“What’s in them?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. I’ve never had the chance to sort through a prince’s garbage.
“Cups,” Julio replies promptly. “Many, many plastic cups. And bottles. Mostly tequila. Good tequila. Some vodka. Much champagne. And some wine.”
“Shiraz,” I say, shaking my head. “A royal alcoholic.”
“Although he is twenty-one,” Magda points out.
When I eye her incredulously, she says, “What? I read it in Us Weekly. He had his royal birthday bash in London. Usher performed at it.”
I try not to look impressed.
“He’s obviously throwing parties in his room, Magda,” I say. “He’s not drinking all that booze by himself. And if he’s having parties, that’s a problem. This is freshman orientation week. He can’t be serving alcohol to minors.”
Magda looks prim. “You don’t know he’s doing that.”
I remember what Cooper said about my ability to tell when someone is manipulating me.
“No,” I say. “But I’ve got a pretty good feeling.” I look at Julio and smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
He smiles back. “Thank you, Heather. Oh, and thank you for the wedding invitation. My wife, Anna, is very excited.”
“Oh,” I say, keeping my smile in place. “Great! See you later.”
As Julio hurries away to continue his battle against dirt, Magda looks at me.
“You invited Julio to your wedding?” she asks in astonishment. “Did you invite Jimmy too?”
“No, I didn’t invite Jimmy,” I say, my smile vanishing. “I didn’t invite Julio either. Nicole did. I didn’t want that many people from work coming. I invited you, obviously, and Pete, and Lisa and her husband, Cory, and Tom Snelling and his boyfriend, Steven”—Tom was a former Fischer Hall director, now director of Waverly Hall—“and Sarah and Gavin, and Muffy Fowler, of course.” Muffy’s the head of New York College’s media relations. “I was trying to keep the numbers manageable, at least on my side. But you know what?” I add with sudden emotion. “Maybe what Nicole did wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. I want the people I see every day around me at my wedding.”
“Tell me you still feel that way,” Magda says drily, “when Carl shows up with the inflatable doll he keeps in his locker downstairs as his plus one.”
11
Diamonds are forever
That’s what all the ads say
But what do ads know
About love and what makes it stay?
“Diamonds,”
written by Heather Wells
I’m surprised to find the Fischer Hall director’s office open and Lisa Wu already at her desk.
I’m even more surprised to find her eating a breakfast burrito supreme, looking surprisingly perky compared to yesterday.
“Oh my God,” she says with her mouth full when she sees me. “I was worried you weren’t going to come in today.”
“Oh my God,” I say back to her. “I was worried you weren’t going to come in today.”
“I think it was only a twenty-four-hour bug,” she says, after she swallows. The burrito is almost bigger than her head. “I feel fine this morning. Some of the RAs at the meeting last night, though—oh my God. They were hurting puppies. You do not want to catch this thing, whatever it is.”
“I’ll be careful to wash my hands,” I solemnly assure her.
Lisa Wu is a petite girl, six years younger than I am despite being my boss, with long black hair that she sometimes pulls back in a scrunchie (despite my objections) because she’s too busy to fuss with it.
Today she’s taken care to style it, no doubt because there’s been a student death in the building. She’s dressed in a more businesslike fashion than I’ve ever seen her, in navy-blue slacks and a white knit short-sleeved sweater. Instead of the flip-flops she normally wears, she’s put on black loafers. There’s no sign of Tricky, her dog. I assume she’s left him upstairs because there’ll be college bigwigs lurking around, and it wouldn’t be considered professional to have her Jack Russell terrier bouncing up to them, wagging his tail.
“Hey, Magda told me about your mom,” she says. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
Word travels fast when one of your bridesmaids is in charge of the place where everyone gets their breakfast.
“It’s okay,” I say. “How are you holding up, besides the flu? How did calling Jasmine’s parents go? And the meeting with the RAs—besides their being sick?”
“Ugh,” she says, collapsing against the back of her chair. “Horrible, naturally. Jasmine’s parents are in shock. They’ll be driving in from New Jersey this afternoon to meet with us, and with the coroner’s office. I think they’re expecting answers. Hopefully by then someone will have one. As for the staff . . . well, Jasmine was new, but she was pretty popular. Mostly people’s reactions were the same as Jasmine’s parents: disbelief. I think when the medical examiner gets back with the results, saying how she died, there can be a little closure, and the staff will get over it.”
I nod and murmur, “Sure,” because I know it’s what Lisa needs to hear, not because I believe it. The word “closure” gets tossed around a lot by people in helping professions and on shows like CSI and Law & Order, but there’s rarely any actual closure when someone young dies, even of natural causes. The death seems so wrong and unnecessary and senseless. There will never be any closure. Jasmine’s family and friends will move forward, but they’ll never “get over it.” They aren’t supposed to. That’s why it’s called a loss.
I’ve laid my bagel and coffee drink on my desk and sat down, more or less joining Lisa for breakfast, though we’re in separate offices. I swivel my chair around to look at her through her office door.
“I don’t know how you’ve done this so many times,” Lisa says mournfully. “I really don’t. I feel like I’ve been kicked all over my body by a horse. Especially in the boobs.” She reaches up to illustrate, rubbing them.
“That’s an interesting reaction to a student death,” I remark. “I can’t say I’ve ever had that one before.”