Dr. Jessup can finish, President Allington’s gaze falls upon me…just as, deep down inside, I’d known it would, somehow. I mean, really. Isn’t that the story of my life? Got a really unsavory task? Why not send Heather Wells to do it? She lost her uterus in the park this morning, after all. It’s not like she’s of any use to society anymore anyway.
“Oh, Jessica,” Dr. Allington says, coming momentarily out of his Muffy-induced stupor and recognizing me as the girl who once saved his wife’s life. Or something like that. “Jessica’s here. Why can’t Jessica do it?”
For reasons that will never be clear to me, President Allington thinks I’m Jessica Simpson.
No. Really. No matter how many times people (including me) tell him I’m not.
“Now, Phil,” Dr. Flynn says. Dr. Flynn has always been a stand-up guy. Possibly because he doesn’t live on campus, but manages to keep a sense of perspective by commuting in every day from the suburbs. “That’s Heather. Remember? And Heather’s had a hard day. She’s the one who found Owen—”
“She did? You.” Muffy looks at me and snaps her fingers. “You’re the one who found him?”
I exchange wild-eyed glances with Magda. “Um. Yes?”
“Perfect.” Muffy grabs me by the arm. “Come with me.”
“Muffy.” Dr. Flynn looks alarmed. “I really don’t think—”
“Oh, hush,” Muffy says.
No, really. She actually says this.
“Ms. Fowler.” Dr. Jessup seems wearier than usual. He looks slightly pale beneath his Aspen tan. “I’m not sure—”
“Oh, why, I never in my life saw such a bunch of fussbudgets,” Muffy declares, in a mockly scandalized tone. “Jessica and I are just going to have ourselves a little bit of girl talk, nothing you need to worry your little heads about. Ya’ll get yourselves some coffee and I’ll be back in just a little bit. Come on, Jessica.”
The next thing I know, she’s leading me out of the cafeteria and out into the lobby, one arm around my shoulders, the other around my wrist.
That’s right. She has me in a sorority girl death grip.
“Listen, Jessica,” she’s saying, as we head outside, her eyes glittering with a brighter intensity than any of the gemstones on her fingers and earlobes. “I just want you to say a few words to the reporters we’ve got hanging around out here. Just a few words about how devastatin’ it was findin’ Owen’s body, and all. Do you think you can do that for me, Jessica?”
“Um,” I say. Her breath smells like she just swallowed an entire Listerine Pocket Pak. “My name’s Heather.”
Outside, the spring sky is still as blue as it had been when I’d lost my uterus, just a few hours earlier. It’s unseasonably warm—a hard morning for anyone to spend in an office, orslouched in front of a chalkboard, or, you know, at a crime scene. True, the drug dealers have scattered thanks to the strong police presence over by Fischer Hall.
But that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of people milling around, staring at all the news vans that are parked illegally along the west side of the park, crowding the sidewalk and blocking traffic.
It’s toward these news vans that Muffy begins steering me—even though I put on the brakes, pronto.
“Uh,” I say. “I don’t think this is the best idea…”
“Are you kidding me?” Muffy demands. For such a skinny little thing, she’s pretty strong. Obviously, she works out. That’s always the way with these Southern belles. They look like a puff of wind could blow them away, but in reality, they can bench-press more than your boyfriend. “What could get their minds off this strike thing faster than the teary-eyed blond who found her boss with a bullet through his skull? Do you think you could—”
“OW!” I shriek, as she wrenches some of the fat on my upper arm, hard, between her thumb and forefinger. “What’d you do that for? That really hurt!”
“Good, now your eyes are waterin’,” Muffy says.
“Oh, Jessica,” Dr. Allington says, coming momentarily out of his Muffy-induced stupor and recognizing me as the girl who once saved his wife’s life. Or something like that. “Jessica’s here. Why can’t Jessica do it?”
For reasons that will never be clear to me, President Allington thinks I’m Jessica Simpson.
No. Really. No matter how many times people (including me) tell him I’m not.
“Now, Phil,” Dr. Flynn says. Dr. Flynn has always been a stand-up guy. Possibly because he doesn’t live on campus, but manages to keep a sense of perspective by commuting in every day from the suburbs. “That’s Heather. Remember? And Heather’s had a hard day. She’s the one who found Owen—”
“She did? You.” Muffy looks at me and snaps her fingers. “You’re the one who found him?”
I exchange wild-eyed glances with Magda. “Um. Yes?”
“Perfect.” Muffy grabs me by the arm. “Come with me.”
“Muffy.” Dr. Flynn looks alarmed. “I really don’t think—”
“Oh, hush,” Muffy says.
No, really. She actually says this.
“Ms. Fowler.” Dr. Jessup seems wearier than usual. He looks slightly pale beneath his Aspen tan. “I’m not sure—”
“Oh, why, I never in my life saw such a bunch of fussbudgets,” Muffy declares, in a mockly scandalized tone. “Jessica and I are just going to have ourselves a little bit of girl talk, nothing you need to worry your little heads about. Ya’ll get yourselves some coffee and I’ll be back in just a little bit. Come on, Jessica.”
The next thing I know, she’s leading me out of the cafeteria and out into the lobby, one arm around my shoulders, the other around my wrist.
That’s right. She has me in a sorority girl death grip.
“Listen, Jessica,” she’s saying, as we head outside, her eyes glittering with a brighter intensity than any of the gemstones on her fingers and earlobes. “I just want you to say a few words to the reporters we’ve got hanging around out here. Just a few words about how devastatin’ it was findin’ Owen’s body, and all. Do you think you can do that for me, Jessica?”
“Um,” I say. Her breath smells like she just swallowed an entire Listerine Pocket Pak. “My name’s Heather.”
Outside, the spring sky is still as blue as it had been when I’d lost my uterus, just a few hours earlier. It’s unseasonably warm—a hard morning for anyone to spend in an office, orslouched in front of a chalkboard, or, you know, at a crime scene. True, the drug dealers have scattered thanks to the strong police presence over by Fischer Hall.
But that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of people milling around, staring at all the news vans that are parked illegally along the west side of the park, crowding the sidewalk and blocking traffic.
It’s toward these news vans that Muffy begins steering me—even though I put on the brakes, pronto.
“Uh,” I say. “I don’t think this is the best idea…”
“Are you kidding me?” Muffy demands. For such a skinny little thing, she’s pretty strong. Obviously, she works out. That’s always the way with these Southern belles. They look like a puff of wind could blow them away, but in reality, they can bench-press more than your boyfriend. “What could get their minds off this strike thing faster than the teary-eyed blond who found her boss with a bullet through his skull? Do you think you could—”
“OW!” I shriek, as she wrenches some of the fat on my upper arm, hard, between her thumb and forefinger. “What’d you do that for? That really hurt!”
“Good, now your eyes are waterin’,” Muffy says.
Similar Books
