“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” Tad says. “But you haven’t been returning any of my messages.”
“Yeah,” I say, noticing, as my dad sweeps out, that Cooper, though he and Tom have been joined by Tom’s boyfriend Steve, and seem to be involved in some kind of conversation—no doubt about college basketball—has given up subtlety, and now is openly staring at me. “I’ve been swamped. The strike, and everything.”
“Well, things’ll get better. And I hear Tom’s been made interim hall director. So that’s good news.”
“Yeah,” I say. Did Cooper tell my dad he had to call first before coming over? And if so, why? Why couldn’t he just drop by? What was Cooper so afraid of my dad walking in on, anyway?
“Heather, are you okay?” Tad wants to know.
I shake myself. What am I doing? What’s wrong with me? The men in my life aren’t conspiring against me.
No one is conspiring against me. I have got to calm down. I have got to get a grip.
“Fine,” I say, smiling up at Tad. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I’ve been so wacky lately. I’ve just… you know.”
Tad nods understandingly. In the reflective blue light from the pool, his blond hair has a slightly green tinge.
“You’ve been through a lot this week,” he says. “I get it. Believe me. What happened to Owen… ”
“I know,” I say, slipping my hand in his.
“… and then for it to turn out to have been a student. I mean, I still can’t believe it.”
I don’t drop his hand. But I think about it. Especially when I almost catch Cooper looking over this way again. I think.
“Sebastian didn’t do it, Tad,” I say, as nicely as I can.
“Well, of course he did it, Heather,” Tad says. “They found the murder weapon in his purse.”
“Murse,” I correct him. “And just because they found the murder weapon on him doesn’t mean he did it.”
“Well,” Tad says. “No offense, but it’s sort of illogical to suppose it was someone else. The Blumenthal kid had the motive, and the means, and they found the weapon on him, so—”
“Yes,” I say. Now I really do drop his hand. “But it’s still possible he didn’t do it. I mean, you have to admit that much.”
“Well, sure,” Tad says. “Anything’s possible. But, statistically speaking, it’s not very probable— ”
“Sebastian Blumenthal,” I say, “could very well have been framed. Did you ever think of that?”
Tad blinks down at me, his gorgeous blue eyes hidden behind the thick lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses. I used to think this was a good thing. You know, that no one could see how beautiful his eyes were but me.
But now I wonder if it’s such a good thing after all. Because what if those lenses have actually been keeping me from seeing something I should have seen before? Something vital about Tad? Not how hot he is, either, but that, nice as he is and all, Tad is a little bit of a tool?
“Heather,” he says. “That makes no sense whatsoever. Who would do something like that? Who would go to all that trouble?”
“Um,” I say. “How about the real killer? Just for instance? Do you not watch Law & Order, Tad? Have you never even seen an episode of Murder, She Wrote?” Frustrated, I brush a stray strand of hair from my eyes. It’s almost as if I’m brushing away a veil that’s been there for months, and seeing Tad clearly for the first time. “Tad, you have a Scooby Doo lunch box in your office. Have you ever even watched Scooby Doo?”
“A student gave that to me,” Tad says. “What’s the matter with you, Heather? You know I don’t believe in television. Why are you acting this way?”
“How can you not believe in television?” I demand. “How can you not believe in something that never did anyone any harm? Sure, in large doses television may be bad for you. But so is anything. Chocolate, for instance. Sex, even!”
Tad is still blinking down at me. “Heather,” he says. “I think maybe you need to go home and lie down and have some herbal tea or something. Because you seem a little overwrought.”
I know he’s right. He’s one hundred percent right. Also, I’m not being fair.
But I can’t stop myself. It’s like a piece of me snapped up there behind that podium, and now something is pouring out of me, a tidal wave of some vital part of me, and I can’t stop it.
Except that I’m not sure I want to. I’m not even sure it’s such a bad thing.
“What did you want to ask me, Tad?” I hear myself demand.
He looks down at me in total confusion. “What? When?”
“The other day,” I say. “You said you had something you wanted to ask me, when the timing was right. What was it?”
Tad blushes. At least, I think so. It’s hard to tell in the light from the pool. Basically, he just looks green.
“You think the timing is right now?” he asks. “Because I hardly—”
“Oh, just ask,” I snarl. I seriously don’t know what’s come over me. It’s like I’ve turned into Sarah all of a sudden. Pre-makeover.
Tad looks too scared to do anything but what I say.
“Okay,” he all but whimpers. “It’s just that a bunch of us from the math department are going to spend the summer following the Appalachian Trail—you know, hiking by day and camping out at night—and I was just wondering if, you know, you’d be interested in coming along. I know you’re not much of an outdoorsy girl, and of course you have work, but I thought if you could get a leave, you might want to come. It should be a lot of fun. We plan on living off the land, getting away from it all, no cell phones, no iPods… it should be totally enriching. What… what do you think?”
For a minute, I can only stare up at him.
Then, slowly, I realize that whatever it is inside of me that’s broken seems to have righted itself.
I feel whole again.
I also feel like laughing. A lot.
But I know this would hardly be appropriate under the circumstances—the circumstances being both the refreshment period after Dr. Veatch’s memorial service, and the fact that my boyfriend’s just asked me, in all seriousness, to spend the summer with him, hiking the Appalachian Trail.