Final Exam by Maggie Barbieri Page B

I said. “If you want me out of that dorm, you’re very much ‘in.’ ”
    Crawford crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them. “There’s so much wrong with this plan that I can’t even begin. And if Geraldine Brookwell is Sister Mary’s sister, this is going to unravel so quickly your head will spin.”
    He had a point. But him having a point had never stopped me before. And it sure wasn’t going to stop me now.
    “That kid’s obviously in a heap of trouble so I hope, for everyone’s sake, he’s safely ensconced in Scarsdale. His parents seem like very nice people. I would hate to have to tell them their kid’s a drug mule or a dealer or something of that ilk.” I thought about them for a moment. “I really hope that he doesn’t put them in any danger.”
    Crawford looked sad all of a sudden. I was sure it was the parental connection, being as he was the father of twin teenage girls. “Me, too.” He leaned back in his chair, his long legs grazing mine under the table. “We need to find out if there’s a missing persons on him in Scarsdale. Let me poke around.” He closed his eyes, thinking, trying to work out that part of it. He opened them a few minutes later. “When’s your next flight?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
    “I’m on the New York to Paris flight at midnight,” I said. “And I won’t be back for two weeks.”
    “And I have a graphic design convention in Cleveland next week,” he said. He waved to our server. “Check, please.”

Seven
    I was able to get back into my room around nine o’clock, where I fell into the bed that Crawford had made up again with fresh sheets after we had returned from the restaurant. I lay there, my arms behind my head, and thought about how the day, and even the whole week, hadn’t turned out as planned. If it had been normal, I would be home, alone, petting my dog and watching a reality show on Bravo. I would have been less surprised if I had ended up on a space shuttle mission than where I was now. Never in my wildest dreams did sleeping on a thirty-year-old mattress on campus come into play.
    But here I was. Crawford had bid me a chaste adieu in the dorm hallway, heading back to his apartment in Manhattan, because even though visitation was still in effect, I didn’t want to look like a hussy my first week on the job. He was working the next day, and I wouldn’t see him for a couple of days, which, in itself, was depressing enough. Now this. Living in a dorm room—there was no place on earth where this would be considered a “suite”—every surface covered with fingerprint dust, with hissing pipes overhead. I decided to make the best of it, and fell into a deep sleep, thinking that I would clean up the fingerprint powder in the morning.
    I hadn’t set my alarm; there was no reason. The only thing I had to do the next day was unpack and go back to Dobbs Ferry to get Trixie. It was going to be a tight squeeze with the two of us living here but we would manage. I got up around nine and used the communal bathroom on the second floor again, making a mental note to call maintenance before I left so that they could give me a new toilet. Because you know what? The cops had taken my toilet “as evidence.” Yes. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any weirder or more embarrassing, the appliance upon which I had sat my ample behind was now in some evidence room at the Fiftieth Precinct.
    I dressed and headed off to Dobbs Ferry, hoping that at the very least, Max was in a semigood mood and not in her usual fugue state.
    I entered the house and was greeted by an overly enthusiastic Trixie, who pushed past me to go out into the backyard where she ran free for a few minutes before rooting for field mice in the giant pile of leaves that I had never bagged the autumn before. When she tired of that, she came back in and paid me the respect I deserved by jumping on me and slathering me with wet, dog-scented kisses. I pushed her down