Size 12 and Ready to Rock

by Meg Cabot

  “Are there any places having to do with female rock-and-rollers that don’t involve drug overdoses or murder?”

  “Yes,” I say, giving her a horrified look. “Of course. Just a block away from this building, there’s the Washington Square Hotel, where Joan Baez lived. She sings about her stay there in her song ‘Diamonds and Rust.’ Not very flatteringly—she refers to it as a ‘crummy hotel,’ which it probably was back then. But she mentions it.”

  “Joan who?” Lisa asks, looking bewildered.

  “Never mind,” I say, my heart breaking a little. How could she not know who Joan Baez is? It’s weird working with a boss who’s younger than I am. Not that Joan and I are exactly contemporaries, but at least I’ve heard of her. “There’s Webster Hall, where everyone from Tina Turner to the Ting Tings has performed. And the Limelight, where Gloria Estefan and Britney Spears and Whitney Houston all performed before it got shut down. And . . .” I say, leaning forward, starting to feel excited, “ . . . there’s John Varvatos. He’s a fashion designer who has a menswear store at 315 Bowery, where CBGB used to be, but he uses the underground nightclub scene as his inspiration, so we could take them there, and they could feel what it was like when Deborah Harry was bringing the house down with Blondie and ‘Heart of Glass’ . . . sort of. And Madonna lived in the Chelsea Hotel, so we could emphasize that part of it, not the death part. Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, you name it, there are so many great rock-and-rollers who stayed there—”

  “I have no idea who Patti Smith is,” Lisa says, scratching Tricky on the head as he leaps up onto the couch beside her. “But I’m sure he’s great. This all sounds great.”

  “What’s great?” Sarah says, stomping into the office in her Doc Martens. Her dark hair is flying every which way, and one of the straps to her overall shorts is undone. This comes off as less sexily mussed than harried and upset.

  “Heather’s going to take the campers on a rock-and-roll tour of New York,” Lisa says brightly. “After we take all of Tania’s gifts from her fans to the Children’s Hospital.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I didn’t say I was going to do it. I said we should do it—”

  “But you know so much about it,” Lisa says. “Who else could do it? I don’t know who half those people are you just named, and I’ve never heard of the Limelight or—what was that other place? John Varvargoes?”

  “That guy?” Sarah looks at me incredulously. “That guy made Sebastian’s murse.” Then she bursts into tears.

  “Oh my God,” Lisa says, glancing at me in surprise, then back at Sarah. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”

  “Nothing,” she says, plopping down behind her desk, tears running freely down her face. “I’m fine. Just ignore me. In case you haven’t noticed, Sebastian and I have been having problems.”

  Finally, I think to myself. She admits it. I reach for the box of tissues I keep on my desk, then roll my chair toward her to pass it to her.

  “What kinds of problems?” I ask, thinking about how delighted this will make Tom and Steven. Not delighted that Sarah is unhappy, of course, but delighted that she and Sebastian are breaking up, because they can’t stand him.

  “Well,” Sarah says, taking a handful of tissues and pressing them to her face, “if you must know, they’re problems about the future of our relationship. I feel ridiculous discussing this with you two, because you’re so happy, both engaged—”

  Lisa glances at me sharply. “You’re engaged?”

  I shrug. “Nothing official. We’ve just discussed it.”

  “—and I can’t even get a guy who carries a murse to commit,” Sarah wails.

  “Well,” I say, scooting my office chair closer to Sarah’s desk, “if Sebastian can’t see how great you are, you’re better off without him.”

  “No, I’m not,” Sarah wails. “I love him, even though he’s a rat bastard who didn’t have the courtesy to tell me to my face that he’s moving to Israel.” Sarah pulls out her phone and shows me the screen. “He texted me. Can you believe that? He’s leaving for a year and a half to join the Israeli Defense Forces. He feels like it’s his duty, as a Jewish American. Why can’t he just go live on a kibbutz for a summer, like I did?”

  Then Sarah is off, going on about how Sebastian will get himself killed, and how she’s never heard anything so stupid . . . although, on the other hand, Sebastian probably will develop excellent muscle definition. But what is the point, since some hot Israeli girl who looks like Natalie Portman is just going to steal his heart away (Sarah says)?

  Lisa appears stunned. She’s never before been subject to one of Sarah’s impassioned speeches. Fortunately, this one is cut off (just as Sarah is getting to the part about how if Sebastian thinks she’s going to wait for him, he’s crazy) by a knock.

  “Excuse me.” We all turn to see Mrs. Upton standing in the doorway, her hands on her daughter Cassidy’s shoulders. Mrs. Upton is wearing white jeans and a subdued but very expensive-looking top. Cassidy is wearing cutoffs, Uggs, and an obstinate expression.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Mrs. Upton says. “But I received this letter under the door”—she flashes a note on Fischer Hall Director’s Office stationery—“requesting a meeting with me, and I was wondering if this would be a good time.”

  “This is a great time,” Lisa says, springing up from the couch and heading into her office. Tricky darts after her. “Won’t you both come in?”

  “Good,” Mrs. Upton says, giving me a smile that doesn’t go all the way up to her eyes, then flashing Sarah a What’s wrong with you? look as she and her daughter follow Lisa into her office. “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, so thank you for giving us this opportunity to clear it up.”

  “Oh,” I hear Lisa say as she closes the door, “there’s no misunderstanding, Mrs. Upton—”

  After this, their voices are muted, but it’s still possible to hear every word they’re saying through the long grate above my desk and Sarah’s. Even Sarah is intrigued enough that she stops crying and leans over to listen.

  “What?” Mrs. Upton exclaims, sounding startled after something Lisa murmurs. “Cassidy most certainly did not. Cassidy already told me everything, and it was that horrible girl Mallory. She was the one who—”

  “Mrs. Upton,” Lisa interrupts calmly, “we have security cameras in the game room. Would you like me to play the tape on which your daughter is clearly shown—”

  “No, I would not.”

  After that, things become more muted. I grow tired of having to listen so hard and say gently to Sarah, “So, are you going to be all right?”

  Sarah looks down at her lap. “I guess so. This is my first breakup. First breakups are supposed to be hard, aren’t they?”

  I think about my first breakup. It had been with Jordan. Now that I’m with Cooper, my love for Jordan seems like a silly schoolgirl crush, gotten over in a day. If Cooper and I were to break up—which I can’t imagine would ever happen, unless he died—it would take years to get over, maybe a lifetime.

  “Breakups are hard,” I say. “But they get a little bit easier every day, until one day you meet someone who makes you forget all about that other person, and you realize that breakup was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “Really?” Sarah looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m finding that nearly impossible to believe right now.”

  “Truly,” I assure her. “Although rocky road ice cream also helps a lot.”

  Sarah sighs. “I guess I better go see if they’ve got any in the caf.”

  “Here,” I say, handing her my dining card. “It’s on me.”

  She hesitates as if she’s not going to take it, then changes her mind. “I’m sorry I’ve been so horrible lately,” she says as she gets up. “I guess you know why now. I knew Sebastian was thinking about doing this, but I never imagined he’d go through with it. I guess I thought if he loved me enough, that love would be strong
er than his urge to go . . . but it wasn’t.”

  “He could love you and still feel like he needs to do this anyway, Sarah,” I say gently. “That doesn’t mean his love for you isn’t strong. It means it’s just a different kind of love than the love he has for . . . well, this thing he has to do.”

  “Yeah,” Sarah says, looking down at my dining card. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Like I said, I’m not waiting around for him.”

  “I didn’t say you should. But I didn’t hear you say he broke up with you. He just texted you that he’s going. You’re the one breaking up with him over it. And if you love him, that seems kind of unfair. Maybe you guys need to talk some more about it—and not in texts.”

  Sarah turns my dining card over in her hands a few times. “Okay,” she says finally. “I guess I owe him that much at least.” Then she glances at me. “When did you get so smart about this stuff?”

  “Well, I am taking Psych 101,” I say modestly.

  Sarah shakes her head. “No,” she says. “That doesn’t explain it. That course is just an overview,” and then she leaves.

  The door to Lisa’s office opens and Mrs. Upton comes out, Cassidy dragging the heels of her Uggs behind her.

  “I sincerely hope,” Mrs. Upton is saying, “that you’ll be having those boys down here, Ms. Wu, because they were as instrumental as the girls in all of this, if not more so, because they’re older—”

  “I’m aware of that, Mrs. Upton,” Lisa says. “And while they’ve already been disciplined by their athletic coach, you can be certain they’ll be receiving an administrative sanction from this office as well.”

  “What about Mallory?” Cassidy finally opens her mouth to demand. “She was drinking too. Isn’t anything going to happen to her?”

  “Mallory will be hearing from me as well,” Lisa says. “Bridget too.”

  A self-satisfied smirk spreads across Cassidy’s face . . . at least until her mother takes her arm and says, “Come on, Cass. Let’s go get breakfast. We have a lot of talking to do, young lady.”

  As soon as they’re gone, Lisa collapses back onto the couch in my office with a groan. Tricky leaps onto her stomach, and Lisa lets out another groan. “Tricks, get off,” she says and shoves him to the side, where he sits, looking dejected.

  “I’m never having kids,” Lisa declares.

  “Really?” I ask, interested.

  “Did you listen to that woman back there?” Lisa throws me an incredulous look. “She is convinced her precious Cassidy could never have done what we caught her dead to rights on tape doing. And that Cassidy—holy moly, I wanted to punch that kid in the mouth. If she wasn’t smirking, she was simpering. Don’t get me wrong, some kids are great. But enough is enough, man. Between us, Cory and I have eight brothers and sisters, and now we’re going on nineteen nieces and nephews. I’ve been changing diapers nonstop since I was ten. If I have to empty one more Diaper Genie, I’m going to puke.”

  I look at her in astonishment. I wasn’t expecting this kind of revelation from her.

  “So why bother getting married?” I ask. “Why not just live together?”

  “Well, I still want presents,” she says, looking at me like I’m an idiot. “Like I said, we’re from big families, and both Cory and I were in the Greek system in college. I’ve been a bridesmaid eight times. It’s time for a little payback. And they better fork over the loot. I want a top-of-the-line blender so I can have you up after work for margaritas.”

  “Cool,” I say, smiling. “Invitation accepted.”

  “I’ll show you my registry online sometime. Since you’re getting married, you need to learn the ropes.”

  “I-I’m not,” I stammer. “I mean, we’re not planning on a big wedding. We’re eloping, actually.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Lisa says with a shrug. “People will still want to buy you stuff, so you better register or they’ll get you crappy shit you don’t want. What’s that?” She points at something on my desk.

  “This?” I hand her the PNG form. “Just something I made up this morning.”

  She reads it quickly. “God. Is this the guy? The guy from yesterday?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I was thinking . . . should I change it from ‘murder’ to ‘suspected murder’?”

  Lisa studies the PNG for a while. Then she hands it back to me and says, “How about simply ‘harassment’? The thing is, they haven’t proved he murdered or assaulted anyone yet, and we don’t want to leave the college open to any lawsuits if he should happen to see this. That’s the kind of world we’re living in. We say he murdered someone, and he didn’t, and he can sue us. It’s harder to define harassment . . . a guy whipped out his junk to show it to me on the subway the other day. I suppose he thought it was a compliment.”

  As a native New Yorker, Lisa must find this kind of thing pretty run-of-the-mill . . . as, apparently, are guys who stalk and kill people, like on my PNG. So run-of-the-mill, you have to be careful not to insult them.

  “Actually,” she goes on, “this is a good story to tell the campers when we go on the subway to the hospital this afternoon. Many of them not only may never have taken public transportation in a large city, they may never have encountered a flasher before. I want to make sure they know what to do.”

  “What did you do?” I ask her. “When the guy whipped out his junk?”

  “Oh,” she says with a shrug, passing the PNG back to me, “I took a video of him with my cell phone. He got off at the next stop and ran away. I posted the video on YouTube and Facebook. I hope his mom sees it. I’m sure she’d be very proud to know how her boy turned out.”

  “That is exactly,” I say, “the kind of story the girls who go to Tania Trace Rock Camp need to hear.”

  Chapter 21

  Hebrew Fever

  Joshua and Jericho

  Moses and the deep red sea

  Why does my name only echo?

  Why does he never think of me?

  I’ve got Hebrew fever

  But he sees only her

  I’ve got Hebrew fever

  Why won’t he leave her?

  I’ve known but one Israelite

  My heart for him’s like Isaac’s rock

  But no late ram, no saving light

  To him I’m nothing but a lost sock

  I’ve got Hebrew fever

  But he only sees her

  I’ve got Hebrew fever

  Why won’t he leave her?

  From Tel Aviv to Haifa

  From Elat to Jerusalem

  They dance and sing the hora

  As if there was no one but them*

  I’ve got Hebrew fever

  But he only sees her

  I’ve got Hebrew fever

  Why won’t he leave her?

  *Alternate line: I am filled with dirty phlegm

  This song written, produced, and created by

  Sarah Rosenberg, New York College

  Department of Housing.

  All Rights Reserved

  “So when you sit down to write a song,” says Tania, sitting perched on a high stool at the far end of the second-floor library, well away from the windows, “what you want to do is tell a story—”

  A hand goes up. Tania points at the hand. “Yes? Your name?”

  “Emmanuella,” the owner of the hand says. “Yeah, so—”

  Stephanie, standing beside Tania, out of the way of the cameras, makes an urgent Stand up! Stand up, you fool! motion with her arms at Emmanuella. Emmanuella, a plump, bright-eyed girl with blue-framed glasses, finally gets the message and stands up. A collective sigh of relief is heard from the film crew.

  “So my question is, how do you know what to write about?” Emmanuella asks. “I get that a song has to tell a story, but how do you know which story to tell? I have so many ideas in my head—stuff happens to me every day, and I think, Oh, that might make a good song, but then I write it down and it just seems dumb.”

  Cassidy, whom I happen to be sittin
g close to—she’s on a couch next to her best frenemy Mallory; I’m on the floor, out of camera range—leans over to say, “She’s dumb,” to Mallory. Mallory giggles.

  “Shhh,” Sarah hisses at the two of them. Sarah, who’s sitting beside me, has written down every word Tania has said during the songwriting section of the rock camp, having decided that this might be a therapeutic way to work through her grief over her breakup with Sebastian, which is on-going.

  I try not to take it personally that Sarah has been sitting next to me for nearly a year and never once asked me a question about songwriting, even though I’ve written way more songs than Tania ever has. I’ve never actually sold one, though, so point taken.

  “Try writing something about which you feel passionate,” Tania says, in answer to Emmanuella’s question. “My best songs all come from my heart. They tell stories about times when I felt real emotion about something . . . or I guess, someone—”

  Tania casts down her long—fake—eyelashes shyly, and all the girls titter excitedly. They think she’s talking about Jordan. The effect is pretty cute, like Tania is embarrassed to have been caught thinking about her crush, which just happens to be on her adorable rock-star husband . . .

  But of course, I know she’s talking about someone else, and it isn’t Jordan.

  Jordan has made a few appearances in Fischer Hall, though, ever since Tania—to my utter surprise—decided to take the speech I gave her to heart, got out of bed, and started showing up at her own rock camp. Every time either of them has set foot in the building, a frisson has seemed to come over the place. Far from people being upset with Tania for what’s happened, however, the frisson isn’t from fear. It’s excitement. People—even people who hate both her and Jordan’s music, like Sarah—have come to adore the two of them. They’re so attractive that when they’re together, they radiate an almost otherworldly glow.