Queen of Babble by Meg Cabot Page A

temperaturewise, in the little office. “I’mone of those people. I mean, I’ve got to live, Liz. And it’s not easy, finding a decent-paying job when everyone knows you’re going to be leaving in a few months to go back to school, anyway—”
    Well…he’s right about that. I mean, the only way I managed to work my way up to assistant manager at Vintage to Vavoom is because I live in town year-round.
    Also because I’m so good at what I do.
    But still…
    “And I wasn’t doing it just for me, you know. I wanted to show you a nice time while you were here,”

    he goes on, darting a nervous glace at the open office door. “Take you nice places, have some nice meals. Maybe even take you…I dunno. On a cruise or something.”
    “Oh, Andrew!” My heart swells with love for him. How could I have thought—well, what I was thinking about him? He may have gone about it the wrong way, but his intentions were in the right place.
    “But Andrew,” I say, “I have tons of money saved up. You don’t have to do this for me—work all these hours, and…um, collect the dole, or whatever it is. I have plenty of money. For the both of us.”
    Suddenly he doesn’t look quite so sweaty.
    “You do? More than what you changed today, at the bank?”
    “Of course,” I say. “I’ve been saving my earnings from the shop for ages. I’m happy to share.” I really mean it, too. After all, I’m a feminist. I have no problem supporting the man I love. No problem at all.
    “How much?” Andrew asks quickly.
    “How much have I got?” I blink at him. “Well, a couple thousand—”
    “Honestly? Brilliant! Can I borrow a bit, then?”
    “Andrew, I told you,” I say. “I’m more than happy to pay for us to go out—”
    “No, I mean, can I borrow a bit in advance?” Andrew wants to know. He’s stopped sweating, but his face has taken on a bit of a pinched look. He keeps looking at the doorway where the man behind the counter’s supervisor is due to appear at any moment. “See, I haven’t paid my matriculation fees for school yet—”
    “Matriculation fees?” I echo.
    “Right,” Andrew says. Now he’s grinning sort of sheepishly, in the manner of a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar. “See, I had a bit of a cock-up myself just before you got here. Did you ever go to any of the Friday poker nights, back at McCracken Hall?”
    My head is spinning. Seriously. “Poker nights? McCracken Hall?”What is he talking about?
    “Yeah, there was a whole group of residents who played Texas Hold’em every Friday night. I used to play with them, and I got to be quite good…”
    The British guy,Chaz had said about someone…someone I now realize was Andrew.The one who was running the illegal poker ring on the seventh floor.
    “That wasyou ?” I’m staring at him. “But…but you’re an R.A. Gambling in the dorms is illegal.”
    Andrew shoots me an incredulous look.
    “Right,” he says. “Well, maybe, but everybody did it…”
    If everybody suddenly started wearing epaulets, would you do it, too?I start to ask…then stop myself just in time.

    Because, of course, I know the answer.
    “Anyway,” Andrew says, “I got involved with a game here not long ago, and…well, the stakes were a bit higher than I’m used to, and the players a bit more experienced, and I—”
    “You lost,” I say flatly.
    “I told you I was a bit overconfident and thought I could clean up at that game I got into…but instead I got my arse kicked, and lost the money for my matriculation fees for next semester. That’s why I was working so much, see? I can’t tell my parents what happened to their money—they’re dead set against gambling, and they’d probably kick me out of the house…I’ve barely got a bed there as it is, as you well know. But if you can spare it…well, then I’m golden, right? I won’t have to work, and then we can be together all day”—He snakes out an arm, wrapping it around my waist and pulling