Size 12 and Ready to Rock Read Free Page B

Gavin lifts his paintball gun and shoots at . . .
    . . . Simon Hague, the director of Wasser Hall, Fischer Hall’s bitterest rival, and my own personal workplace nemesis.
    Simon shrieks at the Day-Glo burst that’s appeared on the front of his stylish black polo. His companion—a campus protection officer, from the outline of his hat—doesn’t appear too happy about the bright yellow paint that’s splashed onto the front of his blue uniform either.
    Jamie, realizing her boyfriend’s mistake first, gasps in horror, then says almost the exact same thing to them that she’d said to me: “It comes out in warm water!”
    A part of me wants to burst out laughing. Another part longs to disappear on the spot. Simon, I remember belatedly, is the residence hall director on duty this weekend, which means he must have gotten the same message I did about the unauthorized party and unconscious student.
    If I wasn’t dead before, I am now, at least career-wise.
    “What,” Simon demands, fumbling along the wood paneling for a light switch, “is going on here?”
    Hide the beer, I silently pray. Someone hide the beer, quick.
    “Hi,” I say, stepping forward. “Simon, it’s me, Heather. We were just doing a team-building exercise. I’m so sorry about this—”
    “Team-building exercise?” Simon sputters, still trying to find the light switch. “This building is supposed to be empty for the summer. What kind of team could you possibly be building, and on a Sunday night?”
    “Well, we’re not really empty,” I say. I hear movement behind me and am relieved to notice out of the corner of my eye that Gavin is discreetly shifting the six-packs of PBR behind the couch. “Dr. Jessup wanted us to keep the front desk open, so of course there’s the student desk staff and the mail-forwarding staff and a few resident assistants, because of the—”
    — basketball team, I was going to say. Conscious that the college president’s favorite students were living in the building for the summer, the head of Housing had asked me to make sure that the team—who are, after all, students first, athletes second—had plenty of supervision, so I’d provided it, in the form of seven RAs, who were also receiving free housing for the summer in exchange for working a few hours in my office or at the desk, but also keeping an eye on the Pansies.
    Simon cuts me off before I can finish. “Mail-forwarding staff?” He sounds incensed. I remember belatedly that during one staff meeting at which we were asked to brainstorm ways the college might save money, Simon had suggested cutting all the assistant residence hall director positions— my position.
    He finally finds the light switch, and suddenly we’re bathed in a harsh fluorescent glow.
    Simon doesn’t look so good. I can’t imagine I look any better, though. Then I recognize the campus protection officer, who looks the worst of all three of us.
    “Oh,” I say, surprised. “Hi, Pete. You’re working night shifts now?”
    Pete, who normally mans Fischer Hall’s security desk, is trying to wipe the Day-Glo off his silver badge.
    “Yeah,” he says glumly. “I picked up a few extra shifts. The girls are going to sleepaway camp this summer. Those places are expensive. The good ones anyway.”
    It’s clear from Pete’s expression that he’s regretting his decision to take on the extra shifts.
    “You have students living here for free in exchange for forwarding the mail? ” Simon demands, a dog with a bone he refuses to drop.
    Wasser Hall is across the park, in a different zip code than Fischer Hall, and serviced by a different post office. They’re also in a new building where they don’t have to worry about asbestos being exposed and the ceiling of the room below collapsing whenever a toilet floods.
    “Yeah,” I say. “Our post office won’t forward Fischer Hall’s mail, because it considers dormitories transient housing. So that’s what Jamie and Gavin are doing in