Size 12 and Ready to Rock
Page 67
“Other doors,” Wynona says, and points. The student turns around, his face flushing crimson, and heads toward the appropriate doors. “You’re okay,” Wynona says to him more kindly as he passes by. “Just remember next time.”
“There’s your answer,” Pete says to me. “Wynona did not see this girl get signed in. Must have been Eduardo, he was on before we got here. Why, is there a problem?”
“Yeah, there’s a problem,” I say. “This girl is fifteen. She’s here for Tania Trace Rock Camp.”
Pete makes a hissing noise. “Ay-yi-yi,” he says. “Mommy’s mad.”
“I’m not her mother,” I say to Pete, yanking Bridget’s ID card. “And I’m not mad. I’m just saying. Let me see who signed her in.”
Pete slides the log toward me, looking defensive. “I’m supposed to be keeping an eye out for every kid from Fischer Hall who gets invited over here to eat lunch? It’s lunch, for chrissakes. How much trouble could a kid be getting into at lunch?”
“If she was only going to lunch, she wouldn’t need to be signed in. Obviously, the guy took her to his room. If it was your daughter Nancy and she was at one of those sleepaway camps you’re working all this overtime to pay for, wouldn’t you want someone to be looking out for her?”
“Nancy,” Pete says, “wouldn’t go to Tania Trace Rock Camp, because she’s going to be a pediatrician. I wouldn’t pay to let her go to anything so—”
“Watch it,” I growl at him. “And these girls aren’t paying for this camp, they auditioned and got in. In fact, they’re getting paid to attend. So anyway—” I push back the hair that’s fallen into my face during this exchange and run my finger along the list of names in front of me. “Bill Bigelow? That can’t be right. He’s supposed to be an Orthodox Jew. Also, Bill Bigelow . . .”
I let my voice trail off. Why does that name seem so familiar to me?
Pete turns the sign-in log toward himself. “ ‘Bigelow’ doesn’t sound very Jewish to me either. Wait. Did that sound racist?”
“Dude.” A group of students walks up to the security desk. “I need the logbook. I gotta sign these guys in.”
“In a minute,” Pete says to them. He shows Wynona the logbook. “Wyn, have you ever seen this guy? Does he wear a yarmulke?”
“How would I know?” Wynona asks, glancing at the name. “The minimum stay in this place in the summertime is only two weeks, and they’ll rent a room out to anyone who pays in advance. I can’t remember every face, let alone the name that goes with it.”
“Dude,” the student who asked for the logbook says, “can I please sign in my guests? We’ve got to shoot a film for my intensive screenwriting class.”
“Do I look like a dude to you?” Wynona asks, her voice rising. “And there’s no filming in the residence halls.”
“But if I don’t finish this project by Friday,” the student whines, “I won’t graduate.”
“You should’ve thought about that before now,” Wynona says. “You’re not bringing that equipment in here. It’s a fire hazard.”
Bill Bigelow. Bill Bigelow. Bill Bigelow.
“Whoa, dude,” the resident’s friend says. “What a bitch.”
“Who are you calling a bitch?” Wynona demands, rising from behind her desk.
The resident’s friend grows pale. “No one.”
To Pete, I say, “I need access to the student ID system from a computer. I have to look up this guy, find out how old he is, and also see if he’s a full-time student or just living here for the summer.”
Pete shakes his head. “Sorry, Heather,” he says. “The only computer around here is in the director’s office, and that’s closed. It’s always closed this time of day.”
“It’s always closed, period,” Wynona says. She’s settled back down into her seat, having chased the film student away. “Wish I had that job. I wouldn’t mind having to work two days a week and still getting paid for five.”
I need to think fast. Bridget is in Bill Bigelow’s room now, right this very moment, maybe, probably, having sex.
This is none of my business, of course. I’m not her mother, as I pointed out to Pete. For all I know, Bill Bigelow could be her age and living in a New York College residence hall for the summer because he, like her, is a talented prodigy, taking classes in computer science or violin. Maybe they’re up there playing chess. Maybe—
Oh, screw it.
I pull out my cell phone and am about to punch in Lisa’s number when two large, familiar figures saunter into the Wasser Hall lobby, one of them wearing a warm-up suit and the other dressed in linen trousers and a polo shirt, both looking as if they own the place. Relief surges through me as I rush across the lobby.
“Hey, you guys,” I say, “can either one of you access the student system with your phone?”
“Well,” Tom says, looking affronted, “nice to see you too, Heather. And how is your day going?”
“This is serious,” I say to him. “I need to look up a student, but the residence hall office is closed, and my phone is a zillion years old.” I hold up my mobile to prove it.
“Is that an antenna?” Steven asks in horror.
“Oh, you sad little thing,” Tom says, taking his phone from the pocket of his linen trousers and pressing the screen. “Who am I looking up and why? And are you joining us for lunch? I hear it’s beef macaroni and cheese, your fave.”
“Bill Bigelow,” I say. “And maybe. One of the Tania Trace campers is signed in to his room, and I need to make sure he’s on the up-and-up. If he’s not, I have to go up there and drag her back to Fischer Hall.”
Tom gasps delightedly. “Before he’s besmirched her honor? Oh, can we help? Steven lives to defend the honor of young maidens, don’t you, Steven?”
Steven looks annoyed. “That was just that one time,” he says. “I’m really sorry about that, Heather, I hope it hasn’t happened again—”
Tom gasps again, this time at something he’s seen on his phone. “Wait, how old is the girl?” he asks.
“There’s your answer,” Pete says to me. “Wynona did not see this girl get signed in. Must have been Eduardo, he was on before we got here. Why, is there a problem?”
“Yeah, there’s a problem,” I say. “This girl is fifteen. She’s here for Tania Trace Rock Camp.”
Pete makes a hissing noise. “Ay-yi-yi,” he says. “Mommy’s mad.”
“I’m not her mother,” I say to Pete, yanking Bridget’s ID card. “And I’m not mad. I’m just saying. Let me see who signed her in.”
Pete slides the log toward me, looking defensive. “I’m supposed to be keeping an eye out for every kid from Fischer Hall who gets invited over here to eat lunch? It’s lunch, for chrissakes. How much trouble could a kid be getting into at lunch?”
“If she was only going to lunch, she wouldn’t need to be signed in. Obviously, the guy took her to his room. If it was your daughter Nancy and she was at one of those sleepaway camps you’re working all this overtime to pay for, wouldn’t you want someone to be looking out for her?”
“Nancy,” Pete says, “wouldn’t go to Tania Trace Rock Camp, because she’s going to be a pediatrician. I wouldn’t pay to let her go to anything so—”
“Watch it,” I growl at him. “And these girls aren’t paying for this camp, they auditioned and got in. In fact, they’re getting paid to attend. So anyway—” I push back the hair that’s fallen into my face during this exchange and run my finger along the list of names in front of me. “Bill Bigelow? That can’t be right. He’s supposed to be an Orthodox Jew. Also, Bill Bigelow . . .”
I let my voice trail off. Why does that name seem so familiar to me?
Pete turns the sign-in log toward himself. “ ‘Bigelow’ doesn’t sound very Jewish to me either. Wait. Did that sound racist?”
“Dude.” A group of students walks up to the security desk. “I need the logbook. I gotta sign these guys in.”
“In a minute,” Pete says to them. He shows Wynona the logbook. “Wyn, have you ever seen this guy? Does he wear a yarmulke?”
“How would I know?” Wynona asks, glancing at the name. “The minimum stay in this place in the summertime is only two weeks, and they’ll rent a room out to anyone who pays in advance. I can’t remember every face, let alone the name that goes with it.”
“Dude,” the student who asked for the logbook says, “can I please sign in my guests? We’ve got to shoot a film for my intensive screenwriting class.”
“Do I look like a dude to you?” Wynona asks, her voice rising. “And there’s no filming in the residence halls.”
“But if I don’t finish this project by Friday,” the student whines, “I won’t graduate.”
“You should’ve thought about that before now,” Wynona says. “You’re not bringing that equipment in here. It’s a fire hazard.”
Bill Bigelow. Bill Bigelow. Bill Bigelow.
“Whoa, dude,” the resident’s friend says. “What a bitch.”
“Who are you calling a bitch?” Wynona demands, rising from behind her desk.
The resident’s friend grows pale. “No one.”
To Pete, I say, “I need access to the student ID system from a computer. I have to look up this guy, find out how old he is, and also see if he’s a full-time student or just living here for the summer.”
Pete shakes his head. “Sorry, Heather,” he says. “The only computer around here is in the director’s office, and that’s closed. It’s always closed this time of day.”
“It’s always closed, period,” Wynona says. She’s settled back down into her seat, having chased the film student away. “Wish I had that job. I wouldn’t mind having to work two days a week and still getting paid for five.”
I need to think fast. Bridget is in Bill Bigelow’s room now, right this very moment, maybe, probably, having sex.
This is none of my business, of course. I’m not her mother, as I pointed out to Pete. For all I know, Bill Bigelow could be her age and living in a New York College residence hall for the summer because he, like her, is a talented prodigy, taking classes in computer science or violin. Maybe they’re up there playing chess. Maybe—
Oh, screw it.
I pull out my cell phone and am about to punch in Lisa’s number when two large, familiar figures saunter into the Wasser Hall lobby, one of them wearing a warm-up suit and the other dressed in linen trousers and a polo shirt, both looking as if they own the place. Relief surges through me as I rush across the lobby.
“Hey, you guys,” I say, “can either one of you access the student system with your phone?”
“Well,” Tom says, looking affronted, “nice to see you too, Heather. And how is your day going?”
“This is serious,” I say to him. “I need to look up a student, but the residence hall office is closed, and my phone is a zillion years old.” I hold up my mobile to prove it.
“Is that an antenna?” Steven asks in horror.
“Oh, you sad little thing,” Tom says, taking his phone from the pocket of his linen trousers and pressing the screen. “Who am I looking up and why? And are you joining us for lunch? I hear it’s beef macaroni and cheese, your fave.”
“Bill Bigelow,” I say. “And maybe. One of the Tania Trace campers is signed in to his room, and I need to make sure he’s on the up-and-up. If he’s not, I have to go up there and drag her back to Fischer Hall.”
Tom gasps delightedly. “Before he’s besmirched her honor? Oh, can we help? Steven lives to defend the honor of young maidens, don’t you, Steven?”
Steven looks annoyed. “That was just that one time,” he says. “I’m really sorry about that, Heather, I hope it hasn’t happened again—”
Tom gasps again, this time at something he’s seen on his phone. “Wait, how old is the girl?” he asks.
