The Bride Wore Size 12 Read Free Page B

doesn’t come from the direction of the students. I see that a wild-haired young woman in overalls has entered the office, a teacup and saucer balanced carefully in her hands.
    “Excuse me,” apologizes Sarah, looking genuinely contrite when she sees that her derisive snigger at the words “tender heart” was overheard. She’s the graduate student assigned to assist the Fischer Hall director’s office, and she knows she isn’t supposed to smirk at the parents. “I was . . . I was just—” She’s at a loss for words.
    “Taking that tea in to Ms. Wu?” I ask, rescuing her. “Go ahead.” I nod at the hall director’s closed office door. “She’s been waiting for it.”
    “Sorry that took me so long.” Sarah quickly opens the door to Lisa’s office, allowing me a glimpse of my boss, miserably resting her head on top of her desk, as Sarah goes in. “The line in the caf was unbelievable. Here you go, Lise. This will make you feel better—”
    A soft moan escapes from Lisa before the door closes behind Sarah.
    Mrs. Harris stares after the younger girl, apparently having missed the snort at her expense.
    “If the hall director is in,” the older woman says, a calculated expression on her face, “perhaps I’d be better off speaking with her about getting Kaileigh a room change, since she’s in charge. My husband and I leave here to go back to Ohio on Saturday, and if Kaileigh’s going to move, it will have to be soon. She can’t possibly cart all her own things, she’ll need our help. As I said, I’m really quite worried about Ameera’s lifestyle. My Kaileigh was looking forward to having a real roommate this year, not someone who—”
    “I’m sorry.” I cut her off, though I use my sweetest tone. “The hall director isn’t feeling well. She has a stomach bug. You wouldn’t want to spoil the rest of your trip to New York by catching it.”
    Mrs. Harris looks alarmed. “Oh, no. Certainly not.”
    In the hallway outside, the elevator doors ding, and the noise level increases noticeably as residents rush to get off the car while others rush to cram themselves, and their plastic bins of belongings, on. Fischer Hall was constructed in the mid-1800s, so the lobby floor is made of marble, the ceilings all nearly twelve feet high (twenty in the cafeteria), with chandeliers that sparkle with the very same crystals they did in the days of Henry James (though they’ve now been retrofitted with energy-saving bulbs instead of real candles).
    Therefore the noise during any period of high foot traffic (such as lunch and dinnertime) can get to be a little much, thanks to the voices of so many high-spirited young people mingling together at once, not to mention the pinging of the electronic scanner as they slide their ID cards through it to gain access to the building, and the bark of Pete, behind the security desk, telling everyone to “Slow down, it’s not a race,” and “Have your ID card ready or you’re not going anywhere, no way, no how,” on top of the constant dinging of the elevator doors as they open and close.
    But the noise in the hallway increases to a level I’ve rarely heard before, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why when I hear Isabel and her friends whisper excitedly, “Oh my God, he’s coming this way! It’s . . .”
    A second later, a tall, dark-haired boy dressed in skinny jeans and a camouflage-print sports jacket—shoulder seams nearly bursting against its owner’s sizable muscles; sleeves pushed casually to elbows to reveal a dazzling diamond-and-platinum watch—strides into my office, followed by a retinue of young women and hulking bodyguards.
    “Prince Rashid,” breathes Isabel and her friends, starstruck.
    “Please,” His Highness Crown Prince Rashid Ashraf bin Zayed Faisal says, with a wink and a modest tip of his fedora, followed by a slow smile that reveals all of his perfectly white, even teeth. “In this country I go by my American name, Shiraz.