Random Acts of Hope by Julia Kent Page A

That date rapes are harder to get over because you feel so betrayed.”
    Anger tightened my throat. “I hardly call being gang raped by three men ‘lucky.’” She’d poured the story out to m e a few months into la s t year during one of those late-night chats where you find out just how authentic the other person is. Dump your life story out like a peddl e r hawking his wares and see, in the morning, whether the merchandise is still any good.
    Maggie and I had become fast friends. When you find someone who can appreciate you for who you are and not judge you for what’s been done to you, keep them. Male, female, young, old, Republic a n, Democratic, Libertarian or Bre a tharian. They’re rare.
    A soft tap on the door made us jump. Fuck. Had a student overheard?
    Maggie took a shaky breath and hel d up one finger. “Come in,” she called out.
    I cocked an eyebrow and she closed her eyes, nodding. Okay, then.
    Jordan, a third-floor resident assistant and part of the new crop of R A s, bounced into the room. Her hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense pony tail and she wore a Minecraft t-shirt.
    “Someone puked in the washing machine on our floor,” she said with narrowed eyes the color of dark mulch. Her speech was touched by the presence of an orthodontic appliance. She was twenty going o n twelve, so tiny but mighty.
    “Report it to custodial services,” I said with a lame smile and a sigh.
    “They said they’re too busy over in Hedelman with some giant party last night that included S illy S tring and a punctured keg.”
    “How did someone get a keg into an undergrad dorm?” I asked.
    “That’s the engineering wing,” Maggie reminded me. “Those freaks can figure anything out. I’m surprised there aren’t greased baby pigs on the roof.”
    “Don’t give them ideas.” Jordan giggled. She quickly went back to serious. “Should we review the security tapes to see who did it?”
    Jordan was a rule follower. An enforcer. She took her job so seriously I was starting to get complaints from her residents. Nothing like being written up at 10:01 p.m. for kissing your boyfriend as he left at dorm curfew to fuel anger at the RA.
    “Nah,” Maggie said. She fished around in her pocket and handed Jordan six quarters. “Just throw a little bleach in there and run the washer through a cycle. It’ll be fine.”
    Jordan’s eyes bugged out and she looked at me. “Is that allowed?”
    I stifled a laugh and shrugged. “It’s probably the easiest way to handle it.”
    “But people need to know that washing machines aren’t toilets!” she insisted, staring at the quarters in her hands like they were contraband.
    “I think most people do,” I said with quiet authority. “But the video camera won’t capture much in that corner of the floor, and we’d spend a lot of hours trying to figur e out something that can be handled simply.”
    “But—”
    “If it happens again, we’ll review tapes. F or now, let’s just deal with it in a low-key manner.”
    “Can I make flyers?” She perked up. “Put them on my floor telling people washing machines are not toilets?”
    “Not unless you want a bunch of boyfriends to take a dump in them to make a point,” Maggie muttered. I kicked her ankle and she yelped.
    Jordan glared at her, nostrils flaring, but then remembered who was boss. “Um, okay. So I just run the washing machine through and forget it happened?” She was huffy.
    “Of course not,” I said. Maggie bit her lips and suppressed a laugh. Time to turn this into a g ood c op/ b ad c op routine . “Write it up in your nightly rounds report and we’ll keep an eye on it. Good job noticing, though—I like that you’re on the ball.”
    Jordan beamed. “Thank you!” She left as quickly as she appeared, quarters jingling as she walked down the hallway.
    Maggie rolled her eyes. “Posters! Can you imagine what would end up in the washing machines? A few steaming shits from the boyfriends would be the least