Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

by Meg Cabot

  “You’re right,” I say. “That must be just a rumor. Well, I better go. Don’t want to be late!”

  “No,” Reggie agrees gravely. “Not you.”

  “See you later! Stay warm!” I wave cheerfully, then duck around the corner onto Washington Square West. Phew! That was close. I can’t believe word about what happened last night has already reached the drug dealers. I wonder if it will make Page Six. Thank God the Greeks don’t have a sign-in policy. I’d be in so much trouble at work if it got out I’d been there….

  When I walk through the front door of Fischer Hall at twenty of nine, Pete, who is at the security desk, nearly chokes on his bagel.

  “What happened?” he asks, with mock worry. “Is it the end of times?”

  “Very funny,” I say to him. “I’ve been here on time before, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Pete says. “But never early.”

  “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf,” I say.

  “And maybe I’ll get a raise this year,” Pete says. Then laughs heartily at his own joke.

  I make a face at him, check in with the student front desk worker to collect the briefing forms from the night before, and head to my office. I see, to my relief, that the outer door is closed and locked. Yes! I’m the first one in! Won’t Tom be surprised when he sees me!

  I strip off my coat and hat, then head to the caf for coffee and a bagel. Magda, I’m happy to see, is back at her regular post. She looks better than she has all week. Her eye shadow is fluorescent pink, her hair standing its normal six inches off her forehead, and her eyeliner is unsmudged and black as coal. She smiles at me when I come in.

  “There she is,” she cries. “My little pop star. Did you miss your Magda?”

  “Yes, I did,” I say. “Have a good day off?”

  “I did,” Magda says, growing sober. “I needed it. You know what I mean? It was nice not to think about this place—and what happened here—for a change.” She heaves a shudder, then, as two students come up behind me, cries, in a completely different voice, “Oh, look. Here come two of my movie stars. Good morning, little movie stars!”

  The students eye her uneasily as she runs their meal cards—which double as their IDs—through her scanner. When she’s handed them back and the kids are gone, Magda says, in her normal voice, “I heard you went to visit Manuel. How is he?”

  “Um, when I was there yesterday, not so good,” I say. “But when I left last night, I heard he’d been moved out of the ICU and was being listed as stable.”

  “Good,” Magda says. “And the police still haven’t caught the people who did it to him?”

  “No,” I say. I’m tempted to tell Magda I have a pretty good idea who they were. But I need to see how Tom’s date went first. “But I’m sure they’re working on it.”

  Magda scowls. “They aren’t working to find who killed little Lindsay,” she says. “Three days it’s been, and no arrest. It’s because she’s a girl,” she adds, glumly resting her chin in her hands. “If it were a man’s head they found in there, they’d have someone under arrest already. The police don’t care what happens to girls. Especially girls like Lindsay.”

  “Magda, that’s not true,” I assure her. “They’re working as hard as they can. I’m sure they’ll be making an arrest soon. I mean, they got snowed in yesterday, just like you did.”

  But Magda just looks skeptical. I realize it’s futile to try to change her mind when she’s so convinced she’s right. So I get my bagel—with cream cheese and bacon, of course—and cocoa-coffee and return to my desk.

  I’m sitting there wondering who Tad Tocco is and why he wants me to call him—he has a New York College office extension—when Tom stumbles sleepily into the office, looking surprised to see me.

  “Whoa,” he says. “Is this an illusion?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s really me. I’m here on time.”

  “You’re here early.” Tom shakes his head. “Will miracles never cease?”

  “So.” I’m watching him carefully. “How’d it go? With Coach Andrews, I mean.”

  He’s pulling out his keys to unlock his office door, but I see the swift, secret smile before he can hide it.

  “Fine,” he says tonelessly.

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Come on. Spill.”

  “I don’t want to jinx it,” Tom says. “Seriously, Heather, I have a tendency to rush into things. And I’m not doing that this time. I’m just not.”

  “So…” I study him. “If you’re going to take things slow with him, that means things must have gone pretty well.”

  “They went great,” Tom says. He can’t hide his smile anymore. “Steve’s just…well, he’s amazing. But like I said, we’re taking things slow.”

  We. He’d already started saying we.

  I’m happy for him, of course. But a little bummed out for myself. Not because I’d like to be part of a we someday—though I would, naturally.

  But because now I have to wonder just why Kimberly so obviously lied to me…I mean, unless Steven Andrews is as good an actor as Heath Ledger, which I sort of doubt.

  Still, I can’t help but feel happy for Tom.

  “So if you’re taking things slow,” I say, “that means you must be planning on sticking around for a while after all, right?”

  He shrugs, blushing. “We’ll see,” he says. And goes into his office.

  Which reminds me of something else. “So where’s Dr. Death? She coming in today?”

  “No, thank God,” Tom says. “Counseling Services has decided that if any more students need to work with grief counselors, they can go across the park.”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “Cheryl Haebig stopped by to see Dr. Kilgore a few too many times.”

  “I think Cheryl nearly drove Dr. Kilgore to distraction,” Tom says happily. “My office is mine again. All mine! I’m going to the caf to get a tray—a tray—and have breakfast at my desk.”

  “Enjoy,” I say happily, thinking how nice it is to have a boss who thinks eating breakfast at his desk is totally appropriate in the workplace. I have really scored in the boss department with Tom. I’m glad he’s not going anywhere. At least, for now.

  I am going over the briefing forms when Gavin appears, looking strangely uncomfortable.

  “Um, hi, Heather,” he says, standing stiffly in front of my desk. “Is Tom around? I’m supposed to reschedule my alcohol counseling appointment.”

  “Yeah, he’s here,” I say. “He just went into the caf to grab something to eat. Have a seat. He should be right back.”

  Gavin sits down on the couch next to my desk. But instead of sinking into it, his legs splayed apart obscenely, as he’s tended to do in the past, Gavin sits very straight in his seat, keeping his gaze straight ahead. He doesn’t mess around with the paper clips or McDonald’s Toy Story 2 action figures on my desk, the way he usually does, either.

  I stare at him. “Gavin? Are you okay?”

  “What?” He blinks at the Monet print on the wall, resolutely not looking at me. “Me? Sure, I’m fine. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You just seem sort of…distant.”

  “I’m not being distant,” Gavin says. “I’m just giving you space.”

  It’s my turn to blink. “You’re what?”

  Finally, he looks at me.

  “You know,” he says. “I’m giving you space. Your friend Cooper told me last night that you really need your space. So I’m trying to give it to you.”

  Something cold passes over me. I think it’s foreboding.

  “Wait,” I say. “Cooper told you I need space?”

  “Yeah,” Gavin says with a nod. “Last night. When he was walking me back here. Which I didn’t need, by the way. I mean, I’m twenty-one years old. I don’t need anyone to escort me back to my dorm.”

  “Residence hall,” I say. “And what else did Cooper tell you about me?”

  “Well, you know.” Gavin shrugs uncomfortably and turns back to the Mon
et on the opposite wall. “That you were really, really hurt when his brother Jordan cheated on you, and that you were confused, and you’re still getting over the loss, and aren’t ready for any new romantic relationships—”

  “WHAT?” I’ve risen to my feet. “He said what?”

  “Well,” Gavin says, turning his head to look at me quizzically, “you know. I mean, on account of how you’re still in love with him—”

  My heart seems to explode inside my chest. “In love with WHO?”

  “Well, Jordan Cartwright, of course.” Gavin looks taken aback. “Oh, shit,” he adds, when he sees my expression. “I forgot. Cooper said not to tell you what he said—you won’t tell him I told, will you? That guy kinda scares me….”

  Gavin’s voice trails off as he stares at me in alarm. I can’t imagine why. Maybe it’s because of the way I’m hanging over my desk with my mouth wide open and my eyes spinning around in their sockets.

  “Well, I mean, isn’t that why you don’t want to go to Jordan’s wedding tomorrow?” Gavin is starting to babble. “Because you’re still so in love with him, you can’t stand to see him marry someone else? Because that’s what your friend Cooper thinks, anyway. He thinks that’s why you haven’t been able to move on to someone else, because you’re still mourning Jordan’s loss, and that it will be a while before you get over it—”

  The scream starts at the bottom of my feet and rises steadily, like steam from a kettle. I’m about to tilt my head back to let it out when Tom comes staggering into the office, his face white as the snow outside. He’s not carrying a tray with breakfast on it.

  “They just found the rest of her,” he says, right before he collapses onto the couch beside Gavin.

  The scream disappears.

  “The rest of who?” Gavin wants to know.

  “Lindsay,” Tom says.

  24

  They say that only time will tell

  Until then, I’m in a living hell

  What can I do, what can I say

  I can’t BELIEVE how much I weigh.

  “Scale”

  Written by Heather Wells

  Magda is at her cash register, weeping.

  “Magda,” I say, for what has to be the fifth time, “just tell me. Tell me what happened.”

  Magda shakes her head. Against all laws of physics and hairspray, her hair has collapsed. It droops sadly to one side of her face.

  “Magda. Tell me what they found. Tom won’t talk about it. Gerald won’t let anybody into the kitchen. The cops are on their way. Just tell me.”

  Magda can’t speak. She is constricted with grief. Pete doesn’t have to argue with any of the residents he is busy herding from the cafeteria—they’re leaving of their own volition, with many nervous glances in Magda’s direction.

  Considering the fact that she’s practically keening, I don’t blame them.

  “Magda,” I say. “You’re hysterical. You’ve got to calm down.”

  But Magda can’t. Which is why, after heaving a sigh, I haul off and slap her.

  And why she, in turn, slaps me back.

  “Ow!” I cry, outraged and clutching my cheek. “What did you do that for?”

  “You hit me first!” Magda declares angrily, clutching her own cheek.

  “Yeah, but you were hysterical!” Magda has some arm on her. I’m seeing stars. “I was just trying to get you to snap out of it. You didn’t have to hit me back.”

  “You aren’t supposed to slap hysterical people,” Magda snaps back. “Didn’t they teach you anything in all those fancy first-aid courses they made you take?”

  “Magda.” My eyes finally stop swimming in tears. “Tell me what they found.”

  “I’ll show you,” Magda says, and holds out the hand she hadn’t used to smack me in the face. There, in her palm, is nestled a strange-looking object. Made of gold, it resembles an earring, only much larger, and curved. There’s a diamond on one end of it. The gold is pretty banged up, like it’s been chewed on.

  “What is that?” I ask, gazing down at it.

  “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?”

  Both Magda and I are startled by the reaction of Cheryl Haebig as she and her boyfriend Jeff pass us on the way out of the cafeteria. Cheryl’s eyes are wide, her gaze glued to the object in Magda’s hand. Pete, who is trying to herd everyone out of the place, looks frustrated.

  “Cher,” Jeff says, tugging on his girlfriend’s arm, “come on. They want us to leave.”

  “No,” Cheryl says, shaking her head, her gaze still fixed on what Magda is holding. “Where you did get that? Tell me.”

  “Do you recognize it, Cheryl?” I ask her—though it’s obvious from her reaction that she does. Also that I probably don’t want to know why. “What is it?”

  “It’s Lindsay’s navel ring,” Cheryl says. Her face has gone as white as the blouse she’s wearing. “Oh, God. Where’d you get it?”

  Magda presses her lips together. And closes her fingers. “Oh, no,” she says, in the singsong voice she only uses when students are around. “Never mind. You go to class now, or you’ll be late—”

  But Cheryl takes a step forward and says, her eyes going hard as the marble floor beneath us, “Tell me.”

  Magda swallows, glances at me, then says, in her normal voice, “It was stuck at the bottom of the garbage disposal. The one that hasn’t been working right all week. The building engineer finally got around to taking a look at it. And he found this.”

  She flips it over. On the other side of the gold, the word LINDSAY is engraved—hard to make out, after all the mashing. But still there.

  Cheryl gasps, then seems to find it difficult to stand. Pete and Jeff help her to a nearby chair.

  “Tell her to put her head between her knees,” I tell Jeff. He nods, looking panicky, and makes his girlfriend lean forward until her long, honey-colored hair is sweeping the floor.

  I turn back to Magda and stare down at the ring. “They put the rest of her down the disposal?” I whisper.

  Magda shakes her head. “They tried. But bones won’t grind up.”

  “Wait, so…they’re still down there?”

  Magda nods. We’re whispering so Cheryl won’t overhear. “The sink was stopped up. No one thought to wonder why—it’s always stopped up. We just used the other one.”

  “And the police didn’t look in there, either?”

  Magda wrinkles her nose. “No. The water was all…well, you know how it can get back there. Plus they served chili Monday night….”

  I feel a little bit of vomit rise into my throat.

  “Oh, my God,” I say.

  “I know.” Magda looks down at the belly button ring. “Who could do such a thing to such a nice, pretty girl? Who, Heather? Who?”

  “I’m going to find out,” I say, turning away from her and striding blindly—because my eyes are filled with tears—toward Cheryl, still sitting with her head between her knees. I squat down beside her so that I can ask her, “Cheryl. Were Lindsay and Coach Andrews sleeping together?”

  “WHAT?” It’s Jeff who looks astonished. “Coach A and Lind—NO WAY.”

  Cheryl raises her head. It’s very red from all the blood that’s rushed into it while she was hanging upside down. There are tear tracks down her cheeks, and unshed tears still glisten on her long eyelashes.

  “Coach Andrews?” she echoes, with a sniff. “N-no. No, of course not.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask her.

  Cheryl nods. “Yeah,” she says. “I mean, Coach A, he…” She looks up at Jeff. “Um.”

  “What?” Jeff looks frightened. “Coach A what, Cher?”

  Cheryl sighs and looks back at me. “Well, none of us are sure,” she says. “But we always just assumed Coach A is gay.”

  “WHAT?” Now Jeff looks as if he’s the one who’s about to cry. “Coach Andrews? No way. NO WAY.”

  Cheryl blinks up at me tearfully. “You can see why we kept that suspicion to ourselves,” Cheryl says.

&n
bsp; “I can,” I say. I give Cheryl a pat on the wrist. “Thank you.”

  And then I’m gone, brushing past Pete to head out of the caf and toward the elevator.

  “Heather?” Magda trots after me in her stilettos. “Where are you going?”

  I jab at the UP button, and the elevator door slides open.

  “Heather.” Pete follows me out into the lobby, gazing after me in concern. “What’s going on?”

  I ignore them both. I get in the elevator and stab the button for the twelfth floor. As the doors close, I see Magda tottering toward me, trying to stop me from going alone.

  But it’s just as well she doesn’t come with me. She isn’t going to like what I’m about to do. I don’t like what I’m about to do.

  But someone has to do it.

  When the doors open on the twelfth floor, I get off the elevator and stalk toward Room 1218. The hallway—which the RA has decorated in a Tigger the Tiger motif, being a Pooh fan…only an ironic Tigger, since she’s given him dreadlocks—is silent. It’s just past nine in the morning, and the kids who aren’t in class are asleep.

  But one of them I fully intend to wake up.

  “Director’s Office,” I yell, thumping on the door once with my fist. We are not allowed to enter any room unannounced.

  But that doesn’t mean we have to wait for the resident to answer the door. And I don’t. I insert my master key into the lock and turn the knob.

  Kimberly, as I hoped, is curled up in her bed. Her roommate’s matching twin—they’ve even got the same bedspreads, in New York College gold and white—is empty. Kimberly is sitting up, looking groggy.

  “Wh-what’s going on?” she asks sleepily. “Omigod. What are you doing in here?”

  “Get out of bed,” I say to her.

  “What? Why?” Even when just waking from a dead sleep, Kimberly Watkins looks pretty. Her face—unlike my own, when I’m just waking up—isn’t smeared with various anti-zit-and-wrinkle creams, and her hair, instead of standing comically on end, falls into perfectly straight planes along either side of her face.