Big Boned (8 page)

Several other hall directors nod their heads. Tom draws a small doodle of a man who looks a lot like Simon. Then he draws his head exploding.

“So,” he whispers conversationally. “How’s the man?”

I blink at him. “You mean Tad?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. I mean the one you
actually
like. Cooper. How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“He’s fine,” I reply…a little bleakly, I’ll admit.

And, okay, I know we were at a meeting about my boss, whom I’d found dead a few hours earlier, and it was tragic (as we knew all too well), a man killed for no reason, and in his prime, and all of that.

But I need some dating advice. And who better to ask than a gay man?

“Tad asked me this morning if I could take time off this summer, then told me he has something he wants to ask me, when the time is right,” I whisper. “And I don’t think he’s talking about a share on the Jersey shore.”

Tom looks appropriately horrified.

“
What?
Are you serious? You’ve only been dating him, what, a month?”

“Try three,” I whisper back. “And you’re one to talk. Or are you not basically living with the New York College basketball coach?”

“That’s different.” Tom is indignant now. “We
can’t
get married. His parents don’t know he’s gay.”

“Now, Detective Canavan, from the Sixth Precinct, assures me,” Dr. Jessup says, looking a little bit shiny along the hairline beneath the fluorescent lights (the library’s original chandeliers were removed, along with its asbestos ductwork, and replaced with a dropped ceiling back in the seventies), “that he and his people are doing everything they can to find a quick resolution to this tragedy”—Tom waffles over whether or not to add a hatchmark, but then finally
does so—“but he seems quite certain that no one is targeting members of the—”

“Why doesn’t someone just come out and say it?” The hall director of a building down on Wall Street, which the college had to purchase because there was no more room left on campus, stands up and glares at everyone else accusingly. “We all know who did this. And why! It was the GSC! Sebastian Blumenthal has to have been behind it! Let’s not kid ourselves!”

Bedlam ensues. Most people seem to be of the opinion that Sebastian had to have done it. This belief seems to be based solely on the fact that Sebastian has long hair and appears to bathe irregularly.

This causes Reverend Mark to observe that a certain savior could also be described this way, but that he never killed anyone.

This remark so delights Tom that he looks up toward the dropped ceiling and mouths,
Thank you, God
. Then he shouts, to no one in particular, “But what about his
murse
?”

Dr. Jessup wanders around the room, trying to get everyone to calm down by insisting that in this country, citizens—even long-haired, unwashed graduate students—are innocent until proven guilty, but to no avail. Several of the male assistant hall directors offer to go out and find Sebastian and beat him to a pulp (they, like me, are working on attaining their bachelor’s degrees, in criminal justice, hospitality management, and physical training, respectively). Finally Drs. Kilgore and Flynn attempt to achieve order by standing on their love seats and clapping their hands and shouting, “Peo
ple, people! Please! People! We are professionals in higher education, not common street thugs!”

Of course this has no effect at all.

But Tom grabbing the fire extinguisher off the wall and setting off a burst of CO
₂
in the middle of the room certainly does. Since this is how he routinely busts up parties over at the frat building, where he lives and works, he does so with an almost comically bored expression on his face.

“Everybody,” he says, in a monotone. “Sit.”

It’s amazing how quickly everyone hurries to do so. Tom may know more Judy Garland songs by heart than anyone else in the room, but he’s also a six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound former Texas A&M linebacker. You don’t want to mess with him.

“People, please,” Dr. Jessup says, now that Tom has restored order. “Let’s try to remember where we are…and
who
we are. When the police have the evidence they need in order to make an arrest, they will. In the meantime, please. Let’s not make things worse by rushing to conclusions and pointing fingers where there’s no conclusive proof.”

Seriously.

I wonder, though, if I ought to warn Sarah to say something to Sebastian after all. The kid really should be laying low, considering what I’ve just witnessed. At least, if he knows what’s good for him.

“Mark,” Dr. Kilgore says, templing her fingers (a clear indication, Sarah would be quick to point out, that she thinks she’s superior to all of us). “I wonder…don’t you think now would be a good time to lead us all in a moment of silence in Owen’s memory?”

“Absolutely,” Reverend Mark says, leaping up from the arm of the love seat onto which he’d sunk once again, and then bowing his dark-haired head. Everyone in the room, including me, joins him.

“Oh, Heavenly Father,” the reverend intones, in his deep, pleasant voice. “We ask that You…”

Tom, who’s lowered himself back down onto the carpet beside me, gives me a nudge. I glance at him from beneath my hair. “What? This is supposed to be a moment of silence, you know.”

“I know. Sorry. But I forgot. What is this?” he whispers. “Your third boss this year?”

“Yes,” I whisper back. “Shhhh.” His newfound snarkiness is a testament to how comfortable Tom feels in his new job—and romantic relationship.

And I’m happy for him. I really am.

But the snark can also be a little trying.

Tom is silent for another two seconds. Then:

“You should quit,” Tom whispers.

“I can’t quit,” I say. “I need the tuition remission. Not to mention the money. Shhh.”

Silence for another three seconds. Then:

“Don’t quit yet,” Tom whispers. “You should wait until you’ve had eight bosses. Then you should quit. And you should be like,
Eight is enough!
”

The real horror doesn’t begin until after the routine announcements that follow the moment of silence. Tom will be acting as interim-interim hall director of Fischer Hall until a replacement interim hall director can be found. (I long to high-five him when I hear this, but as I feel all gazes turn in my direction when this is announced, settle for looking sadly at my shoes. I am, after all, the person who found my boss’s body this morning. None of them has to know I sort of hated the guy.)

The dean of student affairs, we are assured, will be send
ing around a mass e-mail acknowledging the passing of a staff member—though not referring to the tragic (hatchmark) nature of the death—and urging the entire college community to take advantage of counseling service’s grief workshops.

A memorial service—date and location to be announced—is being organized by Reverend Mark. Dr. Veatch’s soon-to-be-ex-wife and family (Owen had a family? People who actually
liked
him?) are on their way. In light of the tragedy (hatchmark), they will be accommodated without charge at Wasser Hall in the VIP guest suites (those bastards—by which I mean Wasser Hall, of course, not Dr. Veatch’s family. Seriously, though, they are such suck-ups over there. Like it’s not enough they have a pool—and no murders. They have to rub it in by having VIP guest suites, too?) normally reserved for visiting dignitaries and people on whom the college is bestowing honorary degrees (last year: Neil Diamond. The year before: Tippi Hedren).

That’s when Drs. Jessup, Kilgore, and Flynn make their last and final announcement…the one that strikes cold, hard terror to my—and, as his reaction illustrates, Tom’s—veins: that, because we’ve obviously been so torn apart by this tragedy (hatchmark), as well as the recent divisiveness involving the GSC, a team building exercise is in order.

Tom and I fling each other panicky looks. Team building exercise?

“Sweet Mother of God,” Tom breathes. “No. Anything but that.”

Unfortunately, Dr. Kilgore, with whom both Tom and I have had the misfortune of working closely in the past, overhears this. She sends us both a glance so sharp, it stings.

“Participation,” she says, her enunciation crisp, “is
mandatory
.”

But apparently not for college presidents, since President Allington abruptly excuses himself, saying he has an important appointment (with a scotch bottle, if he has any sense at all) and leaves. I expect Muffy Fowler to follow him out—she’s not part of housing staff, after all. But then I notice she’s managed to get her three-carat cocktail diamond snagged on the front of Reverend Mark’s sports jacket, and she decides, oh, what the heck, she might as well stay, since it might be a hoot.

Seriously. These are her exact words.

The team building exercise turns out to be even more horrific than either Tom or I could have anticipated. Dr. Flynn brings out a pile of unclaimed newspapers he’s snagged from behind the front desk downstairs. Then we’re told to divide into teams of five, and each team is handed a stack of newspapers. Tom and I instantly grasp one another, so we can be on one another’s team—“She’s been through so much already today, she really needs me,” Tom assures Dr. Kilgore, when she raises a skeptical eyebrow at this, since the goal of the exercise is to get to know staff members with whom we might not otherwise be well acquainted. Somehow, our other teammates end up being Reverend Mark, Muffy Fowler, and—because she assigns herself to our team, undoubtedly to keep an eye on Tom and me—Dr. Kilgore.

“Now,” Dr. Flynn begins, when each team has assembled on their assigned love seat…though, none of the love seats being large enough to accommodate a whole team, Tom and I find ourselves, once again, seated on the floor. “I’m sure
you’re asking yourselves, what are we doing with these newspapers? Well, people, I want you to work together with your team to use these newspapers to build a free-standing structure large enough for your team to seek shelter in it.”

Simon, the director of Wasser Hall, looks furious. “How are we supposed to do that? We don’t have any scissors. Or tape!”

“I am aware of that, Simon,” Dr. Flynn says calmly. “You do, however, have a master’s in sociology, and four equally well-educated teammates, all of whom excel in their people skills. I think, by working together, you should be able to construct some sort of structure into which the five of you can fit for at least the moment it takes for your work to be scored—”

“We’re being GRADED on this?” someone else yells, clearly outraged.

“I hardly think that an event meant to build team spirit should be scored,” someone else chimes in.

“Now, now,” Dr. Jessup says. “It’s all in good fun. Dr. Veatch would have wanted it that way.”

I don’t think anyone in this room actually has any idea what Dr. Veatch would have wanted, since no one here—including me—really knew him. Maybe he would have thought that making houses out of newspaper was fun.

He definitely would have been in favor of scoring the houses, if you ask me.

“Isn’t this a riot?” Muffy asks, as our team gets to work on our house.

“Oh yeah,” Tom says. “I’d much rather be here than in my office.”

Tom is totally lying. His office computer is loaded with Madden NFL, his favorite video game. He plays it all day…when he isn’t busy busting up keg parties and attempted date rapes. He’d play it all night, too, if his boyfriend Steve would let him.

“Me, too,” Reverend Mark says cheerfully. Then he looks at me and stops smiling. “Although of course I’m sad for the reason why we’re here.”

Muffy stops smiling, too. “That’s right,” she says, looking at me with her big dark Bambi eyes practically tear-filled. How does she do that…and right on cue, too? “You two worked together. You must be devastated. Just devastated.”

“You were Dr. Veatch’s secretary?” Reverend Mark asks, looking at me with concern…coupled with the sick fascination everybody feels for someone who’s recently stumbled across a corpse.

“Administrative assistant,” both Tom and Dr. Kilgore correct him, at the same time.

“Why don’t we get started on our structure,” Dr. Kilgore adds, holding up our pile of newspapers between a thumb and forefinger, clearly not wanting to get ink smeared on her clothing. The
New York Times
is notoriously smeary. “How do you propose we do this?”

“Well, it’s got to be free-standing, right?” Tom takes the newspapers from Dr. Kilgore, clearly losing patience with her girlishness. “Why don’t we make four supports, like this”—he rolls a few sheets into a thick, sticklike object—“and use them as props, and just stick another sheet over it, as a roof.”

“Bingo,” I say, pleased. “Done and done.”

“Um,” Reverend Mark says. “No offense, but I did some mission work in Japan, and I was thinking if we
folded
each piece, like so—here, let me demonstrate…”

Reverend Mark takes the papers away from Tom and begins to do some kind of fancy tearing and folding technique thingie. Muffy and Dr. Kilgore watch him, clearly impressed by the way his fingers are flying over the newsprint.

“My goodness, Mark—may I call you Mark?” Muffy asks.

“Of course,” Mark says.

“Well, my goodness, Mark, but you do that so
well.
”

“In many cultures paper folding is considered an art,” Reverend Mark says conversationally, “but it’s actually more closely associated with mathematics. Some classical construction problems in geometry, for instance, can’t be solved using a compass or a straight edge, but
can
be solved using only a few paper folds. Intriguing, no?”

Muffy’s dark eyes are wide and admiring. “Totally. The Japanese are so great. I just love sushi.”

Tom and I exchange glances. Tom rolls his eyes.

“Good,” Dr. Flynn is walking around each group saying. “Good. I see that you’re all coming together, working with one another. This is what Gillian and I were hoping we’d see. The staff, overcoming adversity, defying tragedy—”

“Where’s my Day Runner?” Tom mutters.

“—and now, because I see this is way too easy for all of you, I’m going to throw a spanner in the works, and—blindfold all of you!”

From out of a cardboard box Drs. Flynn and Kilgore have brought with them, Dr. Flynn produces a couple dozen cheap silk scarves, which he proceeds to distribute with the
instructions that we’re to tie them around our eyes and proceed to build our newspaper houses without looking.

“But if we can’t see,” Simon from Wasser Hall wails, “our houses will look like shit and we’ll get a bad score!”

“Nonsense,” Dr. Flynn declares. “One teammate will remain unblindfolded. It’s up to all of you to pick that teammate. And that teammate will guide the others.”

“I pick Mark,” Muffy says quickly.

“Oh,” Mark says, looking up from his complicated woven wall with an embarrassed expression on his face. “Really, I—”

“I’d second that,” Gillian says mildly. She turns to look at me and Tom. “Do you two agree?”

“Um,” I say. We’ll be here all day if Mark is our team leader. I have no idea how he’s going to teach us to do origami house walls. Especially if we’re all blindfolded. But whatever. “Sure.”

“I don’t know,” Tom says slowly. He has a strange, dreamy look on his face that I don’t recognize. “I mean, Heather’s been so traumatized today, walking into her office and finding her beloved boss—not even her boss, but her mentor, really…isn’t that what you told me Owen was to you, Heather? Your mentor?”

I stare at him. “What?”

“Don’t be modest,” Tom says. “We’re all friends here. We know how badly seeing Owen like that freaked you out. You can admit it, Heather. This is a place of trust. I mean, seeing his blood spattered all over my old desk—”

“Oh, Tom, for God’s sake,” Gillian says, looking disgusted.

“I’m just saying. I really think Heather should be team captain,” Tom says piously. “After what she’s been through today, it would be cruel to make her wear a blindfold. She told me earlier that every time she closes her eyes, she sees Owen’s brain matter coating his Dilbert Month-at-a-Glance bulletin board—”

“Garfield,” I correct him.

“Would you two please—” Gillian begins, but Reverend Mark cuts her off.

“I agree with…Tom, is it?” Mark closes his eyes and shakes his head. “After what she’s been through, Heather should completely be team captain.”

“I think so, too,” Muffy says quickly. She looks at Gillian with tears in her eyes. “It’s only right.”

Dr. Kilgore looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm.

“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth, handing out the scarves she’s been handed by Dr. Flynn. “Everyone put on one of these. Everyone but Heather.”

“You, too, right, Dr. Kilgore?” Tom asks, with a smile.

“Me, too,” Gillian says grimly, tying on her blindfold.

“Mark,” Muffy says. “I can’t quite get mine. Can you help?”

“Oh,” Reverend Mark says. “Well, mine’s on already…but I’ll try…”

Reverend Mark reaches out fumblingly for Muffy, and manages to grab a big handful of the boob she’s thrust directly into his palm.

“Oh my God!” he cries, blanching.

“Oh!” Muffy blushes prettily beneath her blindfold, though I know full well she’s thrilled. “That’s all right.”

“I’m so sorry!” Reverend Mark looks like he wants to kill himself. His handsome face has gone from snow white to beet red in three seconds flat. Even his neck, all the way to his shirt collar, is red.

“It’s not your fault. You can’t see!” Muffy reminds him. She manages to secure her blindfold the rest of the way herself, as she’d always been able to in the first place. “Oh, look at that. Never mind, I got it.”

“Are y-you sure?” Reverend Mark stammers. “Perhaps Dr. Kilgore…or Heather—”

“It’s all good,” Muffy purrs.

“Well, now that Heather is our team leader,” Gillian says dryly, “perhaps she ought to start leading.”

“Sure,” I say. “Mark, why don’t you show us how you make those wall thingies you’re doing?”

“Well, it won’t be easy,” Reverend Mark says. “Especially blindfolded. But I suppose, in the spirit of coming together as a team, I can try. First, you take a sheet of newspaper, and you tear it, like so—”

Gillian and Muffy both begin ripping strips of newspaper. Tom fumbles forward in an attempt to take a piece of newsprint off the pile, and leans in the direction of my ear—or what he approximates to be my ear, though it’s more like the top of my head. “This,” he whispers, “is the gayest thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t think I should have to remind you that I am, in fact, gay.”

“Could you just keep making those pole things you were doing earlier, before the Origami Master came along?” I whisper back. “Because we’re never going to beat Wasser Hall at the rate we’re going.”

“Heather,” Tom says, giving me a mockly disapproving look. “This isn’t about winning. It’s about coming together as a team.”

“Shut up,” I say. “We’re going to cream Wasser Hall if it’s the last thing I do.”

In the end, of course, that’s exactly what we do. Our “house” is completed well before anyone else’s. I corral the members of my team into it, then raise my hand and call, “Dr. Flynn! Oh, Dr. Flynn! I think we’re done.”

Dr. Flynn, looking pleased, comes over and examines my team’s handiwork.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “Great job. Just great. Really excellent teamwork, all of you.”

“Can we take our blindfolds off now?” Muffy wants to know.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Dr. Flynn says.

Muffy, Reverend Mark, Gillian, and Tom all remove their blindfolds and look around at the newspaper house they’re sitting in.

“Isn’t it amazing, you guys?” Dr. Flynn asks. “Can you believe you worked together to build something with your own bare hands—while blindfolded? Sit back and relax while everybody else finishes theirs. And give yourselves a well-deserved pat on the back…”

Gillian is staring in astonishment at the four flimsy newspaper poles that are holding up an equally flimsy newspaper canopy…like the cheapest wedding chuppah in the world over two extremely confused couples.

“But…where are the walls we wove?” Muffy wants to know.

“Oh,” I say. “That was going to take forever. So I made an executive decision not to use them and go with Tom’s idea.”