
Written by Heather Wells
I’m standing in the middle of the second floor hallway, staring at Gavin McGoren with my mouth hanging open. To our right, the elevator doors slide open, and two giggling freshman girls stagger out of the car and toward the Fischer Hall library doors, too caught up in their hysterics and enormous Jamba Juices to see the Closed for Meeting—Do Not Disturb sign posted there.
“Dudes,” Gavin says to them.
They quit giggling for a second, and turn to look at him.
“Don’t go in there,” he says, and points at the sign. “Closed. See?”
The girls look at the sign. Then they look at Gavin. Then they look at one another, burst into more giggles, and bolt for the emergency stairwell, laughing maniacally.
Gavin looks back at me. I guess he can tell by my expression that I’m not exactly buying what he’s selling yet, since he goes, “I swear to God, Heather, I’m not playing. That’s what she said. And you can take that to the bank.”
“She said it was her fault Owen was dead?” I shake my head. “Gavin, that doesn’t even make any sense.”
“I know,” Gavin says, with a shrug. “But that’s what she said. And that’s why I knew I had to come find you. Because I figured that was like—you know. A clue. Right?”
I’m still shaking my head. “I don’t know what it is. Did she say anything else?”
“Naw. She started crying so hard after that, I couldn’t get anything more out of her. She said she wanted to go home. She’s from Westchester, you know, so it’s not like she can’t take off if she wants to. She said she was going to call her mother to pick her up at the train station. So I figured I better come get you. You know, so you could try to keep her here before she attempts to flee the, uh, premises. This was like five minutes ago so if you hurry you can probably still catch her.”
Surprised by this show of common sense on Gavin’s part, I nod. “Okay. Good. Well, thanks, Gavin. I’ll go up and see her now. Maybe I can get her calmed down enough to talk to the police before she—”
I’m interrupted, however, by a bloodcurdling scream. It appears to have come from downstairs.
I don’t wait for any of my superiors in the library before I tear open the doors to the emergency stairwell and barrel after the two freshmen girls to the first floor, taking the steps three at a time, Gavin at my heels.
I find both girls standing in the lobby, apparently unharmed. They’re huddled with a number of other open mouthed residents, all staring in astonishment as several of New York’s Finest are escorting a handcuffed Sebastian Blumenthal past the reception and security desks, a grim-faced Detective Canavan following behind, holding his hands palms out and saying, “Okay, kids, show’s over. Get back to your rooms. Move along, now.”
No one is moving along, though. How can they, when the show is clearly so very far from over?
“Get a good look!” Sebastian is shouting, as he is dragged past us. He is not exactly coming along willingly, although, lanky as he is, he doesn’t seem to be posing much of a problem for the burly officers. “This is your tax money in action! Well, okay, maybe not your tax money, because you’re all students, and out-of-state. But this is what your tax money will be paying for someday: the persecution of individuals who were only hoping to make a difference in the lives of the poor and oppressed. I guess it doesn’t matter that I’m completely innocent of the charges being leveled against me. I guess it doesn’t matter that all I’m trying to do is improve the working conditions of your teaching instructors, who are treated like virtual slaves—”
“What”—Dr. Jessup, his silk scarf now dangling around his neck in a manner not unlike an RAF fighter pilot, steps off the elevator, followed by Drs. Flynn, Kilgore, and as many of the rest of the housing staff as the two-thousand-pound weight capacity the car would allow—“is going on down here?”
The source of the scream we’d all heard earlier soon becomes apparent when Sarah, peeking out from behind Detective Canavan, sees me in the crowd.
“HEATHER!” she shrieks, and staggers toward me, throwing herself into my arms, her face a slick mask of tears, her hair an even unholier mess than usual. “They’ve arrested Sebastian! For m-murder! You’ve g-got to stop them! He didn’t do it! He can’t have done it! He doesn’t believe in murder! He’s a v-vegetarian!”
Let me tell you something. Sarah is a pain in my ass a lot of the time, but she’s a hard worker, and she has a good heart. For the most part, she’s a sweet girl.
But one thing Sarah is not is light. And she’s leaning all of her body weight on me. Which I’m about to collapse under.
Thank God for Pete, who comes hurrying over from behind the security desk, going, “Okay, Sarah, why don’t we sit you down over here in the lobby and get you some water. Would you like some water? How about a nice cold glass of water? Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“I don’t want water!” Sarah cries, her face buried against my chest.
I can’t see what’s going on in the rest of the lobby because all of Sarah’s hair is flying up in my face, blocking my view.
“I want justice!” she wails.
“Well, we’ll get you some of that, too.” Magda has appeared from out of nowhere. “Maybe there’s some in the freezer.” Together, she and Pete are lifting Sarah off me. Suddenly I can see that the police have successfully removed Sebastian from the building. Detective Canavan is still in the lobby, speaking in a low voice with Drs. Jessup, Flynn, and Kilgore. Muffy Fowler is there, too, but she only has eyes for Reverend Mark, who seems to have found some of his student brethren (constituents? whatever the word is) and is joking with them in a hearty manner, while Muffy pretends to know what they are talking about and laughs along.
Gavin, meanwhile, has followed me down from the second floor and is glaring at me.Jamie, he mouths, and nods meaningfully at the elevators.
Hold on, I mouth back, and nod at Sarah. Clearly he can see I can only deal with one crisis at a time. I’m not Super Assistant Dorm Director, after all. I mean, Residence Hall Director.
Pete and Magda get Sarah into the cafeteria and propped up in one of the blue vinyl chairs with a glass of water that she drinks only after much urging. The café is closed for cleanup between the lunch and dinner shifts, so we don’t have to worry about anyone observing us… which is good for Sarah, since she doesn’t exactly look her best. Her skin is flushed and clammy. Tendrils of her curly black hair are sticking to her forehead and temples.
“It was so awful,” she murmurs. “We were sitting in the storage room. Just sitting there, minding our own business, because they were still doing all that forensic stuff in our office, Heather. And then suddenly Detective Canavan comes in, and says he wants to talk to Sebastian. And Sebastian was like, Okay. Because he has nothing to hide. Why shouldn’t he have said yes? And the next thing I know, they’re leading him away in handcuffs. Heather—they arrested him! What are we going to do? I have to call his parents. Someone has to call his parents—”
“We’ll call his parents,” I say, in what I hope is a soothing voice. I try to push some of the tendrils back from her forehead, but it’s no use. She’s so sweaty, they’re stuck there, like glue. “I’m sure he’ll call them himself, though.”