a treat as he seems to feel it is.
It’s odd to see the maintenance staff out of uniform. I barely recognize Carl, the chief engineer, in his leather jacket and jeans (and multiple gold neck chains). Head housekeeper Julio and his nephew Manuel are almost unrecognizable in sports coats and ties. Apparently they went home to change before coming back.
And Pete, out of his security uniform, looks like any other father of five… harried, rumpled, and anxious about what the kids are up to back home. His cell phone is glued to his ear, and he’s saying, “No, you have to take them out of the can first. You can’t microwave SpaghettiOs still in the can. No, you can’t. No, you—See? What did I tell you? Why don’t you listen to Daddy?”
“This,” I say, coming up to Magda, who is resplendent as usual in tight white jeans and a gold lamé sweater (the school colors), “sucks.”
But there are bright spots of color in each of Magda’s cheeks… and not the painted-on kind, either.
“I’m seeing so many more of my little movie stars, though,” she says excitedly, “than come in during the day!”
It’s true that the dinner hour is the most highly attended meal of the day at Fischer Hall. And it looks as if the president’s decision to set an example, by boldly taking a tray to the hot food line and choosing the turkey with gravy, has had an impact: the residents are trickling in, getting over their skittishness about eating in Death Dorm.
Or maybe they just want to see the president’s expression when he takes a bite of the café’s (in) famous potatoes au gratin.
Tom sidles up to me, looking grim-faced. A second later, I notice why. Gillian Kilgore is following him, looking unnaturally perky.
“See, wasn’t this a good idea?” she asks, looking at everyone milling around the tray cart, trying to grab forks and knives. “This shows that you all have some real bonding in the workplace. Now the healing can begin.”
“Apparently nobody told her attendance is mandatory,” Tom whispers to me as he slips into line behind me.
“Are you kidding me?” I whisper back. “This had to have been all her idea. You think the president came up with this one on his own?”
Tom glances over his shoulder back at Dr. Kilgore. She’s at the salad bar, checking out her lettuce options (iceberg and… iceberg). “Evil,” Tom says, with a shudder.
We’re joined, a second later, by a panting Sarah. “Thanks for telling me,” she says sarcastically to Tom, as she slides her empty tray next to his.
“Sarah,” Tom says, “this is just for full-time staff, not students.”
“Oh, right,” Sarah says. “Because we’re second-class citizens? We don’t get to share in the therapeutic benefits of bonding together over shared pain? Was that Kilgore’s idea? Excluding the student workers? God, that is so typical of a Freudian—”
“Shut up,” Tom says, “and eat.”
We find a table at what we consider a safe distance from the president’s and start to sit down, but President Allington catches us.
“Over here,” he says, waving to Tom. “Come sit over here by us, Scott.”
“Tom,” Tom corrects him nervously. “It’s, um, Tom Snelling, sir.”
“Right, right,” the president says, and beside him, Dr. Jessup—who clearly felt it important to show support for Dr. Allington’s plan and was attending both the dinner and game with the Fischer Hall staff—points out, “Tom’s the director of Fischer Hall, Phillip.”
But it’s futile. President Allington isn’t listening.
“And you’re Mary, right?” he says to me.
“Heather,” I say, wishing there was a hole nearby I could crawl into. “Remember me? From that time in the penthouse, when you used to live here in Fischer Hall?”
His eyes glaze over. President Allington doesn’t like being reminded of that day, nor does his wife, who rarely, if ever, comes into the city from their summer home in the Hamptons anymore because of it.
“Right, right,” President Allington says, as Dr. Kilgore joins us with her tray, apparently not noticing she is being followed by an angry-faced Sarah. “Well, I think we all know each other—”
“Excuse us, President Allington?”
Five cheerleaders are lined up in front of our table, all staring at the president.
“Uh,” he says, looking anxiously at Dr. Kilgore, as if for assistance. Then, remembering he’s supposed to have a reputation for being accessible to the students, Dr. Allington attempts a smile and says, “Hello, girls. What can I do for you?”
Beside the president, Coach Andrews heaves a sigh and lays down his fork.
“Look, girls,” he says to them slowly, clearly continuing a conversation that had started elsewhere, “we already discussed this. And the answer is—”
“We aren’t talking to you,” Cheryl Haebig says, a slight flush rising on her cheeks. Still, she holds her ground. “We’re talking to President Allington.”
The president glances from the girls to the coach and back again.
“What’s this all about, Steve?” he wants to know.
“They want to retire Lindsay’s cheerleading sweater,” Coach Andrews says, beneath his breath.
“They want to what?” President Allington looks confused.
“Let me handle this,” Coach Andrews says. To the girls in front of the table, he says, “Ladies, I feel as bad as all of you do about Lindsay. Really, I do. But the thing is, I think a formal memorial service, with input from Lindsay’s family—”
“Her family’s all here tonight,” Megan McGarretty—Room 1410—informs him tersely. For such a tiny thing, she looks pretty intimidating, with her arms folded across the big letter P on her chest, and one hip jutting out like a warning. “And they don’t want a memorial service. They’re expecting somebody to say something tonight at the game.”
“Oh.” President Allington’s eyes widen. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate.”
“You can’t just pretend like it didn’t happen,” Hailey Nichols—Room 1714—declares.
“Yeah,” Cheryl Haebig says, her luminous brown eyes swimming with tears. “’Cause we won’t let Lindsay be forgotten. She was as much a part of your team as any of the boys.”
“I believe we all recognize that,” Dr. Kilgore says, trying to come to the president’s rescue. “But—”
“If any of the boys on the team died,” Tiffany Parmenter—Megan’s roommate—interrupts, “you’d retire his number. You’d hang his jersey from the rafters, along with the championship banners.”
“Er.” Dr. Kilgore appears flummoxed by this. “That is certainly true, girls. But basketball players are athletes, and—”
“Are you saying cheerleaders aren’t athletes, Dr. Kilgore?” Sarah’s voice is icy.
“C-certainly not,” Dr. Kilgore stutters. “Only that—”
“So why can’t you retire Lindsay’s sweater?” Hailey wants to know, her blond ponytail swinging in emphasis of her words. “Why can’t you?”
I glance at Kimberly Watkins to see if she’s going to chime in, but she remains uncharacteristically silent. All five girls are in their cheerleading uniforms, white sweaters with gold letter P ’s on the fronts, and very short, pleated gold and white skirts. They have on flesh-colored hose beneath their skirts, and white footies with fuzzy gold balls on the back of them. Their white sneakers are by Reebok and their hair color almost unanimously by Sun-In. Except Kimberly’s, which is dark as midnight.
“Look.” Coach Andrews looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes. “It’s not the jerseys themselves we retire when a player dies. It’s the player’s number. And Lindsay didn’t have a number. We can’t retire an article of clothing.”
“Why not?”
All eyes turn toward Manuel, who, from the table he’s sharing with his uncle and various other members of the custodial staff, blinks back.
“Why not?” he asks again, as his uncle Julio, beside him, looks mortified with embarrassment.
I glance around the table and happen to see Magda at the far end of it, watching the cheerleaders with a
