Big Boned

by Meg Cabot

  “Well, that isn’t going to happen in this lifetime, honey,” Mrs. Price says. “I don’t have time for this now. I have to go to dressage. I told Ms. Wells to help herself to coffee. Stay away from that cherry crumble I made. It’s for my Home and Garden Association meeting tonight. Bye, now.”

  With that, Mrs. Price darts from the “great room.” A few seconds later, one of the Jaguars parked in front of the garage roars to life, and Mrs. Price peels out and drives away.

  “Wow,” I say, mostly to break the silence that follows. “She must really like dressage. Whatever that is.”

  “She doesn’t give a shit about dressage,” Jamie informs me disgustedly. “She’s screwing her instructor. Because, you know, she has principles.”

  “Oh.” I watch as Jamie comes all the way down the stairs, passes me, heads into the kitchen, takes one of the mugs off the antique-looking rack by the coffeemaker, and pours herself a cup. “I’ll take one of those, too,” I say.

  “Help yourself,” Jamie, gracious as her mother, says. She goes to the refrigerator, opens it, and pulls out a pint of half-and-half, sloshing a generous portion into her mug. Then, noticing my expression, she sloshes some into the mug I’ve taken down, as well, before returning the pint to the fridge.

  “So,” I say, as I pour coffee into my mug. “You don’t need to worry about Gavin. We’re posting his bail.”

  Jamie throws me a startled look. “You are?”

  I nod. The coffee is delicious. But it would be better with sugar. I look around for some. “He’ll be out in an hour or so.”

  “Oh my God.” Jamie pulls a chair from the purposefully old-looking kitchen table and sinks down into it like her legs couldn’t support her anymore, or something. Then she buries her face in her hands. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I say. I find the sugar and ladle a spoonful into my cup. Then, after a moment’s thought, another. Ah. Perfect. Well, almost. Whipped cream would make it perfect. But beggars can’t be choosers. “But I want something in return.”

  “Anything,” Jamie says, looking up. I’m surprised to see that her makeup-free face is wet with tears. “I’m serious. I’ve been freaking out all morning. I didn’t know where I was going to get that kind of money to bail him out. I’ll do anything. Just…thank you.”

  “Seriously,” I say, pulling out one of the chairs near hers. I can’t help noticing that Mrs. Price has set the cherry crumble down in the middle of the table to cool. It is in a clear glass deep dish, and the sugary crust over the top of the cherry filling is caramelized. Seriously, what kind of demon mom would leave something like that just sitting out, with no protective covering? No wonder Jamie seems to hate her so much. I know I would. “Like I said, don’t mention it. But what’s this thing Gavin told me about you and the Reverend Mark?”

  Jamie’s expression falls.

  “Oh,” she says gloomily. “He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about that.”

  “Jamie,” I say. “A man is dead. And you seem to think what happened to you might have something to do with it. You can’t tell me not to tell the police about it. You know they arrested someone for Dr. Veatch’s murder? Someone who may not have done it? At least, if what you’re saying is true.”

  Jamie is chewing her bottom lip. I can’t help noticing she’s eyeing the cherry crumble. I’m glad I’ve kept my spoon from the sugar bowl. You know, just in case I need it.

  “My parents wanted to make sure I kept up with the whole principle thing,” Jamie says, sipping her coffee, “when I went away to college. And I did. I joined the campus youth group. I like to sing. I don’t want to do it professionally, or anything, like you. I want to be an accountant. I just like to sing for fun. So I joined the youth group choir. I liked it. At least…I used to. Until Reverend Mark showed up.”

  To my complete and utter joy, she reaches for the cherry crumble, drags it toward her, and plunges her own spoon into it, cracking the caramelized crust over the top, and causing the thick cherry goo inside to cascade over the edge like lava. Popping the steaming spoonful into her mouth, she shoves the dish toward me. I follow her example.

  Hello. Heaven in my mouth. Mrs. Price may be a bitch. But she’s an angel in the kitchen.

  “What’d he do to you?” I ask with my mouth full. The crumble is hella hot, as Gavin would say.

  “Not just me,” Jamie points out, as I push the crumble back at her. “All the girls. And he doesn’t do anything obvious. Like, he’s not sticking his tongue down our throats or anything. But he brushes up against us every chance he gets when we’re setting up the risers, or whatever, then pretends like it was an accident, and apologizes.” She loads up her spoon, then pushes the dish back to me. “Touches our boobs, or our butts. It’s gross. And I know it’s not an accident. And eventually—not with me, because I’d haul off and break his nose, but with some girl who isn’t as big as me, and is afraid of him, or whatever—it’s going to go too far. And I want to stop it before it gets to that point. I want to stop it now.”

  I remember how Reverend Mark had blushed when Muffy Fowler had thrust her breast into his hand during our build-a-house-out-of-newspaper game. But that had been no accident…and on her initiative, not his. She’d been a willing, not unwilling, participant.

  I load up my own spoon. Now that the crumble’s crust has been broken, it’s cooling fast. But still just as delicious.

  “So you were going to report it to Dr. Veatch?” I ask.

  “I did report it,” Jamie says. “I mean, verbally, last week. I was supposed to have a follow-up meeting with him yesterday to fill out the formal written complaint that would go to Reverend Mark’s supervisor, and the board of trustees. Only—”

  “Someone shot him,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  “But what makes you think it was Reverend Mark that did the shooting? How did he even know you were meeting with Dr. Veatch?”

  Jamie winces. And not because she’s accidentally bitten down on a cherry pit.

  “I made the mistake of trying to get some of the other girls in the choir to go with me to report him. I mean, he was doing it to all of us. I figured if we all went together, we’d have a stronger case. You know how hard it is to prove these kinds of things. The problem was, the other girls, they—”

  “Some of them liked what he was doing?” I volunteer, when she hesitates.

  “Exactly,” Jamie says. “Or they didn’t think he was doing anything wrong, or believe it really was on purpose, and said that I was making a mountain out of a molehill.” Jamie takes an even bigger than normal heap of crumble, and stuffs it into her mouth. “Who knows? Maybe I was.”

  “Jamie,” I say. “You weren’t. If it made you uncomfortable, you were right to say something to someone.”

  “Maybe,” Jamie says, swallowing. “I don’t know. Anyway. One of the girls got so mad when she found out what I was doing, she warned Reverend Mark about it.”

  “God,” I say. I’d have killed that girl. I admire Jamie for her restraint in not doing so.

  “I know. He took me aside after our rehearsal the night before last and tried to talk to me about it. He made a joke out of it, saying he’s just a big friendly guy and doesn’t always know what he’s doing with his hands. It was so…gross.”

  I take a matching heap of crumble, and shove it into my own mouth. “You should have said you’re the same way, then ‘accidentally’ put your hand put down his pants,” I say.

  “Yeah, but he’d have liked that,” Jamie reminds me.

  “True.”

  “When he figured out I wasn’t buying it, he started going on about how my lodging a complaint was going to ruin his career, and that he would promise to do better if I just wouldn’t go to Dr. Veatch. That’s when I told him it was too late—that Dr. Veatch already knew, and that soon the whole college would. After that, Reverend Mark got really quiet, and said I could go. So then when I got to your office the next morning and Dr. Veatch
was dead—”

  “You assumed Reverend Mark had silenced him forever,” I say. “And that you were destined to be his next victim.”

  “Exactly,” Jamie says, thoughtfully scraping the sides of the dish with her spoon so there’ll be no crust to have to scour before loading into the dishwasher. I join her. I can see it’s going to take our combined, united efforts to finish this crumble. I mean, bring down Reverend Mark.

  “I want you to come back to the city with me, and tell everything you just told me to a detective friend of mine,” I say. “You don’t have to worry about Reverend Mark going after you—if he’s the real killer, I mean. Detective Canavan won’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Jamie wants to know.

  “Easy,” I say, “I’ll make him persona non grata in Fischer Hall. So you’ll be safe there.”

  “I don’t know,” Jamie says, chewing crystallized bits of sugary crust.

  “Jamie, seriously. What alternative do you have? You’re going to stay here in Rock Ridge for the rest of your life, with your mom and dad? Gavin’s going back to the city with us. Don’t you want to hang out with him?”

  One of Jamie’s eyebrows goes up, as do the corners of her now cherry-stained mouth.

  “Well. Yeah,” she admits, slowly. “I guess. He’s sweet. And so understanding. There aren’t a lot of guys who’d sit and listen to a girl carry on like a crazy person the way I was doing last night…Well, I guess that makes sense, on account of his mom being a gynecologist, and all.”

  I try not to say anything. I mean, it’s none of my business, really.

  “Do you…” Jamie looks at me with her blue eyes very wide. “Do you think…do you think he wants to hang out with me?”

  I can’t help rolling my own blue eyes. “Uh, yeah, Jamie, I do. Besides, when your mom gets home and finds out what we did to her crumble, she’s going to kill you for sure. So you’re safer back in the city anyway.”

  Jamie’s grin broadens. “Okay. Let me take a shower and grab my stuff.”

  “Deal,” I say, and lean back in my chair.

  When she’s gone, I surreptitiously undo the top button to my jeans. Because the truth is, even though I matched her spoonful for spoonful, I can’t keep up with these kids the way I used to. I really can’t.

  It’s depressing, but true.

  16

  * * *

  No use putting rose petals on my bed

  That’s not the way you’ll win me

  Take back that box from Tiffany

  All I want’s an ice cream sundae

  “Chocolate Lover”

  Written by Heather Wells

  * * *

  The snarling inflatable rat is gone from the front of Fisher Hall by the time we pull up after our visit to the Sixth Precinct. The protesters have moved themselves (and their rat) to the library, where they can probably get more attention anyway, since that’s where President Allington’s offices are.

  Fortunately, the news vans have moved along with them, so Cooper easily finds a place to pull over and let us all out.

  Still, even though Gavin’s the one who caused all the trouble by spending the night in jail, my arm is the one Cooper snags as I’m getting out of his car.

  “Hold on a minute,” he says, as the kids tumble out onto the sidewalk. He waits until they’re safely inside the building and out of earshot before asking, “So you’re gonna PNG Halstead. Then what are you going do?”

  It seems to me that my making Mark Halstead persona non grata in Fischer Hall is about the only wrist slapping the good reverend is going to receive. Detective Canavan had seemed less than impressed by Jamie’s story, but said he’d “look into Halstead’s whereabouts” the morning of Dr. Veatch’s murder. This had seemed to satisfy Jamie…

  But not me. I could tell Detective Canavan felt as if they already had their killer and was going to do about as much looking into Halstead’s whereabouts the morning of Dr. Veatch’s murder as the college had done looking into Mark Halstead’s previous employment record. Which, I knew, was nil.

  “I don’t know,” I say to Cooper. I am slightly distracted by the size of the hand around my wrist. Cooper’s a big guy. Bigger than Tad. His fingers are warm against my skin. “My job, I guess? Payroll’s due soon. I gotta send a reminder to the kids to fill out their time sheets.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Cooper says. “And you know it.”

  I sort of do know it. But I’m having trouble meeting his gaze—which is very blue, and very intent—with my own. My mouth has suddenly gone very dry, and my heart appears to be having some sort of attack—palpitations or simply a stoppage, it’s hard to say. My chest feels tight. I’m glad I showed my student workers Punky Brewster CPR training videos for fun during my annual Final Exam Holiday Cookie Decorating Study Break. I’m the one who’s probably going to end up needing it, when I go staggering inside in a few minutes.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, keeping my gaze on his fingernails. They are not exactly manicured, unlike his brother’s. “I’m not going to start investigating Dr. Veatch’s murder on my own. I totally got the message yesterday, with the whole Mafioso thing.”

  “That’s not what I mean, either.”

  “Well, if you mean am I going to go over to the college chapel and pretend I have a soul that needs unburdening, and request Reverend Mark as the only guy to whom I can unburden it, in the hopes that he’ll try to feel me up so I can report him to the board of trustees myself,” I say, “I’m not going to do that, either, because I have to have at least a little face time in my office today, or risk losing my job.”

  “I’m not talking about that, either,” Cooper says, in an uncharacteristically frustrated voice.

  I take a chance on glancing up then, and am surprised to see that he isn’t even looking at me, but at some distant point somewhere over my left shoulder. But when I turn my head to see what’s so fascinating over there, the only thing I see is a Ryder rental truck parked in front of the building Owen lived in, right down the street from Fischer Hall. Which is weird, because it isn’t even the end or middle of the month. So who would be moving in or out? A couple must be divorcing, or something.

  When I look back at Cooper again, he’s let go of my wrist, and turned to face the steering wheel once more.

  “You better go,” he says, in his normal, slightly sardonic tone. “Payroll’s waiting.”

  “Um.” Wait. What had he been going to say? Stupid Ryder truck! Stupid people, splitting up! “Yeah. I guess I better. Thanks for driving me up to Rock Ridge and for all your help with Gavin and Jamie and everything…”

  Cooper does something that astonishes me then. He actually smiles at the mention of Gavin’s name.

  Now I’m definitely going to need CPR. Because that smile causes a blockage in all of my major arteries.

  “I guess you were right all along,” he says. “He’s not such a bad kid, after all.”

  Okay. What is going on with him?

  But before I have time to figure it out, someone calls my name, and I look up and see Sarah standing on the sidewalk, staring at me, a nervous expression on her face.

  At least I think it’s Sarah.

  “Uh…see you at home, Heather,” Cooper says, taking in Sarah’s outfit with a raised eyebrow. It doesn’t take a trained detective to see that Sarah has undergone a radical makeover—she’s in lipstick and high heels, contact lenses instead of glasses, her hair blown and smooth, her legs bare and actually shaved. What’s more, she’s wearing a skirt—her skirt from her interview suit, maybe, with a white blouse that appears to have an actual Peter Pan collar (I didn’t know they even make those anymore).

  But it’s a skirt, just the same.

  She looks good. More than good. She looks hot. In a naughty librarian kind of way.

  “Um…bye,” I say to Cooper, as I get slowly out of the car, and shut the door behind me.

  Cooper shakes his head
and drives away, leaving me alone with Sarah on the sidewalk. I realize I’ll just have to deal with him—and that heart-attack-inducing smile of his—later.

  Although to be truthful, the fact that tonight will be the first night that my dad will be fully moved out—the first night in months that Cooper and I will actually be alone together in the brownstone—does cause my heart actually to skip a beat.

  Stop it, Heather. You are engaged—well, practically—to another man. A man with whom you should be spending the night tonight.

  Funny how the thought of spending the night with Tad does nothing whatsoever to my heartstrings.

  Even though they’re a quarter of a mile away, I can hear the protesting GSCers chanting in front of the library. What they’re chanting, exactly, I can’t tell. But I can hear their strident voices, off in the distance, as clearly as I can hear the traffic on Sixth Avenue a block away.

  “Hi, Heather,” Sarah says, fidgeting with her skirt. “I…I wanted to talk to you, but you…you were gone.”

  “I had to run an errand,” I say, lamely. “Why aren’t you over there protesting? Why are you so dressed up?”

  Sarah’s pretty face—yes! She actually looks pretty, for once—twists.

  “Do I look too dressed up?” she asks anxiously. “I do, don’t I? I should go back upstairs and change? I was just—I was looking for you, to see what I should wear, but you weren’t around, so I asked Magda instead, and Magda—Magda did it.”

  I look Sarah up and down. She looks, to be honest, fantastic. “Magda did this?”

  “Yes. It’s too much, isn’t it? I knew it. I told her it was too much. I’m going back inside to change.”

  I grab her wrist before she can do so.

  “Hold on,” I say. “You look great. Honest. It’s not too much. At least, I don’t think so. Where are you going?”

  A pink blush that has nothing to do with powder suffuses Sarah’s cheeks.

  “Sebastian’s parents are in town,” she says. “He was arraigned this morning. They’ve posted his bail. I’m…I’m meeting them in Chinatown. We’re going to get something to eat.”