Size 12 and Ready to Rock

“Well,” Tom says snobbishly, “it’s clear no one in this suite cares very much about recycling, do they?”

The doors to 401B and C are both wide open, the rooms unoccupied, their single beds stripped, their walls, like the walls of the common room, bare. No one has lived in them in a while.

“Looks like old Bill Bigelow’s got a single,” Tom says. He doesn’t bother to whisper. There’s no way anyone could hear us over that music. “This would be a nice setup for an undergrad. You get your own room and only have to share a bathroom and kitchen with two other guys.”

Steven is of a different opinion. “But that view?” He points out the windows of the unoccupied rooms, then shudders. “The poor girl. She’d have been better off losing it in a car with the captain of the football team back in her hometown than with this.”

Tom smiles at him. “You big romantic fool.”

The view is depressing. The gravel-strewn rooftop, immense water tower, and air ducts of the building next door to Wasser Hall are so close that, if the windows opened, residents could go out onto the roof and sunbathe.

“Let’s do this,” Pete says. He looks angry, perhaps thinking about his own daughters after Steven’s remark.

“Allow me,” I say and stride up to 401A to pound on the door with my fist.

“Residence hall director,” I yell in order to be heard over the music, which seems to have been set on repeat. Tania is daring us, once again, to sue her. “Mr. Bigelow? We know you’re in there. Please open the door.”

There is no response. I pound again, harder this time.

“Bridget? It’s me, Heather Wells, from Fischer Hall. You aren’t in trouble.” She is in so much trouble. “Please open up.”

Bridget does know me, albeit only a little, from when I gave the rock-and-roll tour. She’d even asked a question. She’d wanted to know if we could go to that store where Madonna bought the jacket in the movie Desperately Seeking Susan. My answer, sadly, had been no. That store, Love Saves the Day, had shut down due to the landlord’s having raised the rent so outrageously. It is now home to a noodle shop.

“Bridget?” I try the knob. The door is locked.

If Simon or the assistant hall director had been at work, we’d have had one of them escort us up here with the master key and unlock the door so we could go in. If I’d had any luck finding someone at the front desk who knew what they were doing, I’d have asked them for the key to 401A. But the only person in Wasser Hall who had access to the key cabinet, I was informed, was “on a break.”

“Should I go back downstairs and ask the desk to call the building engineer?” I ask Pete worriedly. “Surely he’ll have a master key, or at the very least a drill to take out the core—”

Pete puts his hands on my shoulders and moves me gently out of the way.

“Allow me,” he says. And then, in a voice that is much deeper than the one he usually uses, he bellows, “This is New York College Campus Protection Officer Rivera speaking. You have until the count of three to open this door or I and my fellow officers will knock it down. One. Two—”

There is a sound of breaking glass. Not like a single drinking glass breaking because someone has dropped it, but like a windowpane shattering because something—or someone—has been flung through it.

“Oh my God,” I cry, my hands flying to my face. What have we done?

Tom has rushed into 401C and is looking out the window. “He used the desk chair to—Jesus, he’s climbing onto the roof! Oh my God, if it weren’t for these stupid window guards—”

“That’s it,” Pete says, backing up. He looks at Steven. “You ever done this before?”

Steven sighs. “Unfortunately,” he says, with a shrug. “Let’s go.”

Pete and Steven hit the door to 401A with their shoulders. Because Wasser Hall was so shoddily constructed, the door splinters easily beneath their combined weight, causing both men to stagger. Through the now-open doorway, I see a trim, blond-haired man, dressed all in black, darting across the roof of the building next door to Wasser Hall. He disappears behind the water tower.

“Got him,” Steven says and dashes through the room, then hoists himself up over the air-conditioning unit and out the window. “You guys call 911!”

“Be careful!” Tom calls after him. “He could be armed!” He looks at Bridget, who is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, regarding us with a frightened expression on her face. “Is he armed?”

Bridget shakes her head. “No,” she says, wide-eyed.

“I got my Taser,” Pete says, scrambling up after Steven. “If Coach catches him, I can subdue him.” Glass crunches beneath Pete’s thick-soled shoes. He seems to be having some problems getting through the window. “Look out,” Tom says, helping him get around the remaining shards of glass.

Meanwhile, I try to take in what I’m seeing. Bill Bigelow’s room has been decorated to resemble the inside of a maharajah’s tent. From the fluorescent light fixture and ceiling he’s hung so many rich, colorful silk scarves and strands of imitation gold coins and crystals that it’s almost impossible to see the room’s original paint color. The bed is covered in jewel-toned silk sheets and pillows, and the dresser and desk have also been draped in scarves. Even Bridget herself, sitting so quietly on the bed in her white cami-top, blue denim shorts, and flip-flops, has a silk scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, half hidden beneath her long dark hair.

Ah. Now I get why she’s been wearing the scarf. Not to pop on camera or, as Cassidy so cruelly suggested, to draw attention away from her blemished skin, but because it was given to her as a gift by someone special.

I sit down on the bed beside her. The coverlet, of imitation silk, feels slick beneath my fingers.

“Bridget,” I say carefully. “You remember me, don’t you? Heather, from Fischer Hall. Are you all right?”

“Me?” The girl tears her gaze away from the window. Her tone is mildly surprised, as if there might be some other Bridget in the room I could be referring to. “I’m fine.”

The thumping beat of “So Sue Me” pulses from a set of stereo speakers on the desk nearby, but she doesn’t appear to be bothered by it, or by the fact that a man has thrown the desk chair through a window and then climbed out after it, and that two other men have leapt through it in pursuit of him.