The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

“IRL?” I use a clean napkin to carefully brush crumbs from the seat of the chair he’s offered me. Mice—or baby rats—mean droppings, and no matter how cute Algernon might be, droppings mean disease, which means hospitalization, which means my wedding will be even more of a disaster than it already is.

“In real life.” The boy sits back down in his chair and studies me. “I’m sorry, have we met? You look familiar.”

“I don’t know,” I say vaguely. In real life? This boy’s “real life” seems to consist of sitting by himself in an untidy office, churning out copy for a student news blog, with only a mouse—or baby rat—as a companion. I feel sorry for him, but he seems completely cheerful about it. “Do you ever eat in any of the dining halls?”

He points at me, then snaps his fingers. “That’s it! You’re Heather Wells! You’re totally famous. I knew I’d seen you before.” He lifts his laptop and begins to type. “You interested in doing an interview? Our readers would totally love it. I could set you up with one of our entertainment bloggers when they get back to campus. I know just the one, she’s a huge fan of old crappy pop music—”

“Uh, maybe,” I say, trying not to feel offended. Old crappy pop music? The pop music I performed wasn’t that crappy. And thirty isn’t that old . . . although maybe it is to a twenty-year-old. “I’m actually here to talk to you about something school-related. What’s your name?”

“Oh, sorry. Cam. Cameron Ripley. I’m the editor in chief.” He narrows his hazel eyes at me. “Hey, you work in Death Dorm—I mean, Fischer Hall—now, don’t you? This isn’t about the piece I ran this morning, is it? The one about the prince? I’m sorry, but I know that story was solid. I have confirmation that he lives in your building. The admin’s been all over me about my source for that piece, which is not cool. We may be student run and online only, but we’re still journalists and we do not have to tell them shit about our—”

“It’s not about that,” I interrupt. “Well, it’s peripherally about that. I wanted to see if you’d be interested in a swap.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “What kind of swap?”

“Of information.” I cross my legs—which isn’t as sexy as it sounds since I’m wearing cords, but a girl does what she can. “I have information you might be interested in. And you have information I might be interested in. Maybe we could work something out.”

“I don’t know,” Cam says. He continues to eye me like I’m the enemy. The cords are definitely working against me. Also, I might be a little too old for him, despite the whole cougar thing I’ve apparently got going with Gavin. “We don’t usually work that way. And while a piece on you would be interesting, it wouldn’t be that interesting. No offense, but most of my readers have probably never heard of you. Britney Spears, yeah, but you? You haven’t put out an album in a really—”

“The information isn’t about me,” I interrupt, beginning to feel annoyed with this kid. Despite the fact that he’s nice to mice, he’s kind of a pill.

I’m not even really sure why I’m doing what I’m about to do. I know I could get in big trouble—lose my job, even—for doing it.

But something’s been bothering me ever since I heard Charlie in President Allington’s office say that “the leak” had been traced back to an IP address in Fischer Hall. It isn’t only that I want to prove who the leak isn’t—Sarah.

I need to find out who it is. Although ever since Eva’s phone call, I have a sneaking suspicion that I already know.

“It’s about Fischer Hall,” I explain. “You know there was a student death there yesterday.”

He nearly drops his laptop. “What?”

I shrug and uncross my legs, beginning to get up from my chair. “But since you’re not interested in making a deal—”

“No, wait.” Cam leans forward to block my exit from the office. “I’m interested! I’m totally interested. Who died?”

I sink back into my chair, recrossing my legs. “I’m risking my job just being here. Why should I tell you what I know without getting something in return?”

“I totally understand,” Cam says. He leaps up to close the door to the office. The minute he does so, the smell of stale pizza and other, less pleasant odors begin to become much more noticeable. “Look, I can’t promise anything, but—”

“I can’t promise anything either,” I say. “Except another exclusive about the prince.”

He grabs his laptop, his gaze blazing eagerly. “You’re kidding me. Something else, in addition to info about the kid who croaked?”

Shame surges over me. I have a sudden urge to throw open the door and flee the room, to get as far as possible from Cameron Ripley and his smelly office and pet baby rat.

But then I remind myself that he’s a journalist. It’s his responsibility to report the news, no matter how heartbreaking, in as much detail as possible (while hopefully leaving the victim with some dignity) so that the public can be alerted to the danger and the perpetrator hopefully brought to justice.

He’s only doing his job, exactly like I’m only doing mine. Maybe we’ve gotten a little hardened by some of the things we’ve seen IRL.

“Yes, both,” I say, after swallowing. “A girl was found dead in her room in Fischer Hall yesterday morning. The night before, she was seen at a party on the floor above, in Prince Rashid’s room.”

Cam is typing so quickly his fingers appear to be flying over his keyboard. “Holy shit,” he says, grinning, his gaze on his screen. “This is amazing. This is the best scoop we’ve gotten in ages. Names, though. I need names!”

“Not until you give me a name.”

He glances up from the screen, confused. “What? How can I give you a name? This is the first I’m hearing about any of this. You’re telling me about it.”

“I want the name of your source on the Prince Rashid stories you’ve been printing,” I say. “Then I’ll give you the name of the dead girl, and anything else you want, including a story so explosive, it’s going to rock this campus to its core. But the people it concerns most directly aren’t going know about it until five o’clock today. So you’ll have to hold off posting it until then.”