The Bride Wore Size 12 Read Free Page A

shadow, tons of bangles, sky-high platform heels, and miniskirts. The boys are even more carefully styled than the girls, sporting pressed oxford-cloth shirts, skinny jeans, and pastel scarves (tossed around necks thinner than my upper arms). They’re making me feel as if I showed up to work today underdressed in my dark jeans, white button-up blouse, and flats.
    These kids want to make an impression on someone . . . and it isn’t me. I highly doubt it’s any of these parents either.
    I have a pretty good idea who it is, though.
    One of the students, a blonde in extremely high heels, leans forward and calls, “Hey. Hey!” to get Mrs. Harris’s attention.
    When Mrs. Harris glances at her, the girl says, “Hi, I’m Isabel. I got assigned to Wasser Hall, the building across the park where that guy’s son lives.” She points at Gold Rolex, who blushes from the attention. “Anyway, I’ll totally swap rooms with your daughter. I wouldn’t mind living with a slut . . . especially one who’s never home. In fact, I’d love that. I’ll live with anyone so long as I can be in Fischer Hall . . . and near him .”
    The boys and girls all titter excitedly. They know exactly who the him is that she’s referring to, even if Mrs. Harris looks blank.
    I knew it. It isn’t the makeover Fischer Hall received, or the reality show that was filmed here over the summer featuring two very well-known celebrities, my ex-boyfriend and future brother-in-law, Jordan Cartwright, and his wife, Tania Trace (though the show is in “postproduction” and won’t air until after Christmas), or even all our hard work that’s catapulted the building to such heights of popularity.
    It’s our Very Important Resident (for whom Carl’s installing the security monitors, and the surveillance crew has been stationed down the hall). Word about him has spread faster than I ever imagined . . . not surprisingly, since he hasn’t kept a very low profile, despite his insistence on being called by his self-chosen “American” name instead of the one his parents gave him.
    I wonder which was the biggest tip-off to his fellow students: the newly installed security cameras in the lobby and our office, as well as on the fifteenth-floor hallway and exterior ledges outside his windows? Or the fact that he’s the only student in the history of New York College ever to be assigned an entire suite to himself, two bedrooms and one bathroom for one person?
    Or is it the chauffeured white Escalade that’s parked outside the building twenty-four hours a day, available for his personal use any time of day or night?
    Or perhaps it’s his constantly updated social media networking feed (over a million followers and growing), shots of him playing competitive tennis, riding horses in the desert, skydiving onto his own personal yacht, even dancing in nightclubs with the locals, to the frustration of his diligent yet exhausted bodyguards and now the entire New York College housing staff?
    It couldn’t possibly be his father’s $500 million donation to the college, a donation so large—only after his son was admitted—that it became front-page news in every paper in the city?
    Clearly all of this has done nothing to lower our VIR’s profile.
    But it’s done everything to boost Fischer Hall’s reputation as the place to live.
    Mrs. Harris, however, has no idea about any of this.
    “Oh, no,” Mrs. Harris says, in some confusion, to Isabel’s offer. “That’s just it. Kaileigh would never want to move out of Fischer Hall. She adores all the people she’s met since she’s moved in here, especially the girls in the room next door, her suite mates, Chantelle and Nishi. And she’d never request a room change.” Mrs. Harris darts a nervous look in my direction. “That’s why I’m here to do it for her. She wouldn’t want to hurt Ameera’s feelings. Kaileigh’s got such a tender heart, you see.”
    I hear a snort from behind Mrs. Harris, though it