–Me: No chef on campus.
–Nicholas: Campbell’s. For God’s sake, don’t try cooking for whoever it is.
Dick. I’m notthatbad.
–Me: Fine. Campbell’s it is.
–Emmett: Call and see if he needs any meds?
Well, well. Emmett must not know me as well as I thought if he thinks I’m doing this for a guy. On the other hand, he probably can’t believe I’m doing this for a girl, either.
–Me: Not answering, so I dunno.
–Noah: Texts are better.
–Griffin: You could’ve been blocked.
–Me: Shut up.
I shove my phone into my pocket and stop by a store on campus. They’re out of Campbell’s, so I have to pick a different brand I’ve never heard of—not that I’m an expert on canned goods—but it’s probably okay. The label claims it’s made with quality white meat and organic noodles.
With two cans and some crackers, I head to Howell Hall. The school says it’s named after one of the founding families, but if that’s the case, they should’ve done a better job of maintaining the structure. A thick layer of moss looks like wet, green slime on the dingy white walls—which could’ve used a fresh coat of paint twenty years ago. One corner is covered with soot. Maybe somebody tried to perform a public service and burn it down so the college would be forced to rebuild it.
I hang out at the main entrance, waiting for somebody to let me in. Once I’m inside, it shouldn’t be hard to find Aspen’s room. The dorm is only four stories, two for girls and two for guys.
A skinny Asian girl in a thin hoodie and jeans swipes her ID to get in. I try to sneak in with her, but she stops and turns around.
“Scan your own ID,” she says, looking up at me like I’m a serial killer.
I give her a charming smile that never fails to win people over.
She merely narrows her eyes.
“I’m a student here,” I begin, “but my friend isn’t answering my texts. I want to see if she’s okay.”
She looks me up and down, head to toe, studies my face and takes in my clothes. “You have a friend who lives here?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t believe you.” Her dark gaze rests on my Harry Winston watch.
“Don’t be a reverse snob.”
She puts a hand on her hip. “Who’s your friend?”
“Aspen Hughes.”
Her demeanor changes instantly, from skepticism to shock. “Wait. You’re Aspen’s friend? Like a friend-friend, or a friend?”
I laugh a little. “Just a friend.”
Vague disappointment settles over her. “I see. Well, that’s too bad. On the other hand, if you were a friend-friend, you would’ve known.”
“Known what?”
“That she’s sick. Come on.”
I step inside, letting the door close behind me. “What’s up with her? A cold?”
