Over at her own desk, Sarah hangs up her cell phone and says loudly, “They’re condoms, as you know very well, Cassidy. Condoms, not candy. Now you know where to get them, since you’re so mature.”

Mrs. Upton inhales sharply. “Ex-cuse me?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Upton,” I lean forward to say, swiftly lifting the jar and setting it onto the floor, out of the girl’s line of sight. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a room change. You signed on to be a chaperone, and if I move you, Mallory and Bridget won’t have an adult of legal age to look after them. I can, of course, move Cassidy if she wants—”

“That’d be fine,” Cassidy says eagerly.

“No,” Mrs. Upton says. “Cassidy, don’t be silly, you can’t live away from me.”

“Why?” Cassidy demands bluntly. “That’s what I want.”

I’m not sure what to do. Maybe Cassidy really does need this room change, to get away from her overbearing mother. Most teenage girls don’t attend summer camp with their mothers sleeping in the next room. I feel a little sorry for Cassidy, despite her seeming like such a conniving little weasel.

“If I move you, you’ll still have roommates,” I warn her, reaching for my roster. “And an adult chaperone in the next room, just like you do now.” I can make the change, but I’m pretty sure Stephanie will have an embolism if I do. But the Rock Off will no doubt turn out the same, if Cassidy is as talented as everyone says . . .

“Fine,” Cassidy says. “I’ll live with anyone except my mom.”

I raise my eyebrows at this burst of teenage snarkiness, my compassion switching instantly to Mrs. Upton.

“Cassidy,” Mrs. Upton says, climbing to her feet, “now you’re being rude. You know you don’t mean that. Come on, we’ve bothered Miss . . .” She looks at me questioningly.

“Ms. Wells,” I say, with the emphasis on the “Ms.”

“. . . Miss Wells enough for one day. Let’s go.”

“Yes, I do mean that,” Cassidy protests. “It’s not fair. Mallory and Bridget don’t have to live with their mom—”

“Well, their mothers don’t care like I do,” Mrs. Upton says. “They didn’t sign up to do this.” She reaches down to grasp Cassidy by the arm, pulling her on the word “this.”

Although the gesture is abrupt, I can see that the woman has no intention of hurting Cassidy. She’s just grown frustrated with her daughter’s sulky behavior.

Still, Cassidy reacts as if her mother has stabbed her.

“Ow!” she cries, leaping to her feet and cradling her arm. Mrs. Upton recoils in alarm. “Did you see?” Cassidy asks Sarah and me, large tears glistening in her baby blues. Her acting skills are phenomenal. “Did you see what she did to me?”

“Zip it up, drama queen,” Sarah snarks from her desk. “People are trying to have a meeting in there.” She points at the door to Lisa’s office. “And yes, we both saw it. Your mother barely touched you.”

“But”—Cassidy swings her teary-eyed gaze at me—“but you saw it. She hit me.”

Mrs. Upton gasps. “Cassidy! I did nothing of the sort. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with her,” Sarah says. “Classic narcissistic personality disorder, brought on by a mother who’s constantly reinforced her conviction that she’s the most gifted and talented child who ever lived—”

“Sarah.” I close my roster. Cassidy is getting a room change over my dead body . . . er, poor choice of words. What I mean is, I’m not moving her to make her some other chaperone’s problem. “I’ve got this. You know something, Cassidy?” I look the girl straight in the eye. “You’re lucky you have a mom who cares about you so much. Some of us aren’t as fortunate. Now . . . go to your room.”

The tears in Cassidy’s blue eyes dry up instantly.

“We’ll see what Tania has to say about all this,” she says coldly. “Won’t we?”

“Oh, we certainly will,” I reply, just as coldly. Is this girl kidding me? Who does she think she is?

“Come on, Cass,” Mrs. Upton says, grabbing her daughter’s hand and pulling her out into the hallway. “Let’s go upstairs and see what Mallory and Bridget are doing.”

“I hate them,” I hear Cassidy whine.

“Don’t forget, part of your Tania Trace Rock Camp experience,” I call after them, “is getting to know new people and new cultures at New York College in New York City.” This is the line we’re supposed to say to students and parents who come into our office complaining about their roommates, usually because they’re of a race, religion, or sexual orientation not their own. “Keep an open mind and open heart!”

“Exactly,” Cassidy’s mother says. I hear her bang on the button for the elevators. “Did you hear what the lady said? We don’t hate anyone . . .”

“I hate you,” Cassidy assures her, making sure her voice is loud enough for me to hear. “And I hate that fat lady in there.”

Before I have a chance to properly digest this, the door to Lisa’s office is thrown open and Detective Canavan from the Sixth Precinct steps out of it. He’s spent so much time in Fischer Hall over the past year due to all the deaths in the building, I’m not surprised that he feels as if he works here. But that doesn’t give him the right to yell.

“What the hell,” he asks, his gray mustache bristling, “is going on out here? It sounds like an episode of that damned show my daughter is always watching, the one about Bruce Jenner’s daughters.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the Kardashians.

“They’re his stepdaughters,” I say. “And it was only girl talk.”

“Huh,” the detective says, but looks as if he doesn’t believe it. He plucks an unlit cigar from the pocket of his khaki trousers and jams it into one side of his mouth. “So what’s this I hear about you being engaged?”

I glare at Sarah, but she only shakes her head vigorously and mouths, It wasn’t me. “I’m not engaged.” I hold up my left hand. “See? No ring.”