Size 12 and Ready to Rock
Page 37

He slaps a black binder into my hand.
“Why’d you let them back there?” I whisper to him, nodding at Jared and the film crew, who are crowded behind him, sitting on the edge of the air-conditioning unit, the windowsill, and the table where mail is usually sorted, having an earnest conversation about the merits of zombie films over slasher pics. “You know no one’s allowed back there but you guys.”
“Dude in the suit told me to,” Gavin whispers back, nodding at Dr. Jessup. I wonder briefly how the vice president would feel to hear that he’s been referred as the “dude in the suit.” Dr. Jessup tries hard to keep up with what he thinks is the Millennial generation’s lingo. I once heard him refer to a movie he’d seen directed by Woody Allen as “baller.” “They want to film the reactions of the girls as they check in. Their screams of excitement and joy or whatever as they get the keys to their rooms in fabulous New York City.”
He’s trying to sound sarcastic, but I can see that he’s put on a pair of clean khakis—long ones, not shorts—and a white button-down shirt that someone—I’m guessing his girlfriend, Jamie—has taken the trouble to iron. His hair is wet around the edges, indicating that he showered before coming down for work. Normally he rolls out of bed and comes to the desk eating a bowl of Fruit Loops in his pajamas. The distinctly pungent odor of Axe body spray lies heavy in the air.
What is going on? Gavin—who, out of all my student employees, tries hardest to act like he doesn’t care—is actually trying to look good for a goofy docu-reality series being filmed for the Cartwright Records Television network? I’m struck by a sudden urge to cry at how cute this is. Maybe my continuous-cycle birth control pills aren’t entirely suppressing my hormones after all.
“Why are you back there?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at Brad, since he’s leaning on the edge of the intercom system next to Gavin. I need to distract myself before I begin weeping in front of both of them.
Brad looks startled, which is his normal expression.
“It’s check-in,” he says. “I thought we all had to be here.”
At least Brad hasn’t showered or dressed up. But then, Brad doesn’t need to. With a body like a Dolce & Gabbana cologne model from his strict workout routine—his fallback plan, if his physical therapy major doesn’t pan out—he’d look good wearing a paper bag. This has nothing to do with why Sarah and I hired him, of course.
“Yeah,” I say, flipping open the binder. It’s divided into sections, first alphabetically by resident, then by floor. “Well, thanks for coming.” I wrinkle my nose. “What’s that smell?” I don’t mean the body spray. This is, if possible, stronger and more cloying.
“Oh,” Gavin says. “That’d be the flowers. They’re for Tania. Her fans know this is where her rock camp is being held and Tweeted about it. They’ve been coming in and leaving ’em all morning, hoping they’re going to see her,” Gavin goes on. “But Pete’s been making them drop them off and get out, telling them they can’t hang around.”
I look where he’s pointed and realize that lining the windowsill behind the Jordan Loves Tania film crew are enough bouquets of roses to make a florist jealous. Some of them have balloons attached.
I groan. This is the last thing we need.
“They’ve been leaving other stuff too,” Brad says excitedly, holding up a pink box. “Look! Ice-cream cake.” His tone turns reverential. “It’s Carvel.”
“Ew,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “You are not eating that.”
“Of course not,” Brad says, looking hurt. “It’s for Ms. Trace. Besides, I would never put all that processed sugar and flour into my body.”
“I would,” Gavin declares. “I’m just waiting for Jamie to bring me a spoon from the caf. She’s been too busy dealing with Davinia’s meltdown—”
“No,” I say firmly. “What is wrong with you? Didn’t your mother tell you not to accept candy from strangers? Throw that away right now before it melts and makes everything all sticky.”
“No one’s throwing anything away,” Jared says, in a warning voice, suddenly paying attention to our conversation. “After Tania’s seen everything that’s been dropped off to her by her fans, we’ll gather it all up and take it over to one of the hospitals and donate it to the children’s wing. That’s what she likes us to do.”
“Wait,” I say, noticing for the first time how he’s occupying his time while waiting for filming to begin, besides his horror film discussion. “What are you doing?”
“Well, we obviously don’t donate the perishable items,” Jared says with his mouth full. “We eat those ourselves. Want one?” He tilts a pink-and-white polka-dotted bakery box toward me. “They’re good. From Pattycakes, that vegan bakery over on Bleecker Street.”
“Oh, Pattycakes?” Muffy Fowler suddenly throws herself into the conversation, leaning against the desk beside me. “How sweet. You know Tania and Jordan used Pattycakes to make their wedding cake.”
“That’s why no one but Jared will eat those nasty things,” Marcos, the sound guy, says with a snort. He’s got his hand in a bag of vegan pita chips that has a note—“For Tania, Divalicious”—taped to it. “Who wants a cupcake made with no eggs, dairy, or processed sugar?”
“I’ll have you know,” Jared says, taking another bite from the heavily frosted cupcake in his hand, “that these cupcakes won Cupcake Wars on Food Network.”
“They won Cupcake Wars?” Now Stephanie is interested. “Give me one.”
“Oh, I’d like to try one too, please,” Simon says, bellying up to the desk.
I can’t tell if it’s Stephanie that Simon is interested in or the cupcakes—they do look good, piled high with vanilla frosting and finished with a purple candied flower on top. But either way, I don’t like how this is going, especially given the fact that no one seems to remember there are fifty campers and their mothers waiting on the sidewalk outside and I’m working on a Saturday, hours for which I’m not paid overtime or compensated with time off.
“Can we at least,” I say, “start check-in, since we’re all here?”