“Itoldhermymom’sagynecologist, okay?” Gavin is blushing now. “Look, I know it’s stupid, but… chicks’ll tell you anything if they think your mom’s a gynecologist. I don’t know why.”

I stare at him. It’s a shame, actually, that Gavin is a film major, because he would be a true asset to our nation in any of its security agencies.

I can’t think of anything to say except “Go on.”

“So, anyway, I’m thinking she’s gonna tell me… you know, that she’s got VD, or whatever. That’s what I’m hoping it’s gonna be, anyway, because that means, you know, that she likes to get nasty—”

I sigh. “Oh, Gavin,” I say, looking toward the ceiling. “And I thought your love for me was pure, like freshly driven snow.”

“Whatevs.” Gavin’s blush returns, but this time he rocks a little on his Nikes. “A man’s got needs. And, you know, she’s kinda… well, Jamie, she’s kinda hot. You know. In a… well… like you. Sorta.”

“Okay,” I say. “Now I’m gonna be sick. Gavin, I swear, if you dragged me out of that meeting to hit on me—”

“I didn’t!” Gavin looks too indignant to be lying. “Heather! Come on!”

“Then what is this about, Gavin?” I demand.

“What she told me!” he says, thrusting out his goateed chin.

“Well?” I fold my arms across my chest. “What was it?”

“That she knows why he got shot,” Gavin says. “Your boss, I mean. And she was real upset about it.”

Startled, I drop my arms. “What?Why? ”

“I don’t know why,” Gavin says. “I’m just telling you what she said. She said it was all her fault. That if it weren’t for her, Dr. Whatever His Name Was would still be alive today.”

9

June brought out the boys in linen shirts

Like July and August, talk about jerks

September’s man had the softest hands

October’s took me to foreign lands

“Calendar Boys”

Written by Heather Wells

I’m standing in the middle of the second floor hallway, staring at Gavin McGoren with my mouth hanging open. To our right, the elevator doors slide open, and two giggling freshman girls stagger out of the car and toward the Fischer Hall library doors, too caught up in their hysterics and enormous Jamba Juices to see the Closed for Meeting—Do Not Disturb sign posted there.

“Dudes,” Gavin says to them.

They quit giggling for a second, and turn to look at him.

“Don’t go in there,” he says, and points at the sign. “Closed. See?”

The girls look at the sign. Then they look at Gavin. Then they look at one another, burst into more giggles, and bolt for the emergency stairwell, laughing maniacally.

Gavin looks back at me. I guess he can tell by my expression that I’m not exactly buying what he’s selling yet, since he goes, “I swear to God, Heather, I’m not playing. That’s what she said. And you can take that to the bank.”

“She said it was her fault Owen was dead?” I shake my head. “Gavin, that doesn’t even make any sense.”

“I know,” Gavin says, with a shrug. “But that’s what she said. And that’s why I knew I had to come find you. Because I figured that was like—you know. A clue. Right?”

I’m still shaking my head. “I don’t know what it is. Did she say anything else?”

“Naw. She started crying so hard after that, I couldn’t get anything more out of her. She said she wanted to go home. She’s from Westchester, you know, so it’s not like she can’t take off if she wants to. She said she was going to call her mother to pick her up at the train station. So I figured I better come get you. You know, so you could try to keep her here before she attempts to flee the, uh, premises. This was like five minutes ago so if you hurry you can probably still catch her.”

Surprised by this show of common sense on Gavin’s part, I nod. “Okay. Good. Well, thanks, Gavin. I’ll go up and see her now. Maybe I can get her calmed down enough to talk to the police before she—”

I’m interrupted, however, by a bloodcurdling scream. It appears to have come from downstairs.

I don’t wait for any of my superiors in the library before I tear open the doors to the emergency stairwell and barrel after the two freshmen girls to the first floor, taking the steps three at a time, Gavin at my heels.

I find both girls standing in the lobby, apparently unharmed. They’re huddled with a number of other open mouthed residents, all staring in astonishment as several of New York’s Finest are escorting a handcuffed Sebastian Blumenthal past the reception and security desks, a grim-faced Detective Canavan following behind, holding his hands palms out and saying, “Okay, kids, show’s over. Get back to your rooms. Move along, now.”

No one is moving along, though. How can they, when the show is clearly so very far from over?

“Get a good look!” Sebastian is shouting, as he is dragged past us. He is not exactly coming along willingly, although, lanky as he is, he doesn’t seem to be posing much of a problem for the burly officers. “This is your tax money in action! Well, okay, maybe not your tax money, because you’re all students, and out-of-state. But this is what your tax money will be paying for someday: the persecution of individuals who were only hoping to make a difference in the lives of the poor and oppressed. I guess it doesn’t matter that I’m completely innocent of the charges being leveled against me. I guess it doesn’t matter that all I’m trying to do is improve the working conditions of your teaching instructors, who are treated like virtual slaves—”

“What”—Dr. Jessup, his silk scarf now dangling around his neck in a manner not unlike an RAF fighter pilot, steps off the elevator, followed by Drs. Flynn, Kilgore, and as many of the rest of the housing staff as the two-thousand-pound weight capacity the car would allow—“is going on down here?”

The source of the scream we’d all heard earlier soon becomes apparent when Sarah, peeking out from behind Detective Canavan, sees me in the crowd.

“HEATHER!” she shrieks, and staggers toward me, throwing herself into my arms, her face a slick mask of tears, her hair an even unholier mess than usual. “They’ve arrested Sebastian! For m-murder! You’ve g-got to stop them! He didn’t do it! He can’t have done it! He doesn’t believe in murder! He’s a v-vegetarian!”