The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

“Heather!” One of the freshmen holding a sign rushes up to me. I recognize Kaileigh Harris. Two of her suite mates—but not Ameera, I notice—and Kaileigh’s mother are trailing right behind her.

It’s way too early for this.

“Heather,” Kaileigh says, when she reaches me. “Did you hear what happened? They fired all the RAs!”

“Well,” I say. “Not all of them. Only the ones who went to the prince’s party.”

“But it’s not fair,” Nishi, her suite mate, cries. “The RAs are students, just like us.”

“Yeah,” Chantelle, Kaileigh’s other suite mate, says. “Why should they be punished when none of the rest of us got punished?”

No. Not this. Not before I’ve had coffee.

“You guys,” I say. “I’m not saying I don’t think the rest of you should be punished, because believe me, I do. But do you think it’s possible there’s more to the story”—like that a girl died, and the RAs covered up knowing at least a little about why—“and that maybe things aren’t always what they seem?”

I’m consciously echoing Cooper’s words from the night before.

“Oh, no,” a fourth girl says, stomping up to me in her lime-green combat boots, her sign slung over one shoulder. “Things are exactly how they seem. We know everything. My RA, Megan, told me. The fact is that you, the administrators, don’t care about us, the students, the people who pay your salary! Well, it’s time we took charge. We want our RAs back! We. Want. Our. RAs. Back!”

Her chant is quickly picked up by the rest of the students, some of whom I now see are the fired RAs. Megan is one of them. She’s giving me a slant-eyed look through her horn-rimmed glasses as she marches around in front of the hall.

I resolve to make sure Megan’s final paycheck takes quite a circuitous route in getting to her, wherever Megan ends up after moving from the building.

“Ms. Wells,” Mrs. Harris sidles up to me to say. She looks worried. I can hardly blame her. “Do you know anything about this?”

“I do,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face. “Please don’t worry about it, Mrs. Harris. We have some really great candidates in line to replace the RAs we’ve lost.”

Well, one great candidate.

“We’ve already met him,” Mrs. Harris says bleakly. Today she’s dressed all in tones of lemon. How can she look so well put together so early in the morning? “Last night, while we were having dinner in the cafeteria, your assistant, whatever her name is, the one with the frizzy hair, was introducing him around. No offense, Ms. Wells, but are you aware he’s blind? Our daughter’s going from a dead RA to a blind one? Excuse me, but how is that going to work? What if there’s a fire?”

I look upward at the overcast sky, fighting for patience.

“Well, Mrs. Harris,” I say, after I’ve counted to three. “I’m sure if there’s a fire, Dave will hear the alarm, smell the smoke, and get his residents to safety, just like a sighted person. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my office.”

I storm past her, but I don’t head for the office. I head for the cafeteria. I need that coffee and a bagel.

“Morning,” Pete says glumly as I pass the security desk. He knows better than to speak to me too cheerfully in the a.m. He feels the same way about mornings.

“Are you seeing this?” I ask, pointing over my shoulder at the picketers. “Are you picking it up on your monitors?”

“Unfortunately,” he replies, just as glumly. “They’ve been at it since eight. They’ve got a group of ’em protesting in front of the president’s office as well. Some of ’em have got their parents driving in too, from what I hear.”

I roll my eyes. “Shoot me.” Then I remember what I have in my bag. “I mean . . . never mind.”

Pete nods solemnly. He has a cup of coffee and a bagel on his desk, so he’s already several steps ahead of me. “Just so you know, there’s a bunch of ’em waiting outside your office. Couldn’t get in because you changed the locks last night—good move, by the way—but all that seemed to do was raise their fighting spirit.”

I say a curse word I normally reserve for when I’ve stubbed a toe or forgotten to order paper for the photocopier.

“I heard that!” Gavin’s voice drifts out from behind the front desk. “That can only mean one thing. Heather Wells is in the house!”

“Shut up, Gavin,” I say moodily, and continue toward the cafeteria.

“Is that any way to talk to your most devoted employee?” Gavin calls. “Hey, stop by the desk on your way back. I have a message here for you.”

“Okay.” I mutter the curse word again, this time under my breath.

Fortunately Magda has anticipated my needs, and has forced Jimmy to set a bagel aside for me, before the ravenous hordes of protesters could wipe him clean of baked goods.

“You poor thing,” she says as Jimmy surrenders the bagel. This time he’s too busy to toast it for me—a wave of freshmen leaving for an orientation trip to Central Park has come in ahead of me—so I’m forced to cut it in half myself with the large serrated knife left on the cutting board by the bagel basket for that purpose. “I heard about Cooper. How is he? How are you?”

Her question takes me by surprise. “How did you know about Cooper?”

“Bridesmaid hotline,” she says, holding out her phone. “Nicole told me. All these people texting while driving. It should be against the law.”

Of course. Nicole told her what she knew, which wasn’t the truth . . .

“Cooper’s doing as well as can be expected,” I say as Magda walks me toward the coffee dispenser. “And there is a law against texting while driving. But that isn’t exactly what—”

“You know what I was thinking? If his foot isn’t better in time for the wedding, he can use a—what are they called? Mr. Jazzy? Those little carts the very old people use at the grocery store.”

“Jazzy power scooter?” I ask in horror.

“Yes.” Magda claps her hands delightedly. “You will look so nice in your beautiful white dress and veil, sitting on his lap, as Cooper drives you around on the dance floor at that fancy hotel on his Mr. Jazzy.”