Size 12 Is Not Fat (22 page)

“That’s nice,” Cooper says. “Now let’s go. I told you I have an appointment. Well, I’m late for it as it is.”

“An appointment? An
appointment
?” I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. “Cooper, don’t you understand? Chris said—”

“I heard you,” Cooper says. “Congratulations. Now let’s go. I said I’d bring you here. I didn’t say I could stay all night. I do have actual paying clients, you know.”

I realize it’s futile. Even if Cooper did change his mind and let me go, I don’t have any idea where Chris has disappeared to. And how smart would it have been, really, for me to follow him? I mean, considering what happened to the last couple of girls with whom he’d—how had I put it? Oh yeah, dallied. Hey, maybe I should be an English major. Yeah. A novelist, AND a doctor. AND a detective. AND a jewelry designer…

Cooper and I slip outside. I don’t even have a chance to say good-bye to anyone, or congratulate Rachel on her Pansy. I’ve never seen a guy so eager to get out of one place.

“Slow down,” I say, as Cooper hustles me to the curb. “I got heels on, you know.”

“Sorry,” Cooper says, and drops my arm. Then he put his fingers to his mouth and whistles for a cab that’s cruising along West Fourth.

“Where are we going?” I ask curiously, as the cab pulls to the corner with a squeal of its brakes.

“You’re going home,” Cooper says. He opens the rear passenger door and gestures for me to get inside, then gives the driver the address of his grandfather’s brownstone.

“Hey,” I say, leaning forward in the seat. “It’s just right across the block. I could’ve walked—”

“Not alone,” Cooper says. “And I have to head in the other direction.”

“Why?” I don’t miss the fact that Marian the Art Historian has just slipped out the library doors behind us.

But instead of walking over and joining Cooper on the curb, she shoots him an extremely unfriendly look, then hurries off on foot toward Broadway.

Cooper, whose back is to the library, doesn’t see the professor, or the dirty look.

“I’ve got to see a man,” is all Cooper will say to me, “about a dog. Here.” He shoves a five-dollar bill at me. “Don’t wait up.”

“What dog?” The cab starts to move. “Cooper, what dog? Are you getting another dog? What about Lucy? What’s wrong with Lucy?”

But we’re already gliding out into traffic. Cooper has turned and strode off towards West Third Street. Soon I can’t see him at all.

What had all that been about? I mean, really. I know Cooper’s clients are important to him, and stuff. And I know he thinks this whole thing with me and the deaths in my building is like a figment of my imagination, or whatever.

But still. He could at least have listened to me.

That’s when the cab driver, who appears to be Indian—like from India, not Native American—says, helpfully, “I believe that’s an expression.”

I look at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “What is?”

“See a man about a dog,” the cab driver says. “It’s an Amer
ican expression. Like rolling stone gathers no moss. You know?”

I slump back into my seat. No, I didn’t know. I don’t know anything, apparently.

Well, I guess I knew that. I mean, isn’t that why I’m working at New York College? To get an education?

Well, I’m getting one, all right. And I haven’t even started classes yet.

After Cooper and I—and Chris Allington—left the Pansy Ball, Rachel Walcott was awarded a Pansy for exemplary service to the college.

She shows me the little flower-shaped pin the next morning, pride gleaming in her pretty brown eyes. She wears it on the lapel of her black linen suit jacket as if it were a medal of valor or something.

I guess maybe to her it kind of is. I mean, in a single semester, she’s had to deal with way more tragedy than most administrators have to face in their entire careers.

I’ve never won anything in my entire life. Well, okay, a recording contract, but that’s it. I know they don’t generally give out Grammys for songs like “Sugar Rush.” But hello, I never even won like a People’s Choice Award. Not even
Teen
People’s Choice.

And I was totally the Queen of Teen. At least, up until I stopped being one.

But I try not to let Rachel see my jealousy over her award. Not that I’m even that jealous. Just, you know.

I’d been the one who’d dragged all the boxes up from the basement. The boxes we’d packed up Roberta’s and Elizabeth’s things in. I’d been the one who’d packed them, too. And I’d been the one who’d dragged them to Mail Services, and had them shipped. I think I should get
something
for that. Not a Pansy, maybe, but like a Dandelion, maybe.

Oh well. When I’m able to prove that the girls’ deaths were the result of murder, and not accidental, and when I find out who their real killer is, maybe I’ll win like the key to the city, or something. Really! And the mayor’ll give it to me himself, and it will be broadcast on New York One, and Cooper will see it and realize that even though I’m not an art history professor or a size zero, I’m still totally smart and cute, and he’ll ask me out and we’ll get married and have Jack, Emily, and Charlotte Wells-Cartwright…

Well, a girl can dream, right?

And I
am
happy for Rachel. I congratulate her and sip my coffee as she describes what it had been like, winning this prestigious award in front of all her peers. She tells me how Dr. Jessup had hugged her and how President Allington had personally thanked her for services above and beyond the call of duty. She chatters excitedly about how she’s the first administrator in the history of New York College to receive seven separate nominations for the award,
the most any one person has ever garnered—and she’d gotten them all in just her first four months of employment! She says how glad she is that she’d gone into higher education instead of business or law, like so many of her fellow Yale grads.

“Doesn’t it feel good,” she asks me, “to know you’re making such a difference in people’s lives, Heather?”

“Um,” I say. “Sure.”

Although I’m pretty sure the people whose lives I’m making the biggest difference in—the student workers—just wish Justine would come back.

While Rachel winds down from her Pansy-induced high, I get on the phone and take care of a few things that I feel I’ve been neglecting.

First I call Amber in her room. When her sleepy voice croaks, “Yeah?” into the phone, I gently put the receiver back into the cradle. Okay, Amber’s still alive. Check.

Then I call St. Vincent’s to see how Jordan is doing. He is, I learn, doing better, but they still want to hold him for observation for another night. I don’t really want to, but I figure I should speak to him—you know, seeing as how it’s my fault he got hurt in the first place.

But when the switchboard puts my call through to his room, a woman answers. Tania. I can’t deal with fiancées early in the morning, so I hang up. I feel guilty about it though, and order a half-dozen get well balloons from a local florist, instructing them to be delivered to St. Vincent’s with the highly personal message,
Get Well Soon, Jordan. From Heather
. Likely they will get lost in all of the other gifts his fans are no doubt sending him—an overnight candlelight vigil also took place outside St. Vincent’s ambulance bay, apparently—but at least I can say I tried.

Thinking about Jordan and his cracked skull reminds me
of Christopher Allington. A real detective would, of course, follow up on the conversation we’d had the night before.

So I decide to take another crack at him. I tell Rachel I’m going to the bathroom. But really I go to the elevator and take it up to the twentieth floor.

No one’s supposed to go up to the twentieth floor but the Allingtons and their guests, which is why the carpet in the hallway outside the penthouse is really one big motion detector that goes off whenever somebody steps on it, including the Allingtons. This alarm causes a camera to be switched on, which then conveys an image of the interloper on a viewing screen at the guard’s desk in the lobby.

But since the guard on duty that day is Pete, I’m not too worried about being busted. We’ve caught any number of freshmen on the twentieth floor, most of whom have been sent there by conniving upper classmen in search of the “Fischer Hall pool.” The elusive Fischer Hall pool did once exist, but in the basement, not the penthouse, and it’s a favorite senior prank to send unsuspecting first-years to the twentieth floor in search of it, knowing they’ll trigger the motion detectors and get busted for being outside the president’s apartment.

I step boldly onto the nondescript carpeting and lift a finger to poke at the doorbell to the Allingtons’ apartment. I can hear a strange whistling sound beyond the door, and realize that this must be Mrs. Allington’s birds, the cockatoos about whom she worries so incessantly when she’s had too much to drink. When I press on the doorbell, the whistling turns into maniacal shrieking, and for a minute, I panic. Really. I forget all about being a detective slash novelist slash physician slash jewelry designer, and want to run back to the elevator…

But before I have a chance to ding and ditch, the door
swings open, and Mrs. Allington, bleary-eyed and dressed in a green velour caftan, blinks at me.

“Yes?” she demands, in a remarkably unfriendly manner, considering the fact that just two weeks or so ago, I’d held her hand while she barfed into one of the lobby planters. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of a six-foot-tall wicker cage, within which two large white birds scream at me.

“Uh, hi,” I say brightly. “Is Christopher here?”

Mrs. Allington’s puffy eyelids widen a little, then go back to normal. “What?”

“Chris,” I repeat. “Your son, Christopher. Is he here?”

Mrs. Allington looks truly pissed off. At first I think it’s because I’ve woken her up, but it turns out that’s only part of it.

No, what I’ve really done is outrage Mrs. Allington’s sense of propriety.

I know! Who even knew she had one? But it turns out she does.

She says, enunciating as carefully as if I were a foreigner, “No, Chris is not here, Justine. And if you had been raised properly, you’d know that it is considered highly inappropriate for young women to pursue boys so avidly.”

Then she slams the door very hard, causing her birds to shriek even more loudly in surprise.

I stand staring at the closed door for a minute or so. I have to admit, my feelings are kind of hurt. I mean, I’d thought Mrs. Allington and I were close.

And yet she’s
still
calling me Justine.

I probably should have just gone away. But, you know. I still needed to know where Chris was.

So I reach out and ring the bell again. The birds’ screaming rises to fever-pitch, and when Mrs. Allington pulls open the door this time, she looks not only pissed off, but practically homicidal.

“
What
?” she demands.

“Sorry,” I say, as politely as I can. “I really don’t mean to bother you. But could you just tell me where I might find Chris?”

Mrs. Allington has a lot of loose skin on her face. A lift here and there might have done the trick, but she really isn’t the nip-and-tuck type. She’s more the never-move-your-mouth-when-you-speak old money New England type. Kind of like Mrs. Cartwright. Only scarier.

Anyway, some of that loose skin beneath her chin trembles a little as she glares at me.

Finally she says, “Can’t you girls just leave him alone? You’re always chasing after him, causing him trouble. Can’t you just go after some other boy? Aren’t there plenty in this dorm?”

“Residence hall,” I correct her.

“
What
?”

“It’s a residence hall,” I remind her. “You said dorm. But it’s actually a—”

“Go to hell,” Mrs. Allington says, and she slams the door in my face again.

Wow. Talk about hostile. Instead of psychoanalyzing
me
all day, Sarah should maybe turn her attention to the Allingtons. They have
way
more problems.

Sighing, I turn around and press the down button for the elevator. I can’t be sure, but I think Mrs. Allington has maybe already been at the bottle…and it isn’t even ten o’clock in the morning yet! I wonder if she’s always soused this early, or if this is a special occasion. Like to celebrate Rachel’s Pansy Award, maybe.

When I get back downstairs, I nearly ram into this skinny girl in the hallway. She’s headed into Rachel’s office, so I start to ask if I can help her, but when she turns around, I see that it’s Amber.

That’s right.

Chris Allington’s Amber, from Idaho. The one I just woke up.

“Oh,” she says, recognizing me. “Hi.” Her
hi
is less than enthusiastic. That’s on account of her still being half asleep. She’s even in her pajamas. “You’re not—you’re not the hall director, are you?”

“No,” I say. “I’m her assistant. Why?”

“ ’Cause I just got a call saying I have to come down here this mornin’ for a mandatory meeting with Rachel Walcott—”

At that moment, Rachel comes click-clacking out of our office, clutching a file folder to her chest.

“Oh, Heather, there you are,” she says, brightly. “Cooper’s here.”

I think I must have made some sort of disbelieving noise, because Rachel peers at me curiously and says, “Yes, he is.” Then her attention turns to the girl next to me. “Amber?” Rachel asks.

“Yes, ma’am.” Amber sounds subdued. Well, and what eighteen-year-old freshman who’d been forced to wake up at ten o’clock in the morning for a meeting with the residence hall director wouldn’t sound subdued?

“This way, Amber,” Rachel says, laying hold of Amber’s elbow. “Heather, if you could just hold all my calls for a few minutes—“

“Sure,” I say, and go into our office. Where, sure enough, I find Cooper shaking his head at the jar of condoms on my desk.

“Hi, Cooper,” I say, a little warily. Which I think is understandable, given, you know, that the last time he’d shown up in my office, it had been to tell me that my ex-boyfriend was engaged to someone else. What could have happened now?

Then I feel a stab of panic, remembering Marian Braithwaite. Oh God. She and Cooper have made up. They’ve
made up, and are getting married, and Cooper is here to tell me he needs the apartment back because they’re going to put the nanny in there—

“Hi, Heather,” Cooper says, looking much more like his normal self in jeans and his leather jacket than he had in that tux. “Got a minute?”

Hi, Heather, got a minute? Hi, Heather, got a minute?
What kind of way is THAT to start a conversation? Could there be three other words in the English language more effective at striking terror deep within the heart than
Got a minute?
No. No, I do NOT have a minute! Not if you’re going to tell me what I think you’re going to tell me. Why her? WHY? Just because she’s smart and accomplished and pretty and thin—

“Sure,” I say, in what I hope sounds like a cool, assured voice, but which I’m pretty sure comes out sounding more like a bleat. I gesture for Cooper to sit down, and curl up in my desk chair, wishing I could have a bottle of whatever it was Mrs. Allington had been nipping at all morning.

“Listen, Heather,” Cooper says. “About last night…”

No! Because if there are three words in the English language worse than
Got a minute?
they can only be
About last night…

And now I’ve had all six of them, one right after the other. It isn’t fair!

And what had even happened last night? Nothing! I’d gotten out of the cab Cooper had put me in and gone straight inside to bed.

Okay, maybe I’d stayed up for an hour or so working on a new song.

And maybe that song had been about him.

But he couldn’t have heard it. I played super softly. And I never even heard him come in.

Oh, why me? WHY ME???

“I think I owe you an explanation” is the next unexpected thing out of his mouth.

But wait.
I owe you an explanation
? That doesn’t sound like a prelude to asking me to move out. In fact, it almost sounds like an apology. But what on earth does Cooper have to apologize for?

“I met with a friend from the coroner’s office last night after we left the ball,” he begins. “And she said—”

Wait a minute.
She
said? Cooper ditched me for another girl?

“
That
’s where you went?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself. “To meet a
girl
?”

Oh…my…God. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be cool and self-assured like…well, like Rachel? Why do I have to be such a complete spaz all the time?

Fortunately Cooper, being completely ignorant of my plans for him (you know, the fact that he’s going to marry me and be the father of my three as yet unborn children and the inspiration for my Nobel Prize–winning medical career), doesn’t catch on that I’m jealous. He seems to think I’m still angry because he made me leave the party early.

“I didn’t want to say anything to you before,” he says. “You know, in case she didn’t have anything to tell me. But the fact is, there
was
something a little strange about those girls’ bodies.”

I just stare at him. Because I can’t believe it. Not that his “friend” in the coroner’s office had found something strange about Elizabeth’s and Roberta’s bodies. But that he’d bothered to consult with her on my behalf in the first place.

“B-but,” I stammer. “But I thought…you thought…I was just making the whole thing up. Because of missing the thrill of performing…”