Size 12 and Ready to Rock (6 page)

“And we ain’t signing no waivers,” the male EMT says loudly as he and his partner cross the living room to Tania’s side.

Stephanie’s vein begins to throb so wildly, I’m scared it’s going to burst.

Cooper must have noticed the same thing, since he says, “Maybe we should go outside. Isn’t that a terrace out there? It might be a little cooler.”

Cooper’s being polite. He knows perfectly well that there is a terrace outside the Allingtons’ apartment. I was almost murdered on it once.

“Yes, great idea,” Christopher says quickly. He claps his hands. “Okay, hey, everyone, let’s take five and give our star some privacy while she gets checked out by these nice, er, ambulance people. Drinks in the fridge in the kitchen if anyone wants them—”

“Guarana?” asks the sound mixer in a hopeful voice as he drops the boom and strips off his earphones.

“Guarana for Marcos,” Christopher says. “Red Bull for everyone else. You guys want anything?” He looks at Cooper and me and without waiting for an answer says, “Hey, Lauren, grab us all some bottled waters—”

The film crew stampedes for the Allingtons’ kitchen as Christopher throws open the French doors that lead to the wraparound terrace off the dining and living area of his parents’ penthouse. Instantly a cool breeze hits us. The air this high up—we’re twenty floors from the street—seems fresher and cleaner than the air below. You can barely hear the traffic, but through some acoustical trick you
can
occasionally hear the sound of the fountain jets in Washington Square Park. The 360-degree views of Manhattan are stunning—the twinkling city lights and even, on a clear night like this one, the moon and a few stars.

It’s out on this terrace that the Allingtons do most of their entertaining when they’re in town, catered affairs with professional waitstaff in black-and-white uniforms. It’s out on this terrace that I also once almost lost my life. I try never to think about this, however. The professor of the class I’m taking this summer session (Psych 101) says that this is called disassociation and that it almost always comes back to haunt people.

I’m willing to take my chances.

“Who
are
you anyway?” Stephanie Brewer turns to ask me as we step toward a set of green-and-white-striped settees. “I think President Allington will be interested to hear how unhelpful you were during all of this. He and his wife are big fans of CRT, for your information.”

Cooper, who has overheard this, looks angry. “I’m sorry,” he says to Stephanie, though he doesn’t appear sorry at all. “Did I forget to introduce—”

“Heather,” I interrupt. I can see what Cooper’s about to do. He doesn’t like the way Stephanie is treating me—as if I’m some kind of underling—and he wants to let her know that I’m someone special.

But I get sneered at and spoken down to by people like Stephanie every single day. Like millions of administrators and service industry workers, I’ve gotten used to it, though I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. It might make sense if I wasn’t good at my job, like Simon, but I am. Stephanie shouldn’t treat
anyone
the way she’s been treating me, though . . .

Which is why I don’t want Cooper pointing out to her that I used to be famous. And he
definitely
shouldn’t give away the secret we’ve been guarding so closely for so many months—that I’m dating her boss’s son—just to teach her an etiquette lesson.

“I’m the Fischer Hall assistant director,” I say to her. “When you complain to President Allington about me, be sure to get the name right. My last name is Wells.” I spell it for her.

“Tell my dad too,” Cooper says as he pulls one of the green-and-white-striped lounge chairs out for me to sit on. “I’m sure Grant will get a kick out of hearing how you met Heather, Stephanie.”

I shoot him a dirty look since he’s spoiled my plan, but he only frowns at me. Cooper doesn’t like it when I “diminish my extraordinary accomplishments,” as he puts it, by not introducing myself as
the
Heather Wells, youngest artist ever to top the Billboard charts with a debut album, and the first female to have both an album and a single simultaneously at number one (
Sugar Rush
).

Honestly, though, what person who is practically thirty goes around reminding people of something they did when they were fifteen? That’s like using a picture of yourself as your high school’s quarterback or homecoming queen as your Facebook photo.

I can see in the glow of the terrace’s fairy lights, however, that it’s too late. Stephanie’s already figured it out, thanks to Cooper’s hint. I can tell the exact moment I go from being the shrewish college administrator in Stephanie’s eyes to Heather Wells, former pop teen sensation, and one of her boss’s biggest success stories . . . until I gained a few pounds, insisted on writing my own songs, and suddenly wasn’t so successful anymore.

I can’t hold it against Cooper, though, because Stephanie realizes she’s put her size 7 foot in it, and it’s amusing to watch her backpedal.

“Oh,
that’s
why you look so familiar,” Stephanie says, graciously holding her perfectly manicured hand out to me across the glass table between our two chairs. “ ‘Don’t tell me stay on my diet, you have simply got to try it,’ ” she sings, perfectly on pitch. “God, I can’t tell you how many times I must have listened to ‘Sugar Rush’ when I was younger. It was my favorite song. You know, before we all moved away from pop and on to real music?”

I keep my own smile frozen on my face. Real music? I hate that so much. Some people seem to forget that “pop” is short for “popular.” The Beatles were considered pop musicians. So were the Rolling Stones. Stephanie seems to be forgetting pop music pays her salary, and the salaries of everyone working for Cartwright Records. Give me a break.

“Right,” I say as Stephanie crushes my fingers in her own. She must do Pilates. Or press diamonds out of coal with her bare hands.

“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you right away,” Stephanie gushes. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Still, you look great. So healthy. Your skin is glowing.”

When skinny girls say that you look healthy and your skin is glowing, what they mean is that they think you look fat and you’re sweating. Cooper and Christopher are sitting there, completely oblivious to the fact that Stephanie has insulted me to my face.

I know it, but I’m going to let it go, because I’m the bigger person. Not just literally but metaphorically as well. I believe what you put out into the universe comes back to you times three, which is why I try only to say good things, except of course when it comes to Simon.

“Wow, thanks,” I say in the kindest voice I can muster.

Some of the members of the film crew are drifting out onto the terrace. All of them are holding cold drinks from the Allingtons’ refrigerator. Most of them are clutching cell phones to their ears, using their break to call friends or significant others to make plans for later, from the snatches of conversation I can hear floating toward us. The production assistant, Lauren, brings us each a bottle of cold mineral water, though neither Cooper nor I asked for one.

“Thanks,” I say to Lauren, again in my incredibly kind voice. So much goodness is going to come back from the universe, it’s amazing. I’m going to find the most beautiful dress to marry Cooper in, and all the students are going to behave like angels for the rest of the summer.

“You kinda disappeared off the face of the earth for a while there, didn’t you?” Stephanie says as she opens her bottle of water. Her smile is beatific. She clearly Botoxes. Too bad she can’t Botox her personality. Or that vein in her forehead. “So
this
is what you’re doing now?” she asks, gesturing around the Allingtons’ terrace. “Running a
dorm?
”

“Residence hall,” I correct her automatically. “But you probably know that already. It’s written at the top of the sign-in log.”

Stephanie looks blank. “The what?”

“The sign-in log,” I say. “You know, the one you’re required to sign whenever Christopher checks you in and out of the building?” I try not to make it sound like I know how many times she’s spent the night here, even though I do, or that I think it’s weird she sleeps over so much in her boyfriend’s parents’ apartment. “It says Fischer Hall is a college residence hall right across the top. You must have noticed that we require your signature and a valid form of photo ID every time you stay, so that if you break a housing regulation while you’re here—such as filming without authorization—we can hold you accountable for your actions.”

Stephanie stares at me across the glass patio table. “You’re serious,” she says in disbelief. “This is really what you do for a living.”

“Why not?” I ask, making my voice light with effort.

“Obviously I heard that your mother took off with all your savings,” she says. “But surely you still earn enough royalties from your songs that—”

I can’t help letting out a snort. Stephanie glances from me to Cooper in bafflement. “What?” she asks.

“You’re a Harvard MBA, Stephanie,” Cooper says, his tone mildly amused. “You should be familiar with how record companies—particularly your employer—cook their books.”

“I still get royalty statements from Cartwright Records claiming they haven’t earned back what they spent on the billboards advertising concerts I gave in Thailand ten years ago,” I explain to her, “so they feel they don’t owe me any money.”

Even in the fairy lights, I can see that Stephanie’s turned a little pink, embarrassed for her employer.

“I see,” she says.

“But things are good,” I hasten to assure her. “As part of the benefits package for working here, I can go to school for free to get my degree—”

“Oh,” Stephanie says knowingly. “So
that’s
what you’re doing, working here, getting your law degree so you can sue your mom . . . and Cartwright Records too, I presume?”

I put as much confidence as I can into the smile I give her.

“Not exactly,” I say.

The truth is that I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree. When everyone else my age was going to college, I was singing to packed malls and sold-out sports arenas.

I could still sue Cartwright Records, of course, but I’ve been assured by various legal experts that such a suit would take years, cost more than I’d ever win, and likely result only in a bad case of acid reflux . . . my own. Same thing with going after my mom.

“I’ve got . . . different priorities,” I explain to her. “Right now I’m taking classes toward a BA in criminal justice.”

“Criminal . . . justice?” she repeats slowly.

“Uh-huh,” I say. The incredulous look on her face is making me rethink my choice of majors. Is there a degree in advanced butt-kicking? If so, I’m signing up for it, and starting with hers.

“Heather Wells,” she says, shaking her head. “Heather Wells is working in a New York College dorm and getting a degree in
criminal justice
.”

I raise my fist only to have Cooper reach out to grasp it beneath the glass tabletop.

“New York College is lucky to have Heather,” Cooper says calmly, his gaze on Stephanie’s. “And so are the students who live in this residence hall. And I think Christopher might know a thing or two about how good Heather is at mitigating crime and upholding social justice. Don’t you, Chris?”

Christopher looks uncomfortable. “I might have heard a few things,” he mutters.

Stephanie glances curiously at Christopher. “Christopher, what on earth is he talking about?”

“In fact,” Cooper goes on, giving my hand a comforting squeeze, “it’s lucky for you, Stephanie, that it was Heather, and not someone else, who found you up here. She’s very good in a crisis. That’s one of the many reasons I’m marrying her.”

Chapter 5

Candy Man

I like candy

I’m a candy kind of girl

If you’ve got candy

Wanna give this girl a whirl?

I like candy

I eat it all I can

If you’ve got candy

Wanna be my candy man?

“Candy Man”

Written by Weinberger/Trace

Candy Man
album

Cartwright Records

Fourteen consecutive weeks

in the Top 10 Billboard Hot 100

I stare at Cooper from across the Allingtons’ table. He’s just told someone that we’re getting married. He’s never admitted this out loud before to
anyone.
It’s supposed to be a secret. And now he’s announced it to the producer of his brother’s reality TV show.

What is he thinking?

Christopher Allington and Stephanie Brewer look about as shocked as I am.

“Fiancée, huh?” Christopher finds his voice first. “Wow. That’s great.”

His expression indicates that what he actually means is,
Your funeral, buddy.

Stephanie can barely formulate a sentence.

“I . . . I had no idea. I thought . . . I understood you were friends, but I never imagined—”

“I believe the word you’re searching for, Ms. Brewer,” Cooper says, giving my hand a final squeeze before letting it go, “is ‘congratulations.’ ”

“Oh, of course,” Stephanie says. She smiles, but the gesture is more like a snarl. “It’s so great.”

I see Stephanie’s gaze drop to the ring finger of my left hand. It’s bare, of course.

As if he’s read her mind, Cooper says, “We’re eloping, so it’s a secret. If either of you tells anyone—including my brother or Tania—I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”