Meg Cabot - Shadowland

At the information desk, I asked for Bryce Martinson's room. I wasn't sure he'd been admitted actually, but I knew from experience – unfortunately firsthand – that any accident in which a head wound might have occurred generally required an overnight stay for observation – and I was right. Bryce was there, and so was Father Dominic, conveniently situated right across the hall from one another.

We weren't the only people visiting these particular patients – not by a long shot. Bryce's room was packed. There wasn't, apparently, any limit on just how many people could crowd into a patient's room, and Bryce's looked as if it contained most of the Junipero Serra Mission Academy's senior class. In the middle of the sunny, cheerful room – where on every flat surface rested vases filled with flowers – lay Bryce in a shoulder cast, his right arm hanging from a pulley over his bed. He looked a lot better than he had that morning, mostly, I suppose, because he was pumped full of painkillers. When he saw me in the doorway, this big goofy smile broke out over his face, and he went, "Suze!"

Only he pronounced it "Soo-oo-ooze," so it sounded like it had more than one syllable.

"Uh, hi, Bryce," I said, suddenly shy. Everybody in the room had turned around to see who Bryce was talking to. Most of them were girls. They all did that thing a lot of girls do – they looked me over from the top of my head – I hadn't showered that morning because I'd been running so late, so I was not exactly having a good hair day – to the soles of my feet.

Then they smirked.

Not so Bryce would have noticed. But they did.

And even though I could not have cared less what a bunch of girls I had never met before, and would probably never meet again, thought of me, I blushed.

"Everybody," Bryce said. He sounded drunk, but pleasantly so. "This is Suze. Suze, this is everybody."

"Uh," I said. "Hi."

One of the girls, who was sitting on the end of Bryce's bed in a very white, wrinkle-free linen dress, went, "Oh, you're that girl who saved his life yesterday. Jake's new stepsister."

"Yeah," I said. "That's me." There was no way – no way – I was going to be able to ask Bryce what I needed to ask him with all these people in the room. Cee Cee had steered Adam off into Father Dom's room in order to give me some time alone with Bryce, but it looked as if she'd done so in vain. There was no way I was going to get a minute with this guy alone. Not unless ...

Well, not unless I asked for it.

"Hey," I said. "I need to talk to Bryce for a second. Do you guys mind?"

The girl on the end of the bed looked taken aback. "So talk to him. We're not stopping you."

I looked her right in the eye and said, in my firmest mediation voice, "I need to talk to him alone ."

Somebody whistled low and long. Nobody else moved. At least until Bryce went, "Hey, you guys. You heard her. Get out."

Thank God for morphine, that's all I have to say.

Grudgingly, the senior class filed out, everybody casting me dirty looks but Bryce, who lifted a hand connected to what looked like an IV and went, "Hey, Suze. C'mere and look at this."

I approached the bed. Now that we were the only people in it, I was able to see that Bryce actually had a very large room. It was also very cheerful, painted yellow, with a window that looked out over the garden outside.

"See what I got?" Bryce showed me a palm-sized instrument with a button on top of it. "My own painkiller pump. Anytime I feel pain, I just hit this button, and it releases codeine. Right into my bloodstream. Cool, huh?"

The guy was gone. That was obvious. Suddenly, I didn't think my mission was going to be so hard, after all.

"That's great, Bryce," I said. "I was real sorry to hear about your accident."

"Yeah." He giggled fatuously. "Too bad you weren't there. You might've been able to save me like you did yesterday."

"Yes," I said, clearing my throat uncomfortably. "You certainly do seem accident-prone these days."

"Yeah." His eyelids drifted closed, and for one panicky minute, I thought he'd gone to sleep. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me kind of sadly. "Suze, I don't think I'm going to be able to make it."

I stared at him. God, what a baby! "Of course you're going to make it. You've got a busted collarbone, is all. You'll be better in no time."

He giggled. "No, no. I mean, I don't think I'm going to be able to make it to our date on Saturday night."

"Oh," I said, blinking. "Oh, no, of course not. I didn't think so. Listen, Bryce, I need to ask you a favor. You're going to think it's weird – " Actually, doped up as he was, I doubted he'd think it weird at all. " – but I was wondering whether, back when you and Heather were going out, did she ever, um, give you anything?"

He blinked at me groggily. "Give me anything? You mean like a present?"

"Yes."

"Well, yeah. She got me a cashmere sweater vest for Christmas."

I nodded. A cashmere sweater vest wasn't going to do me any good. "Okay. Anything else? Maybe ... a picture of herself?"

"Oh," he said. "Sure, sure. She gave me her school picture."

"She did?" I tried not to look too excited. "Any chance you've got it on you? In your wallet, maybe?" It was a gamble, I knew, but most people only clean out their wallets once a year or so....

He screwed up his face. I guess thinking must have been painful for him since I saw him give himself a couple pumps of painkiller. Then his face relaxed. "Sure," he said. "I still got her picture. My wallet's in that drawer there."

I opened the drawer to the table beside his bed. His wallet was indeed there, a slim black leather deal. I lifted it up and opened it. Heather's photo was jammed between a gold American Express card and a ski lift ticket. It showed her looking extremely glam, with all her long blond hair flowing over one shoulder, staring coquettishly into the camera. In my school pictures, I always look like somebody just yelled "Fire!" I couldn't believe this guy, who'd been dating a girl who looked like that, would bother asking a girl like me out.

"Can I borrow this picture?" I asked. "I just need it for a little while. I'll give it right back." This was a lie, but I didn't figure he'd give it to me otherwise.

"Sure, sure," he said, waving a hand.

"Thanks." I slipped the photo into my backpack just as a tall woman in her forties came striding in wearing a lot of gold jewelry and carrying a box of pastries.

"Bryce, darling," she said. "Where did all your little friends go? I went all the way to the patisserie to get some snacks."

"Oh, they'll be back in a minute, Mom," Bryce said, sleepily. "This is Suze. She saved my life yesterday."

Mrs. Martinson held out a smooth, tanned right hand. "Lovely to meet you, Susan," she said, giving my fingers the slightest of squeezes. "Can you believe what happened to poor little Bryce? His father's furious. As if things hadn't been going badly enough, what with that wretched girl – well, you know. And now this. I swear, it's like that academy were cursed, or something."

I said, "Yes. Well, nice to meet you. I'd better be going."

Nobody protested against my departure – Mrs. Martinson because she couldn't have cared less, and Bryce because he'd fallen asleep.

I found Adam and Cee Cee standing outside a room across the hall. As I walked up to them, Cee Cee put a finger to her lips. "Listen," she said.

I did as she asked.

"It simply couldn't have come at a worse time," a familiar voice – male, older – was saying. "What with the archbishop's visit not two weeks away – "

"I'm so sorry, Constantine." Father Dominic's voice sounded weak. "I know what a strain this must all be to you."

"And Bryce Martinson, of all people! Do you know who his father is? Only one of the best trial lawyers in Salinas!"