The Bride Wore Size 12

When Lisa sends him a chastising look over her notepad, he cries, raising both hands, “It’s medicinal, honest, for my ADHD! From California. It’s completely legal there.”

“So how do you know the prince’s guest list so intimately,” I ask, thinking it’s a good time to change the subject, “if you’ve never attended any of his little soirees?”

“Because people keep bragging about how bangin’ they are,” Gavin says. “What do you think I do when I’m sitting up there at that desk?”

“You’re supposed to be sorting and distributing the mail,” I say. “Not to mention handing out the toilet paper and trash bags and billiard cues.”

“I listen,” Gavin says. “Only by listening to people’s speech patterns can a writer ever hope to craft truly convincing dialogue. That’s how Tarantino does it. So that’s what I do while I’m sorting the mail. I listen. You know how those RAs are always hanging out behind the desk—even though they aren’t supposed to? Well, that stupid sheikh and his parties are all they ever talk about. It’s Midnight at the Oasis up there in his room, man. They all know his daddy’s a sultan . . . a nomad known to all . . . fifty girls to attend him.”

“So they jump to his beck and call,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

“Exactly,” Gavin says, leaning forward in his chair to point at me excitedly. “God, I love you! No one my age gets that reference! Why aren’t you marrying me?”

Lisa taps the list she’s made with her pen, drawing our attention. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Gavin, no one my age gets that reference. And I told you before, it’s too late. I’m in love with Cooper Cartwright.”

“It’s not too late,” Gavin insists. “You can still call it off. When Teen Zombie Apocalypse is a hit, I’ll be able to support you.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I like my job, as well as my current choice of husband.”

Gavin looks sulkily down at his slippers. “Your loss,” he mumbles.

“This is more than half the RA staff,” Lisa says, gazing down at the list in front of her. “And it’s not mostly the new staff. It’s all the new staff. The only ones who aren’t here, if Gavin is correct, are Davinia, Rajiv, Tina, and Jean, the RAs who worked here over the summer.”

“Yeah,” Gavin says, with a nod. “They’re cool. They’re not going to fall under the spell of some foreign prince tennis champ smooth talker who knows how to mix a caipirinha and wears skinny jeans.”

“Gavin.” Lisa blinks at him. “Thanks for the help. You should probably get back to the front desk now.”

“Oh, thank God,” he says, leaping from the chair and hurrying from the office. After he’s pulled open the door, he pauses uncertainly, his Goofy-slippered foot on the stop. “You want this open or closed?”

The outside door to the hall director’s office—leading to the main office, where my desk sits, along with Sarah’s desk, the RAs’ staff mailboxes, and the photocopier—is never closed, except after five.

But we can’t run the risk of anyone overhearing us, especially anyone from the prince’s surveillance team, who are stationed down the hall.

“Closed,” Lisa and I say in unison.

Gavin nods and releases the doorstop, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

I glance at Lisa, who’s lost any appearance of health. She looks almost as ill as she had yesterday.

“I wish I could fire all of them,” she says through gritted teeth, staring down at the list of names on her notepad.

“Oh, Lisa.” I can’t think of anything else to say.

“I can’t, of course,” she says bitterly. “There are proper channels you have to go through, even to terminate the employment of a student worker. But I wish I could. It’s not like I’m the one who hired any of them.”

This is true. The new RAs were selected over the summer by Simon Hague, the hall director assigned to supervise Fischer Hall during the interim before Lisa was hired. Simon had made a lot of questionable choices during that time, so I’m not particularly surprised the students he hired have turned out to be less than reliable.

“Heather, they lied to me,” Lisa goes on miserably. “They sat at that meeting last night—which was about Jasmine, who died—and lied to my face, commiserating with me about having the flu, pretending they had the same thing I did. None of them had the same thing I did. They were freaking hungover because they’d been out all night partying with a resident, in my hall. My hall.”

“Lisa,” I begin, but she isn’t finished.

“After one of them died—died—those stupid little shits still chose to save their own skins rather than tell me the truth. I wouldn’t have punished them if they’d come clean. Everyone makes mistakes. But they didn’t have the common decency to tell me the truth about something this important? Heather, we have an entire academic year ahead of us. How am I supposed to trust them? They lied about a dead girl, someone who was supposed to be their friend. They all lied, straight to my face.”

When Lisa looks up, not only are the tips of her ears red, but her eyes are filled with tears. I instantly recognize the look of hurt and betrayal on her face.

It’s exactly how I’ve been feeling for ten years about my mother.

“Oh, Lisa,” I say. I slip out of my chair and go to lean over her desk to hug her. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Lisa hugs me back, stifling a sob.

“I know I should really be trying to view this as a professional advocate for students’ rights to grow and develop individually and collectively,” she says in a choked voice, “but I can’t, because I kind of hate my job so much right now.”

“It’s okay,” I say, patting her on the back. “I kind of hate my job right now too.”

13

Guess you could say

I’m here to stay

I’m still believing

From you I’m never leaving

I know they say that I’m naïve

That’s okay with me

It’s been a long long road

But with you I wanna get old

“The Long Road,”