Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

by Meg Cabot

  “This is Dr. Gillian Kilgore from Counseling Services,” he goes on. “She’s here to offer grief counseling to any residents who feel they might need it, in light of yesterday’s events.”

  I smile briefly at Dr. Kilgore. Well, what else am I supposed to do? Spit at her?

  “Hi,” I say. “You’re in my seat.”

  “Oh.” Tom seems to notice for the first time where Gillian Kilgore has stationed herself. “That’s right. That’s Heather’s desk, Dr. Kilgore. I meant for you to take the GA’s desk—”

  “I like this desk better,” Dr. Kilgore stuns us both (I can tell Tom is stunned because his face goes as pink as his shirt) by saying evenly. “And of course, when students do come by for their appointments, Mr. Snelling, I’ll be meeting with them in your office. For more privacy.”

  This is clearly news to Tom. He is standing there kind of bleating, like a lost sheep—Baaah…baaah…but—when Gillian Kilgore’s first victim, I mean appointment, comes loping into the office. Mark Shepelsky is the Pansies’ six-foot-seven power forward, and current resident of Room 212, one of the most sought-after doubles in the entire building due to its view of the park and the fact that, being on the second floor, its occupants can take the stairs instead of depending on the elevators, which are crowded at best, broken most of the rest of the time.

  “Someone needed to see me?” Mark says. More like grunts, really. A skinny, pasty-skinned kid, he’s good-looking in a crew-cutted ballplayer way.

  But he can’t hold a candle to Barista Boy, if you ask me.

  Not that I like Barista Boy. Anymore.

  “You must be…” Dr. Kilgore glances down at the appointment book open on her desk. Excuse me, I mean, my desk. “Mark?”

  Mark shuffles his size-fourteen feet. “Yeah. What’s this about?”

  “Well, Mark,” Dr. Kilgore says, slipping a pair of reading glasses over her nose, I guess in an attempt to look empathetic (it doesn’t work), “I’m Dr. Kilgore. I’m here from Student Counseling Services. I understand that you were close with Lindsay. Lindsay Combs?”

  Mark does not exactly break down in tears at the mention of his beloved’s name. In fact, he looks indignant.

  “Do we gotta do this?” he demands. “I already talked to the cops all day yesterday. I got a game tonight. I gotta practice.”

  Gillian Kilgore says soothingly, “I understand, Mark. But we’re concerned about you. We want to make sure you’re all right. Lindsay was, after all, important to you.”

  “Well, I mean, she was hot and everything,” Mark says, looking confused. “But we weren’t even dating. We were just playing. You know what I mean?”

  “You two weren’t exclusive?” I hear myself asking.

  Both Tom and Gillian Kilgore turn to look at me, Dr. Kilgore with seeming annoyance, Tom with a wide-eyed, Are you trying to get yourself in trouble? look, which I ignore.

  Mark says, “Exclusive? No way. I mean, we fooled around a little. I already told that detective dude, lately the only time I’ve seen her is at games, and over break I hardly saw her at all….”

  “Well, let’s talk about that,” Dr. Kilgore says, taking hold of Mark’s arm and attempting to steer him toward Tom’s office for some privacy (which, good luck, with that grate between his office and the outer one where I sit).

  “Was Lindsay seeing anybody else?” I ask, before Mark can be pulled away.

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. I heard she was doing—I mean, seeing—some frat guy.”

  “Really.” I plunk down onto my desktop. “What frat?”

  Mark looks blank. “I don’t know.”

  “Well.” It’s hot in my office. I begin peeling off my coat. “Did you tell Detective Canavan about this?”

  “He didn’t ask.”

  “Mark.” Gillian Kilgore’s voice has gotten almost as cold as it is outside. “Why don’t you step in here and we’ll—”

  “Detective Canavan didn’t ask if you and your girlfriend were exclusive?” I demand incredulously. “And you didn’t mention that you weren’t?”

  “No.” Mark shrugs again. He’s big with the shrugging, I see. “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “Mark.” Dr. Kilgore’s voice is sharp now. “Come with me, please.”

  Mark, looking startled, follows Dr. Kilgore into Tom’s office. She practically slams the door behind them—but not before giving me a withering stare. Then, through the grate, we hear her say, “Now, Mark. Tell me. How are you feeling about all this?”

  Has she not noticed the grate? Does she really think we can’t hear her?

  Tom looks at me, his expression noticeably miserable. “Heather,” he says. We don’t have to worry about Dr. Kilgore overhearing us, because she’s chattering away so loud behind the grate. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I say. I get up from my desk and hang up my coat on the peg next to the one where Dr. Kilgore has hung hers. “Is it hot in here? Or is it just me?”

  “It’s hot,” Tom says. “I turned the radiator off, but it’s still…radiating. Seriously, though. What was all that about?”

  “Nothing,” I say, with a shrug. It’s catching, I guess. “I was just curious. Have they reopened the caf?”

  “Yes. For breakfast. Heather, are you—”

  “Great. Have you had coffee yet?”

  Tom sends a scowl in the direction of his office door. “No. I came in and she was already here….”

  “How’d she get in?” I ask in surprise.

  “Pete let her in, with the master.” Tom sighs. “Would you really bring me back a cup of coffee? With milk and sugar?”

  “You got it,” I say, with a smile.

  “Have I told you today that you’re my favorite assistant dorm director? Seriously?”

  “Tom, Tom, Tom,” I say. “Don’t you mean I’m your favorite assistant RESIDENCE HALL director?”

  Not surprisingly, when I get to the caf, it’s practically empty. I guess the discovery of a severed head in the kitchen has a way of putting off your pickier eaters. Except for a few lone diners, I’m the only person in there. I stop by the register to say hi to Magda on my way in. She does not look good. Her eyeliner has already faded, and her lip liner is on crooked.

  “Hey,” I say to her, in my warmest voice. “How are you, Mags?”

  She doesn’t even crack a smile. “None of my little movie stars will come in,” she says mournfully. “They’re all eating at Wasser Hall.” She says the words like they contain poison.

  Wasser Hall, a residence hall across the park that was recently renovated to include its own pool in the basement, is our bitterest rival. After the press—and students—started calling Fischer Hall Death Dorm, I got a lot of calls from parents demanding their kids be moved to Wasser Hall. Can I just say that the assistant hall director there thinks she’s all that because of it?

  I got her back, though, during a trust exercise we were all required to do at in-staff training over Winter Break, when we each had to fall back into each other’s arms and I accidentally-on-purpose dropped her.

  “Well,” I say soothingly, “it’s only natural. They’re scared. They’ll come back after the police figure out who the killer is.”

  “If the police figure out who the killer is,” Magda says gloomily.

  “They will,” I assure her. Then, to cheer her up, I add, “Guess who I had dinner with last night.”

  Magda brightens. “Cooper? He finally asked you for a date?”

  It’s my turn to look gloomy. “Um, no. My dad. He got out of jail. He’s here, in the city.”

  “Your dad’s out of the pen?” Pete is walking by, an empty coffee mug in his hand. He’s on his way in for a refill. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding,” I say.

  “So.” Pete has forgotten about his coffee. He looks intrigued. “What’d you two talk about?”

  I shrug. Damn that Mark and his contagious shrugging. “I don’t know,” I say. “Him. Me. Mom. A
little of everything.”

  Magda is equally fascinated. She leans forward and says, “I read a book once where the man, he goes to prison, and when he gets out, he’s…you know. Like your boss, Tom. On account of not having been with a woman in so long.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure my dad’s not gay now, Magda,” I say. “If that’s what you mean.”

  Magda looks disappointed and leans back into her seat. “Oh.”

  “What’s he want?” Pete asks.

  “Want?” I stare at him. “He doesn’t want anything.”

  “The man comes to see you first thing out of jail,” Pete says, looking incredulous. “Says that he doesn’t want anything from you…and you believe him? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Well,” I say hesitantly. “He did say he just needed a place to stay for a few days while he gets on his feet.”

  Pete lets out a bark of I told you so laughter.

  “What?” I cry. “He’s my father. He raised me for my first ten years or so.”

  “Right,” Pete says cynically. “And now he wants to mooch off your fame and fortune.”

  “What fortune?” I demand. “He knows perfectly well his ex-wife stole all my money.”

  Pete, chuckling, heads for the coffee machine.

  “Why can’t he just want to rebuild his relationship with the daughter he barely knows?” I shout after him. Which just makes him laugh harder.

  “That’s all right, honey,” Magda says, patting my hand. “Ignore him. I think it’s nice your daddy came back.”

  “Thank you,” I say indignantly. “Because it is.”

  “Of course it is. And what did Cooper say when you asked him if your daddy could move in?”

  “Well,” I say, unable to meet Magda’s gaze all of a sudden. “Cooper hasn’t said anything about it yet. Because I haven’t asked him.”

  “Oh,” Magda says.

  “Not,” I say quickly, “because I don’t believe my dad is totally on the up and up. I just haven’t actually seen Cooper yet. He’s busy with a case. But when I do see him, I’ll ask. And I’m sure he’ll say it’s all right. Because my dad really wants to turn his life around.”

  “Of course,” Magda says.

  “No, Magda. I really mean it.”

  “I know you do, honey,” Magda says. But her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Kind of like Dad’s, as a matter of fact.

  But that, I tell myself, has nothing to do with anything I’ve just said to her. It has to do with what happened yesterday, with Lindsay.

  And as for Pete…well, let him laugh. What does he know?

  Although considering he’s a widower with five kids to support on his own, he might actually know quite a lot.

  Dang.

  Scowling, I head for the bagel bar and pop a plain in the toaster. Then I hit the coffee dispenser. I make one for Tom—with cream and sugar—and one for me, half coffee, half hot cocoa, lots of whipped cream—then return to the bagel bar as mine pops up from the toaster, slather each side in cream cheese, slap on some bacon, then meld. Voilà, the perfect breakfast treat.

  I put it on a plate, the plate on a tray with the coffees, and am heading out of the caf when I happen to spy, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of gold and white. I turn my head, and see Kimberly Watkins, one of the Pansies’ varsity cheerleaders—in uniform because it’s a game day—sitting by herself at a table, a large textbook open in front of her, alongside a plate appearing to contain an egg-white omelet and half a grapefruit.

  And before I think about what I’m doing, I find myself plonking my tray across the table from hers and going, “Hey, Kimberly.”

  9

  Touching me

  Something always touching me

  When I ride the subway.

  “Subway Song”

  Written by Heather Wells

  “Um,” Kimberly says, looking up at me suspiciously, clearly uncertain who I was, and why I was suddenly sitting across from her. “Hi?”

  “I’m Heather,” I say. “Assistant hall director?”

  “Oh!” Kimberly’s suspicious expression changes to one of recognition, even casual welcome. Now that she knows I’m not there to try to—well, whatever it was she thought I was there to do…hit on her? proselytize?—she seems to relax. “Hi!”

  “Listen,” I say. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. I mean, about this whole thing with Lindsay. I know you two were friends….”

  Actually, I don’t know this. But I just assume two girls who were on the same cheerleading team would be friends. Right?

  “Oh,” Kimberly says, in a different tone, and the bright, Crest-Whitestrip smile she’d flashed me vanishes. “I know. It’s so awful. Poor Lindsay. I…I can’t even think about it. I cried myself to sleep last night.”

  For a girl who’d cried herself to sleep the night before, Kimberly looks pretty good. She apparently spent her break somewhere warm, because even though it’s winter, Kimberly’s bare legs are tanned. Apparently she isn’t too concerned about the cold outside, or the blizzard New York One still insists we’re supposed to be getting at any moment, but which has currently stalled over Washington, DC.

  She doesn’t seem too concerned about eating breakfast in the place where, twenty-four hours ago, her good friend’s severed head was found, either.

  “Wow,” I say. “You must be devastated.”

  She crosses her long, coltish legs beneath the table and begins to twist a strand of her long black hair—straightened, naturally—around and around one finger.

  “Totally,” she says, her doe eyes wide. “Lindsay was, like, my best friend. Well, after Cheryl Haebig. But Cheryl doesn’t really like to hang out anymore, ’cause, you know, she spends most of her free time with Jeff. Jeff Turner.” Kimberly blinks at me. “You know Jeff, right? He’s one of Mark’s roommates, in Two-twelve.”

  “Sure, I know Jeff,” I say. I know all the basketball players, they’ve been down to the office so many times for disciplinary hearings, primarily of the keg-smuggling variety. Fischer Hall is supposed to be dry.

  “Well, the two of them, they’re, like, practically married. They hardly ever want to party anymore.”

  And now that Cheryl’s moved into Lindsay’s room and will most likely not receive a new roommate, she and Jeff will be able to canoodle uninterrupted….

  But wait. That’s no reason so kill someone.

  “So, after Cheryl, Lindsay was your best friend,” I say. “Gosh, that must be awful, to lose someone that close. I’m surprised you can—no offense—even eat in here.”

  Reminded of her food, Kimberly takes a big bite of her egg-white omelet. Inspired by this, I take a bite of my bacon-and-cream-cheese bagel. Mmm. Heaven.

  “Yeah, well,” Kimberly says, “I don’t go in for ghosts, and all of that. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

  “That’s very practical of you,” I say, after taking a sip of my cocoa-coffee.

  “Well,” Kimberly says, with a shrug, “I’m in fashion merchandising.” And indicates the intimidating-looking textbook in front of her. Introduction to Managerial Accounting.

  “Oh,” I say. “So since you knew Lindsay so well, would you know of anyone who maybe had a grudge against her? Maybe wanted her out of the way? Enough to kill her, I mean?”

  Kimberly twists the long strand of dark hair around her other finger for a while. “Well,” she says slowly. “A lot of people hated Lindsay. I mean, they were jealous of her, and stuff. I did tell that policeman, the one who came by last night, about her roommate, Ann.”

  “Ann hated Lindsay?”

  “Well, maybe not hate. But they didn’t get along. That’s why Lindsay was so psyched when Ann finally agreed to swap rooms with Cheryl. Even though Cheryl doesn’t hang out with us much anymore, at least Lindsay didn’t have to worry about all the stupid shit Ann was doing to annoy her.”

  “Stupid shit like what?” I ask, taking another bite of my bagel.

  “Oh, just
dumb stuff. Erasing messages people left for Lindsay on her dry-erase board on the door. Drawing devil horns on all of Lindsay’s photos in the school paper before handing it to her. Using all of Lindsay’s tampons and not replacing the box. Stuff like that.”

  “Well, Kimberly,” I say, “it sounds like Ann and Lindsay didn’t exactly get along. But you don’t really think Ann actually killed her, do you? I mean, why would she? She knew she was moving out, right?”

  Kimberly looks thoughtful. “Well, yeah, I guess. But anyway, I told that detective guy to make sure she’s got a, whad-duya call it? Oh, yeah, an alibi. ’Cause you never know. It could be one of the Single White Female–type thingies.”

  I’m sure Detective Canavan jumped on the “Single White Female–type thingie” lead. Not.

  “What about boyfriends?” I ask.

  This cognitive leap is too much for Kimberly’s tender young brain to process. She knits her slender eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

  “Was Lindsay seeing anybody? I mean, I know she was dating Mark Shepelsky….”

  “Oh.” Kimberly rolls her eyes. “Mark. But Lindsay and Mark, I mean, they were pretty much over, you know. Mark’s so…immature. Him and Jeff—you know, Cheryl’s boyfriend—all they’re into is drinking beer and watching sports. They never took Lindsay and Cheryl out clubbing, or whatever. Which I guess is fine for Cheryl, but Lindsay…she wanted more excitement. More sophistication, I guess you could say.”

  “So is that why she started seeing someone else?” I ask. When Kimberly’s eyes widen, I explain, “Mark stopped by the office this morning and mentioned something about a frat guy?”

  Kimberly looks contemptuous. “Is that what Mark called him? A frat guy? He didn’t mention he’s a Winer?”

  “A what?” For a minute, I think she’s saying Lindsay’s new boyfriend complains a lot.

  “A Winer. W-I-N-E-R. You know.” When I continue to regard her blankly, she shakes all her long hair in disbelief. “Gawd, don’t you know? Doug Winer. The Winer family. Winer Construction. The Winer Sports Complex, here at New York College?”