Size 12 and Ready to Rock
Page 68
“She’s fifteen,” I say. “Why? Did you find Bill Bigelow?”
“I sure did,” Tom says, looking, if anything, even more delighted. “It says here he’s not a full-time student at New York College, but he’s signed up for seven weeks of summer housing in Wasser Hall while taking an intensive course in musical theater. A musical theater intensive! I think I just wet my pants a little.”
“Musical theater?” My hypervigilance has kicked into high gear. “Bill Bigelow?”
“I know,” Tom says. “Right? That’s what I thought. And he likes girls? But it happens, I guess. Look at Hugh Jackman.”
“No,” I say. “That’s not what I mean.” I remember now where I’ve heard the name. “Billy Bigelow. That’s a character from the musical Carousel.”
Tom gasps. “That’s right! My mom used to sing that song Billy Bigelow sings to my sister and me every night before bed, the one about little girls, pink and white as peaches and cream.”
“I don’t want to say this, but someone has to.” Steven shakes his head. “It’s no wonder you’re gay.”
My heart has begun to pound. “You guys, this isn’t good. How old does it say he is?”
“Oh.” Tom looks down at his phone. “Um . . . twenty-nine.”
I whirl around and head back to the security desk.
“Wait.” Tom trots after me. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going up there,” I say, taking the sign-in log from Pete and rechecking the number of the room Bridget is in. “I’m going to room . . . 401A, and I’m seeing who this Bill person is for myself. Then I’m telling Bridget—and Bill, if that’s who he really is—that this whole thing ends now.”
“Oh,” Tom says. “Beef macaroni and cheese can wait.”
Chapter 24
Only once we step into the Wasser Hall elevator and the doors close do I begin to have reservations.
This is crazy. I’m crazy. It’s not him. Gary Hall could not be living in a New York College residence hall, not even Wasser Hall, where the residence hall director takes extended long weekends in the Hamptons, and the lobby is so packed due to the crowds at mealtimes that it would be quite easy to slip in and out without being noticed.
It’s not impossible. Simply highly unlikely.
What would be the point, though? Why would he take such a crazy risk? And why befriend a Tania Trace camper?
We’ve been learning about the different personality disorders in Psych 101. It’s hard to read about them and not apply them to people you know. Schizoid, narcissistic, obsessive-compulsive, borderline, depressive. What would Gary be?
Antisocial. Complete disregard for the law and the rights of others. But also an obsessive compulsion to get Tania’s attention, even if it’s by hurting her or the people she knows.
I’m dying to test my diagnosis by seeing if Tom and Steven agree with it, but a kid with bright blue hair has gotten onto the elevator with us, so I can’t.
The kid’s not the only one who’s joined us. Wynona insisted on our taking Pete.
“Oh please,” she’d said, rolling her eyes when Pete asked if she could handle the lunch crowd without him. “Go on. You know you’ve been wanting to use that Taser since the day they handed them out.”
So Pete’s come along, his right hand resting lightly on the grip of his Taser. This isn’t as reassuring as one might think. I keep my gaze on the poster on the back of the Wasser Hall elevator urging residents to come to the “Wasser Hall Family Franks ’n’ Fun Night.” I’m seized by an almost overwhelming urge to write “FU” on it.
Sadly I can’t, because of the blue-haired kid, and the fact that I don’t have a pen on me, and of course this would be super-immature.
The elevator doors open at the third floor, and the blue-haired kid steps off. As soon as the doors close again, I say, “I hate this building.”
“It does seem smug,” Tom agrees. “For a building.”
“Who says frankfurters?” I ask, pointing at the sign. “Everyone knows they’re called hot dogs. Simon just called them that for the alliteration.”
“Simon’s a dick,” Tom says.
“Simmer down, you two,” Steven says.
“You guys,” I say, “I think Bill Bigelow is—”
The music hits us as soon as the doors open on Four. It’s almost shockingly loud, and I’ve worked in a residence hall long enough to know from loud music. I recognize it at once:
Tania Trace’s new hit single, “So Sue Me.”
My heart begins to beat a little faster. I wonder if I should call Cooper, then remind myself that there’s nothing he can do. His job is to protect his client.
“Wow,” Tom says as we step into the hallway. “Somebody likes their Tania Trace, huh?”
That, I think to myself, may be the problem.
Even though Wasser Hall is so much newer than Fischer Hall—made of concrete cinder blocks and drywall, whereas Fischer Hall is made of wood and bricks and, I sometimes think, Manuel’s floor wax—the walls are much thinner. The pulsating bass seems to be coming right at us.
Then I turn and see that it is coming right at us. Room 401 is right next door to the elevators, and it’s from this room that the music is emanating. Surprisingly, the door is ajar. This often happens in residence halls. To foster a feeling of community—but more often because they’re too lazy to carry their keys—students will leave their doors open, thinking that no one on their floor would ever steal from them because they’re too close of a family unit.
This kind of false thinking is, of course, how their laptops, cell phones, and expensive leather jackets get stolen all the time by guests other residents have signed in.
In the case of 401, the open door turns out to be to a suite. Bill Bigelow’s room, 401A, shares a common room containing a kitchen, bathroom, and small living area with rooms 401B and 401C. It’s the door to this living area that is open. The pounding music is coming from 401A, Bill’s room, the door to which is closed.
I step into the common room. It’s depressingly bare, the college-issued furniture—a vinyl-covered couch and chairs—having seen better days. There are no posters on the walls, but there are Chinese food delivery bags stuffed into the single trash can, as well as a significant number of bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade.
“I sure did,” Tom says, looking, if anything, even more delighted. “It says here he’s not a full-time student at New York College, but he’s signed up for seven weeks of summer housing in Wasser Hall while taking an intensive course in musical theater. A musical theater intensive! I think I just wet my pants a little.”
“Musical theater?” My hypervigilance has kicked into high gear. “Bill Bigelow?”
“I know,” Tom says. “Right? That’s what I thought. And he likes girls? But it happens, I guess. Look at Hugh Jackman.”
“No,” I say. “That’s not what I mean.” I remember now where I’ve heard the name. “Billy Bigelow. That’s a character from the musical Carousel.”
Tom gasps. “That’s right! My mom used to sing that song Billy Bigelow sings to my sister and me every night before bed, the one about little girls, pink and white as peaches and cream.”
“I don’t want to say this, but someone has to.” Steven shakes his head. “It’s no wonder you’re gay.”
My heart has begun to pound. “You guys, this isn’t good. How old does it say he is?”
“Oh.” Tom looks down at his phone. “Um . . . twenty-nine.”
I whirl around and head back to the security desk.
“Wait.” Tom trots after me. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going up there,” I say, taking the sign-in log from Pete and rechecking the number of the room Bridget is in. “I’m going to room . . . 401A, and I’m seeing who this Bill person is for myself. Then I’m telling Bridget—and Bill, if that’s who he really is—that this whole thing ends now.”
“Oh,” Tom says. “Beef macaroni and cheese can wait.”
Chapter 24
Only once we step into the Wasser Hall elevator and the doors close do I begin to have reservations.
This is crazy. I’m crazy. It’s not him. Gary Hall could not be living in a New York College residence hall, not even Wasser Hall, where the residence hall director takes extended long weekends in the Hamptons, and the lobby is so packed due to the crowds at mealtimes that it would be quite easy to slip in and out without being noticed.
It’s not impossible. Simply highly unlikely.
What would be the point, though? Why would he take such a crazy risk? And why befriend a Tania Trace camper?
We’ve been learning about the different personality disorders in Psych 101. It’s hard to read about them and not apply them to people you know. Schizoid, narcissistic, obsessive-compulsive, borderline, depressive. What would Gary be?
Antisocial. Complete disregard for the law and the rights of others. But also an obsessive compulsion to get Tania’s attention, even if it’s by hurting her or the people she knows.
I’m dying to test my diagnosis by seeing if Tom and Steven agree with it, but a kid with bright blue hair has gotten onto the elevator with us, so I can’t.
The kid’s not the only one who’s joined us. Wynona insisted on our taking Pete.
“Oh please,” she’d said, rolling her eyes when Pete asked if she could handle the lunch crowd without him. “Go on. You know you’ve been wanting to use that Taser since the day they handed them out.”
So Pete’s come along, his right hand resting lightly on the grip of his Taser. This isn’t as reassuring as one might think. I keep my gaze on the poster on the back of the Wasser Hall elevator urging residents to come to the “Wasser Hall Family Franks ’n’ Fun Night.” I’m seized by an almost overwhelming urge to write “FU” on it.
Sadly I can’t, because of the blue-haired kid, and the fact that I don’t have a pen on me, and of course this would be super-immature.
The elevator doors open at the third floor, and the blue-haired kid steps off. As soon as the doors close again, I say, “I hate this building.”
“It does seem smug,” Tom agrees. “For a building.”
“Who says frankfurters?” I ask, pointing at the sign. “Everyone knows they’re called hot dogs. Simon just called them that for the alliteration.”
“Simon’s a dick,” Tom says.
“Simmer down, you two,” Steven says.
“You guys,” I say, “I think Bill Bigelow is—”
The music hits us as soon as the doors open on Four. It’s almost shockingly loud, and I’ve worked in a residence hall long enough to know from loud music. I recognize it at once:
Tania Trace’s new hit single, “So Sue Me.”
My heart begins to beat a little faster. I wonder if I should call Cooper, then remind myself that there’s nothing he can do. His job is to protect his client.
“Wow,” Tom says as we step into the hallway. “Somebody likes their Tania Trace, huh?”
That, I think to myself, may be the problem.
Even though Wasser Hall is so much newer than Fischer Hall—made of concrete cinder blocks and drywall, whereas Fischer Hall is made of wood and bricks and, I sometimes think, Manuel’s floor wax—the walls are much thinner. The pulsating bass seems to be coming right at us.
Then I turn and see that it is coming right at us. Room 401 is right next door to the elevators, and it’s from this room that the music is emanating. Surprisingly, the door is ajar. This often happens in residence halls. To foster a feeling of community—but more often because they’re too lazy to carry their keys—students will leave their doors open, thinking that no one on their floor would ever steal from them because they’re too close of a family unit.
This kind of false thinking is, of course, how their laptops, cell phones, and expensive leather jackets get stolen all the time by guests other residents have signed in.
In the case of 401, the open door turns out to be to a suite. Bill Bigelow’s room, 401A, shares a common room containing a kitchen, bathroom, and small living area with rooms 401B and 401C. It’s the door to this living area that is open. The pounding music is coming from 401A, Bill’s room, the door to which is closed.
I step into the common room. It’s depressingly bare, the college-issued furniture—a vinyl-covered couch and chairs—having seen better days. There are no posters on the walls, but there are Chinese food delivery bags stuffed into the single trash can, as well as a significant number of bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade.
