Size 12 Is Not Fat

by Meg Cabot

  “Aw, shit,” Gavin says, because he hadn’t been quick enough to escape, like his friends. “Busted!”

  “You are so busted you’re gonna be sleeping in the park tonight,” I assure him, even though no one’s ever gotten thrown out of the hall for elevator surfing…at least until now. Who knew, in light of recent events, if the board of trustees would get a backbone? You have to do something really bad—like hurl a meat cleaver at your RA, as a kid had done last year, according to a file I’d found—to be asked to leave the residence halls.

  And even then, the kid was allowed back the following fall, after proving he’d spent the summer in counseling.

  “Goddammit!” Gavin screams into the shaft, but I don’t worry. That’s just Gavin.

  “Do you think this is funny?” I ask him. “You know two girls died doing this in the past two weeks. But you just woke up this morning and thought you’d go for a joyride anyway?”

  “They was amateurs,” Gavin says. “You know I got the creds, Heather.”

  “I know you’re a jackass,” I reply. “And stop talking like you come from Bed-Stuy, everyone knows you grew up in Nantucket. Now get down. And if you aren’t in Rachel’s office by the time I’m downstairs, I’m having the locks changed on your door and confiscating all your stuff.”

  “Shit!” Gavin disappears, slithering through the elevator cab’s roof and scraping the ceiling panel back into place behind him.

  Elevator 2 begins its long descent to the lobby, and I sit for a minute, enjoying the darkness and the lack of noise. I really like the elevator shafts. They are the most peaceful places in the whole dorm—I mean, residence hall.

  When people aren’t falling down them, anyway.

  When I let myself down—and no judge would give me a ten for my dismount—Cooper is standing in one corner of the car, his arms folded across his broad chest, his features twisted into a scowl.

  “What was that?” he asks, as I reach for the control lever and start bringing us back down to the main floor.

  “That was just Gavin,” I say. “He does that all the time.”

  “Don’t give me that.” Cooper sounds genuinely angry. “You did that on purpose. To show me what a real elevator surfer is like, and how much the two dead girls don’t fit the bill.”

  I glare at him. “Oh, right,” I say. “You think I prearranged that whole thing with Gavin? You think I knew in advance you were going to come over to shove my ex’s engagement announcement in my face, and I called Gavin and was like, ‘Hey, why don’t you take a spin on Elevator Two and I’ll come up and bust you to prove to my friend Cooper the difference between real elevator surfers and wannabes’?”

  Cooper looks slightly taken aback…but not for the reason I think.

  “I didn’t come over to shove it in your face,” he says. “I wanted to make sure you saw it before some reporter from the Star sprang it on you.”

  Realizing I’d maybe been a little harsh, I say, “Oh yeah. You said that.”

  “Yeah,” Cooper says. “I did. So. Do you do that a lot? Climb on top of elevator cars?”

  “I wasn’t climbing. I was sitting,” I say. “And I only do it when someone reports hearing someone in the shafts. Which is another reason it’s so weird about Elizabeth and Roberta. No one reported hearing them. Well, until Roberta fell—”

  “And you’re the one who has to go after them?” Cooper asks. “If someone hears them?”

  “Well, we can’t ask the RAs to do it. They’re students. And it isn’t in the maintenance workers’ union contract.”

  “And it’s in yours?”

  “I’m nonunion,” I remind him. I can’t help wondering what he’s getting at. I mean, is he actually worried about me? And if so, is it just as a friend? Or as something more? Is he going to throw on the brake and stop the elevator and snatch me into his arms and whisper raggedly that he loves me and that the thought of losing me makes his blood run cold?

  “Heather, you could seriously injure, if not kill, yourself doing something that stupid,” he says, making it pretty obvious that the snatching me into his arms thing isn’t going to happen. “How could you—” Then his blue eyes crinkle into slits as he narrows them at me. “Wait a minute. You like it.”

  I blink at him. “What?” Yeah, that’s me. Miss Ready with a Comeback.

  “You do.” He shakes his head, looking stunned. “You actually enjoyed that just now, didn’t you?”

  I shrug, not sure what he’s talking about. “It’s more fun than doing payroll,” I say.

  “You like it,” he goes on, as if I hadn’t even said anything, “because you miss the thrill of standing up in front of thousands of kids and singing your guts out.”

  I stare at him for a second or two. Then I burst out laughing.

  “Oh my God,” I manage to get out, between guffaws. “Are you serious with this?”

  Except that I can tell by his expression that he is.

  “Laugh all you want,” he says. “You hated singing the schlock the label gave you to sing, but you got a kick out of performing. Don’t try to deny it. It gave you a thrill.” His blue eyes crackle at me. “That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Trolling for murderers and chasing elevator surfers. You miss the excitement.”

  I stop laughing and feel color heating up my face again. I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  Well, okay, maybe I did. It’s true I’m not one of those people who get nervous about performing in front of a crowd. Ask me to make small talk with thirty people at a cocktail party, and you might as well ask me to define the Pythagorean theorem. But give me a song set and stick me in front of a microphone? No problem. In fact…

  Well, I sort of enjoy it. A lot.

  But do I miss it? Maybe a little. But not enough to go back. Oh no. I can never go back.

  Unless it’s on my terms.

  “That’s not why I went after Gavin,” I say. Because really, I don’t see the connection. Chasing after elevator surfers is nothing like performing in front of three thousand screaming preteens. Nothing at all. Besides, don’t I get enough psychoanalyzing from Sarah every day? Do I really need it from Cooper, too? “He could have killed himself up there—”

  “You could have killed yourself up there.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” I say, in my most reasonable voice. “I’m really careful. And as for—what did you call it? Trolling for murderers?—I told you, I don’t believe those girls were—”

  “Heather.” He shakes his head. “Why don’t you just give your agent a call and ask him to schedule a gig for you?”

  My jaw drops.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s obvious you’re aching to get out there again. I respect the fact that you want to get a degree, but college isn’t for everyone, you know.”

  “But—” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My hospital ward! My Nobel Prize! My date with him! Our joint detective agency and three kids—Jack, Emily, and baby Charlotte!

  “I…I couldn’t!” I cry. Then latch on to my one excuse: “I don’t have enough songs for a gig.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Cooper says, his gaze on the numbers of the floors we’re passing at a dizzying speed, 14, 12, 11….

  “What—what do you mean?” I stammer, my blood suddenly running cold. It’s true, then. He can hear me practicing He can!

  It’s Cooper’s turn to look uncomfortable, though. From his scowl, it’s clear he wishes he hadn’t said anything.

  “Never mind,” he says. “Forget about it.”

  “No. You meant something by it.” Why won’t he just admit it? Admit that he’s heard me?

  I know why. I know why, and it makes me want to die.

  Because he hates them. My songs. He’s heard them, and he thinks they suck.

  “Tell me what you meant.”

  “Never mind,” Cooper says. “You’re right. You don’t have enough songs for a gig. Forget I said anything. Okay?”

>   The cab hits the main floor. Cooper yanks back the gate and holds it open for me, looking less polite than murderous.

  Great. Now he’s mad at me.

  We’re standing in the lobby, and since it’s still pretty early in the morning—for eighteen-year-olds, anyway—we’re the only ones around, with the exception of Pete and the reception desk attendant, the former engrossed in a copy of the Daily News, the latter listening enraptured to a Marilyn Manson CD.

  I should just ask him. Just come out and ask him. He’s not going to say it sucks. He’s not his father. He’s not Jordan.

  But that’s just it. I can take criticism from Cooper’s father. I can take it from his brother. But from Cooper?

  No. No, because if he doesn’t like it—

  Oh God, stop being such a baby and DO IT. JUST ASK HIM.

  “Heather,” Cooper says, running a hand through his dark hair. “Look. I just think—”

  But before I have a chance to hear what Cooper just thinks, Rachel rounds the corner.

  “Oh, there you are,” Rachel says when she notices us. “Gavin’s in my conference room. I’m going to have a word with him in a minute. Thanks so much for making him come down. In the meantime, Heather, I was wondering if you could have the student worker go around and tape up these fliers.”

  Rachel hands me a sheaf of papers. I look down at them, and see that they are announcements for a lip-synch contest the student government has decided to throw in the Fischer Hall cafeteria after dinner.

  “At first I wasn’t going to let them,” Rachel seems to feel the need to explain. “I mean, holding something as silly as a lip-synch contest, in light of two such tragic deaths…but Stan thinks the kids can use something to take their minds off it. And I couldn’t help but agree.”

  Stan. Wow. Rachel sure is getting chummy with the boss.

  “Sounds good to me,” I say.

  “I was just heading into the cafeteria for a refill before tackling Gavin.” Rachel holds up her American Association for Counseling and Development coffee mug. “Anybody care to join me?”

  She says it to both of us, but her gaze is on Cooper.

  Oh my God. Rachel has just asked Cooper to have coffee with her. My Cooper.

  Of course, she doesn’t know he’s my Cooper. He’s not my Cooper. And the way things seem to be going, he’ll probably never be…

  Say no. I try to send my thought waves into his brain, like on Star Trek. Say no. Say no. Say no. Say—

  “Thanks, but I can’t,” Cooper says. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Success!

  Rachel smiles and says, “Maybe some other time, then.”

  “Sure,” Cooper says.

  And Rachel click-clacks away.

  When she’s gone, I say, showing no sign that I had, seconds before, been using Vulcan mind control on him, “Look. I gotta get back to work.” I hope he isn’t going to bring up what we’d been talking about in the elevator. I don’t think I could handle it. Not on top of the announcement of Jordan’s engagement. There’s only so much a girl can take in one day, you know?

  Maybe Cooper senses this. Either that or the fact that I won’t meet his gaze tips him off.

  In any case, all he says is, “Gotcha. I’ll see you later, then. And Heather—”

  My heart gives a lurch. No. Please, not now. So close. I’d been so close to escaping—

  “The ring,” he says.

  Wait. What? “Ring?”

  “Tania’s.”

  Oh! Tania’s engagement ring! The one that looks exactly like the one I threw back in his brother’s face!

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s not yours,” Cooper says.

  Then he leaves.

  14

  * * *

  You think she’s got

  So much sophistication.

  I think she’s just

  In need of medication.

  Why’d you pick

  Her instead of me

  When she’s in so much

  Need of therapy?

  What’s she got that I don’t have?

  What’s she give you that I can’t?

  How did she become your girl

  Instead of

  Me?

  “What’s She Got?”

  Performed by Heather Wells

  Composed by O’Brien/Henke

  From the album Staking Out Your Heart

  Cartwright Records

  * * *

  It’s actually kind of appropriate that the student government decides to throw a lip-synch contest at Fischer Hall. Because, let’s face it, New York College is primarily filled with kids who, like me, love to perform.

  Which is probably why they asked me to be one of the judges, an honor I readily accepted. But not because I needed to—as Cooper had suggested—feel the thrill of performing again, but because I figured if I were ever going to find the mysterious Mark/Todd (if he existed at all), it was going to be at some Fischer Hall social function, since the guy evidently lived in the building.

  And possibly worked there, as well, as Detective Canavan had—teasingly, I know—suggested to me.

  It seemed pretty impossible to believe that any of the people I work with could be a killer. But how else to explain the apparent access to the key cabinet? Not to mention the fact that both of the dead girls had had files in the hall director’s office. Not that that necessarily had anything to do with their deaths. But, as Sarah would no doubt put it, both Elizabeth and Roberta had had issues…

  And those issues had been recorded in their files.

  The thing is, all fifteen RAs, as well as the maintenance staff, have keys to the office Rachel and I share. So if there really is some guy cruising the files for potentially fragile, inexperienced girls he can easily seduce, then it has to be someone I know.

  Only who? Who did I know who could be capable of doing something so awful? One of the RAs? Out of the fifteen of them, seven are boys, none of whom I consider real particular swingers, much less psychopathic killers. In fact, in the tradition of RAs, all of them are kind of nerdy—the sort who actually believe their residents when they insist they were smoking clove cigarettes, not pot. They seriously can’t tell the difference.

  Besides which, everybody in the whole building knows who the RAs are. I mean, the staff performs safer sex skits and stuff at dinnertime. If Mark or Todd had been an RA, Lakeisha would have known him by sight.

  As far as the maintenance staff is concerned, forget it. They’re all Hispanic and over fifty, and only Julio speaks enough English to be understood by someone not bilingual. Plus they’ve all worked in Fischer Hall for years. Why would they suddenly start killing people now?

  Which, of course, leaves just the women on the staff. I should, in light of diversity awareness, include them on my list of suspects…

  Only none of them could have left that condom in Roberta’s room.

  But I guess I’m the only one who considers it odd that two girls—who each had a file in my office, and who each happened to have found a boyfriend within a week of each other—both happened randomly to decide to go elevator surfing, then plunged to their deaths at around the same time the key to the elevator doors went missing, only to reappear shortly after the discovery of at least one of their bodies.

  Which is why at seven o’clock that night, I slip from the brownstone—I haven’t heard a peep from Cooper since the elevator incident that morning, which is fine with me, because frankly, I don’t know what I’m going to say to him when I do see him again.

  It’s also why I consequently walk right into Jordan Cartwright, who is just coming up the front stoop.

  “Heather!” he cries. He has on one of those puffy shirts—you know, like the kind they made fun of on Seinfeld—and a pair of leather pants.

  Yes. I am sorry to have to say it. Leather pants.

  What’s worse is, he really does look quite good in them.

  “I was just coming to see how you are,” he says, in a v
oice that drips with concern for my mental health.

  “I’m fine,” I say, pulling the door closed and working the locks. Don’t ask me why we have so many locks when we also have a burglar alarm and a dog and our own Rastafarian community watch program. But whatever.

  “Have a nice evening,” one of the drug dealers urges us.

  “Thank you,” I say to the drug dealer. To Jordan, I say, “I’m sorry, I really don’t have time to chat. I’ve got somewhere to go.”

  Jordan trots down the steps behind me.

  “It’s just,” he says, “I don’t know if you’ve heard. About Tania and me. I meant to tell you the other day, but you were so adversarial—I didn’t want you to find out this way, Heather,” Jordan says, keeping pace with me as I tear down the sidewalk. “I swear. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jordan,” I say. Why won’t he go away? “Really.”

  “Hey.” One of the drug dealers blocks our path on the sidewalk. “Aren’t you that guy?”

  “No,” Jordan says to the drug dealer. To me, he says, “Heather, slow down. We’ve got to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” I assure him, in my most cheerful voice. “I’m good. Everything’s good.”

  “Everything’s not good,” Jordan cries. “I can’t stand to see you hurting like this! It’s tearing me up inside—”

  “Oh, hey,” I say to the drug dealer who is trailing after us. “This is Jordan Cartwright. You know, from Easy Street.”

  “The dude from Easy Street!” the drug dealer cries, pointing at Jordan. “I knew it! Hey, look!” he calls to his friends. “It’s the dude from Easy Street!”

  “Heather!” Jordan is swallowed up in a crowd of autograph seekers. “Heather!”

  I keep right on walking.

  Well, what exactly was I supposed to do? I mean, he’s engaged. ENGAGED. And not to me.

  What more is there to say? It’s not like I don’t have more pressing concerns right now, too.

  Rachel seems kind of surprised to see me walk through the doors of Fischer Hall at night. She’s standing in the lobby just as I come in, and her eyes get kind of big.