hand on my shoulder. “Sorry about that. You all right? Can I get you anything from the caf? Hot tea, or something?”
“Ooooh,” Sarah says. “I’ll take a coffee. And cake, if there’s any.”
“Sarah!” I’m shocked.
“Well, whatever, Heather,” she says, looking annoyed. “If he’s offering. When the GSC strikes—as we will, shortly—our meal plans will probably be taken away, so I’m not wasting my declining dollars if someone else is offering to pay for my—”
“Heather!” Gavin McGoren, lanky film student, junior, and building resident with an unrequited—and unfortunate—crush on me, appears in the storage room doorway, out of breath and panting. “Oh my God, Heather. There you are. Are you all right? I just heard. I came as fast as I could—”
“McGoren, just the man I want to see,” Sebastian says. “I need someone to work the mikes for the rally in the park tomorrow night. You up for it?”
“Sure, whatevs,” Gavin says, letting his backpack slump to the floor, but keeping his gaze on me. “Is it true? Was he really a victim of a random drug shooting? I knew it was dangerous not to have those street-level windows bricked up. You do realize it could easily have been you, don’t you, Heather?”
“Cool it, Gavin,” Sarah says. “She’s skeeved out enough. What are you trying to do, make things worse?”
“Oh my God,” I say. “I am not skeeved out. I mean, I am. But—look, do we have to talk about this?”
“Of course we don’t have to talk about it, Heather,” Sarah says, in her most soothing voice. Then, to Sebastian and Gavin, she says, “Guys, please leave Heather alone. Finding a corpse—particularly one belonging to someone with whom you worked as closely as Heather worked with Dr. Veatch—can be very unsettling. It’s likely Heather will suffer from post-traumatic stress for some time. We’re going to need to watch her for signs of unexplainable aggressiveness, depression, and emotional detachment.”
“Sarah!” I’m appalled. “Would you please zip it?”
She says, in the same soothing voice, “Of course, Heather.” Then, to the boys, she stage whispers, “What did I tell you about unexplainable aggressiveness?”
“Sarah.” I seriously need an aspirin. “I totally heard that.”
“Uh.” Sebastian is looking at his feet. “How long does this post-traumatic stress thing usually last?”
“It’s impossible to say,” Sarah says, at the same time that I say, “I do not have post-traumatic stress.”
“Oh,” Sebastian says, looking at me, now, instead of his feet. “Well, good. Because I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
I groan. “Not you, too.”
“She doesn’t date students,” Gavin informs him. “I already tried. It’s like a policy, or something.”
I drop my head into my hands. Seriously. How much more can I take in one day? It’s bad enough I actually jogged this morning (only for a few steps, but still. I could have dislodged something. I still don’t know. All my lady parts seemed to have been working fine back at Tad’s, when we took them for a test run. But how can you ever be sure without a visit to the gyno?), but now my boss has been shot, my office taken over by CSI: Greenwich Village, and Gavin McGoren is expounding on the official New York College stand on student-employee relations? I want those two and a half hours of sleep I missed out on back.
“Uh, I wasn’t going to ask her out, dude,” Sebastian says. “I was going to ask her if she could come to our rally tomorrow night.”
I separate my fingers and peer out at him from between them. “ What? ”
“Come on,” Sebastian pleads, throwing himself onto his knees. “You’re Heather Wells. It would mean a lot if you’d show up, maybe lead us in a little round of ‘Kumbaya’—”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”
“Heather,” Sebastian says. “Do you have any idea howmuch it would mean to the GSC if we had a celebrity
“Ooooh,” Sarah says. “I’ll take a coffee. And cake, if there’s any.”
“Sarah!” I’m shocked.
“Well, whatever, Heather,” she says, looking annoyed. “If he’s offering. When the GSC strikes—as we will, shortly—our meal plans will probably be taken away, so I’m not wasting my declining dollars if someone else is offering to pay for my—”
“Heather!” Gavin McGoren, lanky film student, junior, and building resident with an unrequited—and unfortunate—crush on me, appears in the storage room doorway, out of breath and panting. “Oh my God, Heather. There you are. Are you all right? I just heard. I came as fast as I could—”
“McGoren, just the man I want to see,” Sebastian says. “I need someone to work the mikes for the rally in the park tomorrow night. You up for it?”
“Sure, whatevs,” Gavin says, letting his backpack slump to the floor, but keeping his gaze on me. “Is it true? Was he really a victim of a random drug shooting? I knew it was dangerous not to have those street-level windows bricked up. You do realize it could easily have been you, don’t you, Heather?”
“Cool it, Gavin,” Sarah says. “She’s skeeved out enough. What are you trying to do, make things worse?”
“Oh my God,” I say. “I am not skeeved out. I mean, I am. But—look, do we have to talk about this?”
“Of course we don’t have to talk about it, Heather,” Sarah says, in her most soothing voice. Then, to Sebastian and Gavin, she says, “Guys, please leave Heather alone. Finding a corpse—particularly one belonging to someone with whom you worked as closely as Heather worked with Dr. Veatch—can be very unsettling. It’s likely Heather will suffer from post-traumatic stress for some time. We’re going to need to watch her for signs of unexplainable aggressiveness, depression, and emotional detachment.”
“Sarah!” I’m appalled. “Would you please zip it?”
She says, in the same soothing voice, “Of course, Heather.” Then, to the boys, she stage whispers, “What did I tell you about unexplainable aggressiveness?”
“Sarah.” I seriously need an aspirin. “I totally heard that.”
“Uh.” Sebastian is looking at his feet. “How long does this post-traumatic stress thing usually last?”
“It’s impossible to say,” Sarah says, at the same time that I say, “I do not have post-traumatic stress.”
“Oh,” Sebastian says, looking at me, now, instead of his feet. “Well, good. Because I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
I groan. “Not you, too.”
“She doesn’t date students,” Gavin informs him. “I already tried. It’s like a policy, or something.”
I drop my head into my hands. Seriously. How much more can I take in one day? It’s bad enough I actually jogged this morning (only for a few steps, but still. I could have dislodged something. I still don’t know. All my lady parts seemed to have been working fine back at Tad’s, when we took them for a test run. But how can you ever be sure without a visit to the gyno?), but now my boss has been shot, my office taken over by CSI: Greenwich Village, and Gavin McGoren is expounding on the official New York College stand on student-employee relations? I want those two and a half hours of sleep I missed out on back.
“Uh, I wasn’t going to ask her out, dude,” Sebastian says. “I was going to ask her if she could come to our rally tomorrow night.”
I separate my fingers and peer out at him from between them. “ What? ”
“Come on,” Sebastian pleads, throwing himself onto his knees. “You’re Heather Wells. It would mean a lot if you’d show up, maybe lead us in a little round of ‘Kumbaya’—”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”
“Heather,” Sebastian says. “Do you have any idea howmuch it would mean to the GSC if we had a celebrity
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