Size 12 Is Not Fat

7

On Monday, Sarah and I let ourselves into Elizabeth’s room to pack up all her belongings.

This is because her parents are too distraught to do it themselves, and ask that the residence hall director’s office do it for them.

Which I can totally understand. I mean, the last thing you expect when you send your kid off to college is that three weeks later, you’re going to get a call informing you that your daughter is dead, and that you need to come to the city to pick up all her stuff.

Especially when your kid is as straitlaced as Elizabeth seemed to be… at least, judging from her things, which Sarah inventoried (so that later, if the Kelloggs noticed something missing, they couldn’t accuse us of having stolen it, something Dr. Jessup said had unfortunately happened before in cases of students’ deaths), while I packed. I mean, the girl had seven Izods. Seven! She didn’t even own a black bra. Her panties were all white cotton Hanes Her Way.

I am sorry, but girls who wear Hanes Her Way do not elevator surf.

Except that I am clearly in the minority in this belief. Sarah, as she records each item I pull from Elizabeth’s dresser, pontificates on the finer points of schizophrenia, the disease she’s currently studying in her psych class. Symptoms of schizophrenia don’t generally show up in its sufferers until they are the age Elizabeth was at her death, Sarah informs me. She goes on to say it’s probable that that’s what prompted Elizabeth’s uncharacteristic daring the night of her death. The voices she heard in her head, I mean.

Sarah could have a point. It certainly wasn’t Elizabeth’s alleged boyfriend, as Cooper had suggested. I know, because first thing Monday morning—before I even grabbed a bagel and coffee from the café—I checked the sign-in logs from Friday night.

But there’s nothing there. Elizabeth hadn’t signed anyone in.

While Sarah and I spend the entire day packing Elizabeth’s things—never encountering her roommate, who appears to spend every waking hour in class—Rachel is busy arranging the campus memorial service for the deceased, as well as getting the bursar’s office to refund Elizabeth’s tuition and housing fees for the year.

Not that the Kelloggs seem to appreciate it. At the me morial service in the student chapel later on that week (which I don’t attend, since Rachel says she wants an adult presence in the office while she’s out, in case a student needs counseling, or something—the residence hall staff is very concerned about how Elizabeth’s death might affect the rest of the building’s population, although so far they’ve shown no sign of being traumatized), Mrs. Kellogg assures all present, in strident tones, that the college isn’t going to get away with causing her daughter’s death, and that she herself isn’t going to rest until the parties responsible are punished (at least according to Pete, who pulled a double and was guarding the chapel doors at the time).

Mrs. Kellogg refuses to believe that any sort of reckless behavior on Elizabeth’s part might have brought about her own death, and insists that when her daughter’s blood work is returned in two weeks, we’ll see that she’s right: Elizabeth never drank, and certainly never did drugs, and so was not hanging out with a bunch of trippy elevator surfers the night of her death.

No, according to Mrs. Kellogg, Elizabeth was pushed down that elevator shaft—and no one’s going to tell her otherwise.

Mr. and Mrs. Kellogg weren’t the only ones going through a hard time in the aftermath of their daughter’s death, however. After seeing what Rachel went through that week, I started to understand what Dr. Jessup had meant. About the flowers, I mean. Rachel totally deserved some.

Really, what she deserves is a raise.

But, knowing the college’s general stinginess—there’s been a hiring freeze since the nineties, which is lifted only for emergency appointments, like my replacing Justine—I doubt a raise is forthcoming.

So on Thursday, the day after the memorial service, I slip out to the deli around the corner, and instead of buying my self a pack of Starburst, an afternoon pick-me-up latte, and a lottery ticket, as is my daily ritual, pick up instead their best bouquet of roses, which I then put in a vase on Rachel’s desk.

It’s actually scary how excited she gets when she walks in from whatever meeting she’s been attending, and finds them.

“For me?” she asks, tears—I’m not kidding—practically springing from her eyes.

“Well,” I say. “Yes. I feel bad about all you’ve been going through—”

The tears dry up pretty quick after that.

“Oh, they’re from you,” she says, in a different voice.

“Um,” I say. “Yeah.”

I guess maybe Rachel thought the flowers were from a guy, or something. Maybe she met one recently at the gym. Though if she had, I’m sure Sarah and I would have heard about it. Rachel’s way serious about it—finding a guy to settle down with, I mean. She fully stays on top of her weekly manicure and pedicure appointments, and she gets her roots done twice a month (she’s a brunette, so she says her gray really shows). And of course she exercises like a demon, either at the college gym, or by running around Washington Square Park. I guess four times around the park is a mile or something. Rachel can go around like twelve times in half an hour.

I have pointed out that she can get the same health benefits from walking around the park that she can from running around it, while avoiding shin splints and knee problems in later life. But every time I mention this, she just looks at me.

“It’s been hard on all of us, Heather” is what Rachel says now, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “It hasn’t been easy for you, either. Don’t deny it.”

She’s right, but not for the reasons she thinks. She thinks it’s been hard on me because I’ve had to do a lot of the grunt work—you know, begging for boxes from Maintenance to put Elizabeth’s stuff in, then packing them, then dragging them to Mail Services to ship them, not to mention rescheduling all of Rachel’s judicial hearings, dealing with the whiny student workers (who insist they should get bereavement days off from doing the mail, even though none of them actually knew the deceased—Justine would have given them time off, they claim).

But to tell the truth, none of that had been as hard as admitting to myself that Fischer Hall, which I’d come to think of, since I’d starting working there, as one of the safest places in the world, is actually… not.

Oh, not that I have any proof that Elizabeth did get pushed, the way Mrs. Kellogg thinks. But the fact that she’d died at all… that part has me fully wigging. The students who go to New York College are pretty spoiled, for the most part. They have no idea how good they have it, these kids… loving parents, a stable source of income, nothing to worry about except passing midterms and snagging a ride home for Thanksgiving break.

I myself haven’t been as carefree as they are since… well, since the ninth grade.

And the fact that one of them did something so incredibly stupid as jump on top of an elevator and try to ride it—or worse, jump from the top of one car to another—and that someone else—someone in this building—was there at the time, and witnessed it—saw Elizabeth slip and fall to her death, and yet hadn’t come forward…

That’s what was really freaking me out.

Of course, Cooper is probably right. Probably, whoever was with Elizabeth at the time of her death doesn’t want to come forward because he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble.

And I suppose it’s even possible Sarah’s right, and Eliza beth could have been suffering from the early stages of schizophrenia, or even a clinical depression, brought out by a hormone imbalance, or something, and that’s what made her do it.

But we’re never going to know. That’s the thing. We’re never going to know.

And that just isn’t right.

But it doesn’t seem to bother anybody but Mrs. Kellogg.

And me.

That Friday—nearly a week after Elizabeth’s death—Sarah and I are sitting in the hall director’s office, ordering stuff from Office Supply. Not ceramic heaters to give away to our friends, but actual stuff we need, like pens and paper for the copy machine and stuff.

Well, okay,I’m doing the ordering. Sarah is lecturing me about how my weight gain probably represents a subconscious urge to make myself unattractive to the opposite sex, so that none of them can hurt me again the way Jordan hurt me.

I am refraining from pointing out to Sarah that I am not, in fact, fat. I have already told her, several times, that size 12 is the size of the average American woman, something Sarah should well know, since she is, in fact, a size 12, too.

But it’s pretty clear to me by now that Sarah just likes to talk to hear the sound of her own voice, so I let her go on, since she has no one else to talk to, Rachel being in the cafeteria attending a breakfast reception for the New York College basketball team, the Pansies.

Yes, that’s really their name. The Pansies. They used to be called the Cougars or something, but about twenty years ago a bunch of them got caught cheating, so the NCAA dropped them from Division I to Division III, and made them change their name.

As if being called the Pansies isn’t embarrassing enough, President Allington is so hot to win the Division III championship this year that he’s recruited the tallest players he can find. But since the good ones all went to Division I or II schools, he just got the leftovers, like the ones with the worst academic records in the country. Seriously. Sometimes the players write notes to me about things that are wrong with their rooms, in barely legible handwriting, with many spelling errors. Here’s an example:

“Deer Heather. Theirs something wrong with my toilet. It wont flosh and keeps making this sond. Pleaze help.”

Here’s another:

“To who it conserns: My bed is not long enuf. Can I have new bed. Thanx.”

I swear I am not making this stuff up.

Sarah and I don’t hear the scream, although later we hear that she apparently screamed the whole way down.

What we do hear are running footsteps in the hallway, and then one of the RAs, Jessica Brandtlinger, skids into the office.

“Heather!” Jessica cries. Her normally pale face has gone white as paper, and she is breathing hard. “It happened again. The elevator shaft. We heard a scream. You can see her legs through the crack between the floor and the car—”

I am up before she’s gotten half a sentence out.

“Call nine-one-one,” I yell to Sarah, on my way out. “Then find Rachel!”

I follow Jessica down the hall toward the guard desk and the stairs to the basement. Pete, I see, is not at his desk. We find him already in the basement, standing in front of the elevator bank, shouting into his walkie-talkie as Carl, one of the janitors, is trying to pry open the elevator doors with a crowbar.

“Yes, another one,” Pete is yelling into his walkie-talkie. “No, I’m not joking. Get an ambulance here fast!” Seeing us, he lowers the walkie-talkie, points at Jessica, and shouts, “You: Go back upstairs and call this car”—he slaps the door to the left-hand cab—“to the first floor and hold it there. Don’t let anyone on or off, and whatever you do, don’t let the doors close until the fire department gets here and turns it off. Heather, find the key.”

I curse myself for not grabbing it on my way downstairs. We keep a set of elevator keys behind the reception desk: an override key, like the ones the Allingtons were issued when they moved in, so they can bypass floors on their way to the penthouse; a key to the motor room for repairs; and a key that opens the doors from the outside.

“Got it!” I yell, and tear back up the stairs, right behind Jessica, who has run back up the stairs to call the elevator to the first floor and hold it there.

When I get to the reception desk, I tear open the door and rush through it, heading straight for the key cabinet, which is supposed to remain locked at all times—only the desk worker on duty is allowed to hold the key.

But with the building maintenance staff, and resident assistants constantly borrowing keys so they can make repairs, clean, or let locked-out students into their rooms, the key cabinet is rarely, if ever, locked, the way it’s supposed to be. I find the doors to it yawning wide open as I flash by Tina, the desk worker on duty.

“What’s going on?” Tina asks, nervously. “Is it true there’s another one? At the bottom of the elevator shaft?”

I ignore her. That’s because I’m concentrating. I’m concentrating because I have found the elevator override key, and the key to the motor room.

But the key to the elevator doors is gone.

And when I check the sign-out sheet hanging on the door to the key cabinet, there is no signature for it, or any indication it was ever checked out in the first place.

“Where’s the key?” I demand, swinging on Tina. “Who has the elevator door key?”

“I–I d-don’t know,” Tina stammers. “It wasn’t there when I came on duty. You can check my duty sheet!”

Another change to the way Justine had run things that I’d implemented upon being hired—besides the key sign-out sheet—was forcing the desk workers to keep a log of what happened during the shift. If someone borrowed a key—even if they signed it out—the desk worker was still supposed to record the fact on his or her duty sheet. And the first thing a desk worker was supposed to do upon arriving at the desk was jot down which keys were in and which were out.

“Then who has it?” I cry, grabbing the logbook and flipping to the previous desk worker’s duty sheet.

But while there are entries for every other key taken during the previous worker’s shift, there’s nothing about the elevator door key.

“I don’t know!” Tina’s voice is rising to dangerously hysterical levels. “I swear I didn’t give it out to anyone!”

I believe her. But that doesn’t help the situation.

I whirl around to run back downstairs and tell Carl to break down the doors, if he has to. But my way is blocked by President Allington who, along with some other administrative types, has come out of the cafeteria to see what all the commotion’s about.

“We’re trying to have an event in there, you know,” is what he snaps to me.

“Yeah?” I hear myself snapping back. “Well, we’re trying to save someone’s life out here, you know.”

I don’t stick around to hear what he has to say in reply to that. I’ve grabbed the first aid kit from the desk and am racing back down the stairs… only to encounter Pete, looking pale, making his way slowly back up them.

“I couldn’t find the key,” I say. “Someone’s got it. He’s going to have to force the doors open… ”

But Pete is shaking his head.

“He already did,” Pete says, taking my arm. “Come on back upstairs.”

“But I’ve got the kit,” I say, waving the red plastic case. “Is—”

“She’s gone,” Pete says. Now he’s pulling on me. “Come on. And don’t look. You don’t want to look.”

I believe him.

I let him steer me up the stairs. As we enter the lobby, I see that the president is still there, standing around with some basketball players and the same administrators in their gray suits. Beside them, Magda, who has emerged from behind her cash register to see what’s going on, makes a bright splash of color in her pink smock and fuchsia hot pants.

Magda takes one look at my expression, and her face crumples. “Oh no! Not another of my movie stars!”

Pete ignores her, goes to the phone by the security desk, and holding up a key chain, on which is attached a student ID card—and a little rubber replica of the cartoon character Ziggy—begins reading the information from the ID card to his superiors at the security office.

“Roberta Pace,” he reads tonelessly. “Fischer Hall resident. First year. ID number five five seven, three nine—”

I stand a little ways from both the security and the reception desks, feeling myself begin to shake. I don’t know the name. I don’t ask to see the photo on the ID. I don’t want to know if I knew the face.

It’s right then that Rachel rounds the corner from the ladies’ room.

“What’s going on?” she asks, her gaze going from my face to Pete’s to President Allington’s.

It’s Tina, behind the desk, who speaks.

“Another one fell off the top of the elevator,” she says, in a small voice. “She’s dead.”

Rachel’s face drains of all its color beneath her carefully applied MAC foundation.

But when she speaks a few seconds later, there is no tremor in her voice. “I assume the authorities have been notified? Good. Do we have an ID? Oh, thank you, Pete. Tina, beep Maintenance, and have them turn off all the elevators. Heather, can you call Dr. Jessup’s office, and let them know what’s going on? President Allington, I am so sorry about this. Please, go back to your breakfast… ”

Aware that I’m shaking and that my heart is beating a million times a minute, I slip back to my office to start making calls.

Only this time, instead of calling Dr. Jessup’s office first, I call Cooper.

“Cartwright Investigations,” he says, because I’ve called him on his office line, hoping he’d be there.

“It’s me,” I say. I keep my voice down, because Sarah is in Rachel’s office next door, calling each of the resident assistants on their cell phones and telling them what’s happened, then asking them to come back to their floors as soon as possible. “There’s been another one.”

“Another what?” Cooper asks. “And why are you whispering?”

“Another death by elevator,” I whisper.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Dead?”

I think about Pete’s face.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Jesus, Heather. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” I say, for the third and final time. “Listen… could you come over?”

“Come over? What for?”

The firemen from Ladder #9 come striding past our office door just then, in their helmets and coats. One of them is carrying an axe. Obviously, no one told New York’s bravest what the nature of the emergency was when they called.

“Downstairs,” I say to them, pointing to the stairs to the basement. “Another, um, elevator incident.”

The captain looks surprised, but nods and leads what has suddenly turned into a very grim procession past the reception desk and down the stairs.

To Cooper, I whisper, “I want to get to the bottom of what is going on over here, and I could use the help of a professional investigator, Cooper.”

“Whoa,” Cooper says. “Slow down there, slugger. Are the police there? Aren’t they professional investigators?”

“The police are just going to say the same thing about this one that they did about the last one,” I say. “That she was elevator surfing, and slipped.”

“Because that’s probably what happened, Heather.”

“No,” I say. “No, not this time. Definitely not this time.”

“Why? Is this latest one preppie too?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But that’s not funny.”

“I didn’t mean it to be funny. I just—”

“She liked Ziggy, Coop.” My voice cracks a little, but I don’t care.

“She liked what?”

“Ziggy. That cartoon character.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Because it’s like the uncoolest cartoon character ever. No one who likes Ziggy is going to elevator surf, Coop.No one.”

“Heather—”

“And that’s not all,” I whisper, as Sarah’s voice drifts from Rachel’s office, self-importantly intoning, “We need you to come back to the building as soon as possible. There’s been another death. I am not at liberty to reveal the details just now, but it’s imperative that you—”

“Someone took the key,” I tell Cooper.

“What key?” he wants to know.

“The key that opens the elevator doors.” I am losing it. I know I am. I am practically crying. But I struggle to keep my voice from shaking. “No one signed it out, Coop. You’re supposed to sign it out. But they didn’t. Which means whoever has it doesn’t want anyone to know. Which means whoever has it can open the elevator doors anytime they want… even if there’s no car there.”

“Heather.” Cooper says, in a voice I can’t, even in my agitated state, help finding incredibly soothing. And sexy. “This is something you need to tell the police. Right away.”

“Okay,” I say, in a small voice. In Rachel’s office, Sarah is going, “I don’t care if it’s your grandmother’s birthday, Alex. There’s been a death in the building. Which is more important to you: your grandmother’s birthday, or your job?”

“Go tell the police exactly what you told me,” Cooper’s soothing, sexy voice is saying in my ear. “And then go get a big cup of coffee with lots of milk and sugar in it and drink it all while it’s still hot.”

This last part surprises me. “Why?” I say.

“Because I have found in my line of work that sweet milky drinks are good for shock when there is no whiskey available. Okay?”

“Okay. Bye.”

I hang up, and then I call Dr. Jessup, and explain to his assistant—because she says Dr. Jessup is in a meeting—what’s happened. Upon hearing the news, his assistant, Jill, says, in an appropriately panicked voice, “Oh my God. I’ll let him know right away.”

I thank her and hang up. Then I stare at the phone.

Cooper is right. I need to tell the police about the key.

I tell Sarah I’ll be back in a minute, and leave the office. I walk out into the lobby—and find it a sea of confusion. Basketball players mingle with firemen. Administrators are on every available phone, including Pete’s and the one at the reception desk, doing damage control. Rachel is nodding her head as the fire chief tells her something.

I glance toward the front door of the building. The same police officer who’d been there the day Elizabeth died is standing there again, not letting any of the kids outside back into the building.

“You’ll get back in when I say you’ll get back in,” the cop is snarling at a skinhead with a lip ring who is going, “But I have to get to my room to get my project! If I don’t turn in my project by noon, I’ll get an F!”

“Excuse me,” I say to the cop. “Can you tell me who is in charge here?”

The cop glances at me, then jerks a thumb in Rachel’s direction.

“Near as I can tell, that one over there,” he says.

“No,” I say. “I mean, is there a detective, or—”

“Oh yeah.” The cop nods toward a tall, gray-haired man in a brown corduroy jacket and plaid tie who is leaning against the wall—and, though he probably doesn’t know it, getting glitter all down his back, since he’s brushing up against a poster urging students to attend an audition for Pippin that is heavy on the Elmer’s glued glitter. Except for an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth that he appears to be chewing on, he is doing absolutely nothing at all.

“Detective Canavan,” the cop says.

“Thanks,” I say to the cop, who is telling another resident, “I don’t care if you’re bleeding out the eyes. You’re not getting back into this building until I say so.”

I approach the detective with my heart in my throat. I’ve never spoken to a detective before. Well, except for when I was pressing grand larceny charges against my mom.

“Detective Canavan?” I ask.

I realize at once that my first impression—that he is doing nothing—was totally wrong. Detective Canavan isn’t doing nothing at all. He is staring fixedly at my boss’s legs, which look quite shapely beneath her pencil skirt.

He rips his gaze from Rachel’s legs and looks at me instead. He has a bristly gray mustache that actually looks quite good on him. Facial hair so rarely flatters.

“Yeah?” he says, in a smoke-roughened voice.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Heather Wells. I’m the assistant director here at Fischer Hall. And, um, I just want to tell someone—the elevator key is missing. It might not mean anything—keys go missing here all the time. But I just thought someone should know. Because it seems really weird to me, these girls dying from elevator surfing. Because, you know, girls just don’t. Elevator surf. In my experience.”

Detective Canavan, who has listened attentively to my whole speech, waits until my voice peters out before taking the cigar from his mouth and pointing it at me.

“‘Sugar Rush,’ right?” he says.

I am so surprised, my jaw becomes unhinged. I finally manage to stammer, “Um, yes.”

“Thought so.” The cigar goes back between his teeth. “My kid had a poster of you up on the door to her bedroom. Had to look at you in that damned miniskirt every time I went to tell her to turn down her damned stereo.”

Since there is absolutely no reply I can make to this statement, I remain silent.

“What the hell are you doing,” Detective Canavan asks, “working here?”

“It’s a long story,” I say, really hoping he’s not going to make me tell it.

He doesn’t.

“As my daughter would say,” Detective Canavan says, “back when she was your biggest fan,Whatever. Now what’s this about a missing key?”

I explain it to him again. I also mention, in passing, the part about Elizabeth being a preppie, and Roberta liking Ziggy, and how both of these facts made them highly unlikely candidates for elevator surfing. But mostly I dwell on the missing key.

“Lemme get this straight,” Detective Canavan says, when I’m done. “You don’t think these girls—who were both, if I understand it, freshmen, new to the city, and full of what my daughter, the French major, calls thejoie de vivre — were going for joyrides on top of your building’s elevator cars at all. You think someone is going around, opening the elevator doors when there’s no car there, and pushing these girls down the shaft to their deaths. Have I got that right?”

Hearing it put like that, I realize how stupid my theory sounds. More than stupid. Idiotic, even.

Except… except Ziggy!

“Let’s just say you’re right,” Detective Canavan says. “How did whoever is doing this get the elevator key in the first place? You said you guys keep it in a lock box behind—what is it? That desk there?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“And who has access back there? Anybody?”

“No,” I say. “Just the student workers and building staff.”

“So you think some guy who works for you is going around, killing girls? Which guy, huh?” He points at Pete, standing behind the guard’s desk, speaking to one of the firemen. “That one there? Or what about that guy?” He points at Carl, who is still visibly pale, but is nevertheless describing what he’d seen at the bottom of the shaft to a uniformed police officer.

“Okay,” I say, starting to feel like I want to die. Because I realize how stupid I was being. In about five seconds, this guy had shot so many holes in my theory, it looked like a big chunk of Swiss cheese.

But still.

“Okay, so, maybe you’re right. But maybe—”

“Maybe you better show me where you keep this missing key,” Detective Canavan says, and straightens up. I am delighted, as I follow him toward the reception desk, to see that I was right: There is pink glitter all over his shoulders, as if he’s been fairy-dusted.

As we approach the reception desk, I see that Tina has disappeared. I throw a questioning look at Pete.

“Packages,” Pete interrupts his conversation with the fireman to say to me, meaning that Tina is escorting the mail carrier to the room down the hall where we lock arriving packages until the students can be notified to come down to the desk to claim them.

I nod. Rain or shine, sleet or snow, the mail must get through… even if there’s a girl lying dead at the bottom of the elevator shaft.

I slip behind the desk, ignoring the phones, which are ringing off the hook, and head straight for the key cabinet.

“This is where we keep the keys,” I explain to Detective Canavan, who has followed me through the door to the reception desk and now stands with me behind the counter. The key box is large and metal, mounted to the wall. Inside the box is hanging rack after hanging rack of keys. There are three hundred of them, one spare for every room in the building, plus assorted keys that are for staff use only. They all look basically the same, except for the key to the elevator doors, which is shaped a little like an Allen wrench, and not a typical key at all.

“So to get at them, you have to get back here,” Detective Canavan says. I don’t miss the fact that his gray eyebrows have raised at the sight of all the mail bags, slumped haphazardly on the floor at our feet. The desk is hardly what you’d call the most secure area in the building. “And to get back here, you have to pass the security desk, which is manned twenty-four hours a day.”

“Right,” I say. “The security guards know who is allowed behind the desk and who isn’t. They’re not going to let someone go back here unless they work here. And usually there’s a worker behind the counter, anyway, who wouldn’t let anybody have access to the keys unless he or she was staff. And even then, we make them sign them out. The keys, I mean. But no one signed the elevator key out. It’s just… gone.”

“Yeah,” Detective Canavan says. “You said that. Listen, I got some real crimes—including a triple stabbing in an apartment over a deli on Broadway—that I need to investigate. But please, show me where this elusive key, which could prove that the young lady in question didn’t die accidentally, normally hangs.”

I flip through the hanging racks, thinking that I’m going to kill Cooper. I mean, I can’t believe he talked me into doing this. This guy doesn’t believe me. It’s bad enough he’s seen that poster of me from Sugar Rush. If there’s anything that can undermine a person’s credibility, it’s a life-sized poster of her in a pastel tiger print mini screaming into a microphone at the Mall of America.

And okay, my conviction that girls don’t elevator surf—particularly preppie, Ziggy-loving girls—may not be what anyone could call rock-solid proof. But what about the missing key? What about THAT?

Except that, as I flip to the rack that normally holds the elevator door key, I see something that makes my blood run cold.

Because there, in the exact place it’s supposed to go—the exact place it wasn’t, just moments ago—is the elevator door key.