Free Scoop to Kill by Wendy Lyn Watson

that dynamic, left it lopsided and sad.
    “Besides,” Alice added, “I’m going to do it one way or another, even if I have to pick the lock to get in there. So you may as well stop trying to talk me out of it. If you help me, at least I won’t get caught.”
    I took a bite of my bagel and chewed thoughtfully. Baked goods came dear, it seemed.
    “Fine,” I said. “What do I have to do?”
     
    Dickerson’s student union looked like a boutique shopping mall. The Gish-Tunny Center, named for the two alums whose generous bequests funded its construction, housed student-organization offices and a ballroom on the third floor; a bookstore, copy center, and elegant meeting rooms on the second floor; a large lounge and small eateries on the main floor; and a state-of-the-art performance space in the basement.
    Reggie Hawking leaned down so his mouth was close to my ear. “It’s too loud to talk in here. We can get a drink and take it out to the patio.”
    We’d left Alice back at Sinclair Hall, setting up a grade book for their American literature class on Reggie’s desktop computer. He led the way to the counter of the Jump and Java, a standard-issue espresso bar with a pastry case bursting with baked goods. He ordered a large coffee. “Make that two,” he said, glancing at me.
    “Make that one,” I said, reaching a hand to get the clerk’s attention. Whether I wanted coffee or not, it wasn’t this kid’s place to order for me. “It’s hotter than a whore in a church out there. If we’re taking this outside, I’ll stick with iced tea. And a brownie.” To get through even ten minutes with this guy, I needed chocolate to sustain me.
    Reggie paused in the act of rummaging in his pocket, met my eyes, and smiled. For the first time since we’d met, I felt like he didn’t just look at me, but actually saw me. When all that scattershot boy-genius energy focused on me, and his mobile features settled into sensuous lines, I could sorta see why Alice had a crush on him. He was still not my type, but I could at least wrap my brain around his appeal.
    “That’s a dollar fifty for the coffee and four dollars for the tea and brownie,” the clerk said.
    I laid four bills on the counter. Reggie picked them up and slipped them in his pocket. “I’ll pay for both with my i-Cash,” he said.
    He pulled a yellow plastic card from his wallet and swiped it across a small black box with a glowing red eye.
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “It’s my student ID,” he said. “Students and faculty can put money in an account and use our ID’s to pay for stuff at the campus stores. We get a discount when we use them.”
    Neat. That meant he was paying less than four bucks for my drink and snack, but he sure wasn’t handing me back change. Oh, well , I thought, I guess this makes me a patron of the arts .
    “We can even use them in the vending machines,” he continued. “Of course, some of the wingnuts over in the art department complained that the university is trying to keep tabs on us, tracking us like animals in the wild. But I think it beats the heck out of carrying around change or trying to get a dollar bill flat enough to feed into the machine.”
    We found a table out on the student union’s shaded patio. The damp weekend had evolved into a muggy Monday that likely signalled the beginning of the unrelentingly brutal Texas summer. Reggie pursed his lips and blew gently across the surface of his coffee. The thought of drinking hot coffee in the middle of that saunalike weather made my neck prickle with sweat. I took a big gulp of my sweet tea, relishing the tingle of the crushed ice against my upper lip.
    We sat in silence for a few minutes, as I tried to think of something clever to say. A thought popped into my head that it might someday be this awkward to converse with Alice.
    “It must be interesting working with all these bright young students every day,” I offered.
    Reggie shook his head. “College kids