by Meg Cabot
“You think the timing is right now?” he asks. “Because I hardly—”
“Oh, just ask,” I snarl. I seriously don’t know what’s come over me. It’s like I’ve turned into Sarah all of a sudden. Pre-makeover.
Tad looks too scared to do anything but what I say.
“Okay,” he all but whimpers. “It’s just that a bunch of us from the math department are going to spend the summer following the Appalachian Trail—you know, hiking by day and camping out at night—and I was just wondering if, you know, you’d be interested in coming along. I know you’re not much of an outdoorsy girl, and of course you have work, but I thought if you could get a leave, you might want to come. It should be a lot of fun. We plan on living off the land, getting away from it all, no cell phones, no iPods… it should be totally enriching. What… what do you think?”
For a minute, I can only stare up at him.
Then, slowly, I realize that whatever it is inside of me that’s broken seems to have righted itself.
I feel whole again.
I also feel like laughing. A lot.
But I know this would hardly be appropriate under the circumstances—the circumstances being both the refreshment period after Dr. Veatch’s memorial service, and the fact that my boyfriend’s just asked me, in all seriousness, to spend the summer with him, hiking the Appalachian Trail.
“Well, Tad,” I say, struggling to keep a straight face. “I’m totally flattered. But, you know, I’ve only had this job a little less than a year, so I think it’d be really hard for me to get that much time off.”
“But you could probably get a week off,” Tad says. “Maybe you could join us for a week?”
The thought of spending my one week off this summer on a dirty, sweaty, tick-infested hiking trail, not bathing, and eating nuts and berries with a bunch of math professors almost causes me to weep. With laughter.
But I keep it together by biting down, hard, on the insides of my cheeks.
“I don’t think so,” I say. The words come out sounding odd, on account of how hard I’m biting myself. “Tad… I don’t think this is going to work out.”
Tad looks relieved. But also as if he’s struggling to hide it.
“Heather,” he says cautiously. “Are you… are you breaking up with me?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry, Tad. I like you, and everything, but I think we might be better off keeping our relationship as purely student-teacher. If Dr. Veatch’s death has taught me anything, it’s that life is fleeting, and we’re better off not wasting time on relationships that are pretty obviously not destined to be.”
Tad looks so relieved, I’m worried he might pass out. I brace myself, in case I have to catch him.
“Well,” he says, still struggling to look sad. “If you really think that’s better… ”
“I do,” I say. “But I still want to be friends. Okay?”
“Oh, of course,” Tad says.
Tad seems more relieved than ever.
Although his relief seems to turn to alarm when, a second later, Muffy Fowler sidles up to me and, looking up at Tad from beneath her eyelashes, asks, “Hi, Heather. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Why, of course,” I say. “Muffy, this is Tad Tocco, my math professor. Tad, this is Muffy Fowler. She’s the new PR liaison with the president’s office. She’s also,” I add, for absolutely no reason other than, well, why not? “an avid outdoors woman.”
“I am?” Muffy asks, then squeaks when I kick her on the ankle. “Ouch, I mean, oh yeah. I am.”
“Uh,” Tad says, stretching his right hand toward Muffy. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Muffy says, with a twinkle. I’m totally not making that up, either. Muffy actually manages to twinkle. “I wish my math professors had looked like you when I’d been in school. I might have paid more attention to my fractions.”
“Uh,” Tad says, looking abashed. “What kind of outdoors activities do you enjoy?”
“All of them,” Muffy says, without skipping a beat. “Why? What are your favorites, Tad?”
Noticing that Cooper is still full-on staring at me—and also giving me come-over-here hand motions—I say, “Could you guys excuse me for a minute? I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Muffy purrs, reaching to adjust Tad’s natural hemp fiber tie, which has gone a little askew. Tad, naturally, looks alarmed.
But also a little excited. It’s pretty obvious he can’t keep his gaze from dipping below the kick pleat of Muffy’s pencil skirt.
Geez. Men.
“What,” I say, when I reach Cooper, who had started heading toward me the minute he saw me disengage from Tad and Muffy.
“What was that all about?” he wants to know, jerking his head in Tad’s direction.
“None of your business,” I say. “What do you want?”
“Did he ask you to move in with him?” Cooper asks. “Or not?”
“I told you,” I say. “None of your business.” I can’t help noticing that, over in one corner, Gavin and Jamie are making out. God. Get a room, already.
“It sort ofis my business, as I believe I’ve pointed out before. But I’ll let it go for now. I did a little digging on your guy Reverend Mark when I got home,” Cooper says. “Nice speech in there, by the way.”
“Thank you for clapping like that,” I say, meaning it. “Really. I mean, Owen was a bit of a stick in the mud, but nobody deserves to go that way.”
“Well, Halstead had reason to be scared,” Cooper goes on. “Maybe even reason enough to kill. He was fired from his last job for ‘undisclosed reasons,’ and the same thing with the job before that. You know what ‘undisclosed reasons’ means.”
“Sure,” I say bitterly. “It means that once again, the HR Department at prestigious New York College didn’t check a potential employee’s references before hiring him. So what do we do?”
Cooper looks over my shoulder. “I don’t know, but we better think fast, because he’s heading this way. I think he wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, I know he wants to talk to me,” I say. “I PNG’d him this afternoon. He’s probably stinking mad about it.”
“Heather,” Cooper says, taking my arm and dragging me toward him, so that suddenly his mouth is next to my ear, his breath warm against my cheek… causing an instant reaction down my spinal column, which seems to have turned to Jell-O. “Whatever you do… do not leave this room with him. Do you understand? Stay where I can see you.”
All I have to do is turn my head, just a tiny bit, and those lips that are next to my ear will be on my mouth.
I’m just saying. That’s all I’d have to do.
I don’t, of course.
But I could.
“Okay,” I say weakly.
And then he lets go of me.
19
Cashmere and suede from Milan and Paris
Coaxing me, why don’t you wear us
It’s not the cost, or that I’m mean
It’s just you don’t come in size 14
“Big-Boned Girl’s Lament”
Written by Heather Wells
Miraculously, I don’t fall to the floor. I don’t know how. But somehow, my knees support me, and I remain upright.
What is it about Cooper Cartwright that his merest touch is capable of turning my spine to Jell-O, and makes my knees weak? It’s just so… wrong. I mean, that he should be capable of doing that, whereas my own boyfriend—er, now ex-boyfriend—just… couldn’t.
Mark Halstead is smiling as he comes toward me, his stride unhurried, his face relaxed. Muffy is right. He is cuter than Jake Gyllenhaal. No wonder so many of the girls in Jamie’s youth choir didn’t mind it when he “accidentally” felt them up.
“It’s Heather, right?” he says, when he finally reaches me. He’s taken his robe off. Underneath, he’s wearing a navy blue sports coat and khakis. Khakis! At least they don’t have pleats in the front.
I check out his shoes, the
n quickly look away with a shudder.
Oh yes. Loafers. With tassels.
He looks like Tinker Bell. If Tinker Bell were dark-haired. And a lot hairier.
“Yeah,” I say. I have a sudden and nearly uncontrollable urge to rush at the cookie table and shove as many as possible into my mouth. They’re the good kind, too. Homemade (well, by the bakers over at the student center), not store bought. There are plenty of chocolate chips left. And even some brownies.
“Listen,” Mark says. “I know this probably isn’t the best place to bring this up, but I heard something kind of disturbing earlier today, and I can’t help thinking there must have been some kind of misunderstanding, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to try to clear the air now, if I can, so we can just move on as soon as possible… ”
That’s it. I need a brownie. I turn and head for the nearest table.
“It’s not a misunderstanding,” I say, as I carefully choose a chocolate chip cookie—without nuts—that’s nearly as big as my head. “I received a complaint about you from a resident, and for her physical and emotional safety, until you’ve been cleared in a formal hearing by the board of trustees, I’ve made you persona non grata in my building.”
Reverend Mark’s dark eyebrows go up—way up—in surprise. “A formal—wait. You’re kidding me, right?”
I sink my teeth into the cookie. Delicious. That’s the thing about homemade cookies, as opposed to the stuff you buy in stores. They’re made with real butter, none of this hydrogenated stuff that, let’s be honest, you really don’t even know what it is.
“No,” I say. I don’t chew. I don’t have to. The cookie is melting in my mouth. “I’m really not.”
“How can you just categorically take this girl’s word over mine?” Reverend Mark demands.
“Because,” I say. “I like her.”
“Don’t I even get a chance to defend myself?”
“Sure,” I say. “At the formal hearing.”
“But I don’t even know what I’m being accused of,” Mark bleats. “It’s not fair!”
“Oh,” I say, swallowing. “I think you know. You already spoke with—and I’m using the term loosely. A less generous person might have said ‘threatened’—the victim, and tried to talk her out of writing a formal complaint once. It’s just lucky for you the person she was supposed to meet with in order to issue that complaint died suddenly.” I narrow my eyes as I gaze up at him. “Isn’t it?”
But Mark doesn’t take the bait. Instead he says, looking agitated, “You don’t understand. Jamie Price is a sweet girl, but she’s… confused. She misinterprets gestures of friendship as sexual in nature.”
I sincerely hope he doesn’t turn around and notice that Jamie is currently off in one corner of the room in a clench with her tongue down the throat of a certain fellow New York College junior.
“She’s actually disturbed,” Mark goes on. “I was going to recommend her for counseling.”
“Really,” I say. The cookie, which I’ve finished, is not sitting well. Maybe I need something else, to sort of settle my stomach. Only what? I notice that Tad and Muffy, over by the punch bowl, are still talking. So punch is out. I also notice that Cooper is keeping an eye on me, as he’d promised. He’s standing by the Mexican wedding cakes. Mmmm, Mexican wedding cakes. Tender, flaky, buttery morsels…
“This is all stuff,” I tell Reverend Mark, “that you can bring up at the hearing. Although you might want to consider looking into some counseling for yourself, too.”
“Counseling for myself?” Mark looks astonished. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Well,” I say. My gaze lands on the Mrs. Veatches, who are shaking hands with President Allington and his wife, who appear to be leaving. President Allington is keeping a hand on his wife’s arm… the only thing, as far as I can tell, that’s keeping her upright. “The birds,” Mrs. Allington keeps saying, meaning her pet cockatoos, whom she often references in moments when she’s imbibed a little too much. “The birds.”
“It’s my understanding,” I say to Reverend Mark, tearing my gaze away from Mrs. Allington’s highly amusing antics with an effort, “that this isn’t the first school where you’ve run into this kind of thing.”
Mark’s face changes. He goes from looking blandly handsome to darkly angry in a split second. The next thing I know, his hand is on my arm, his fingers wrapped around me in a grip that hurts. Well, in an annoying way, more than an actually painful kind of way.
“Ow,” I say, and look around for Cooper.
But something is happening over by the security desk. And that something is that someone no one is expecting to come to Owen Veatch’s memorial service—or, at least, the refreshment portion following it—has walked in.
And that someone is his suspected murderer, Sebastian Blumenthal.
To say that all hell breaks loose would be an understatement. The security guard, in the way of campus security guards everywhere (Pete excluded, of course), lets him in, of course, and Sebastian, with a square-jawed Sarah behind him, makes a beeline for Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch. I have no idea how he’d known she was the bereaved not-widow… maybe because she was standing beside the ancient mother-of-the-deceased in the receiving line.
In any case, every gaze in the place, including my own and Cooper’s, is drawn instantly to the developing little drama as Pam lurches instinctively away from Sebastian’s outstretched hand and heartfelt “Mrs. Veatch? I am so, so sorry for your loss—”
—just as Mark Halstead gives my arm a surprisingly hard yank and drags me toward a nearby side door to the natatorium.
I suppose my yelp of alarm might have alerted those nearest me that I was in trouble… if Pam’s shriek of outrage hadn’t drowned out everything else that was audible within a five-mile radius (I exaggerate, but seriously, that lady has a set of lungs on her).
I don’t get to stick around to see what happens next, because one minute I’m in the atrium with everyone else, and the next, I’m in the stairwell.
But I suspect fingernails were launched in the direction of Sebastian’s eyeballs.
Seriously, I don’t know what Sarah was thinking, letting him talk her into coming here. She had to have known what a bad idea it was. Sure, Sebastian might have wanted to pay his respects.
But couldn’t he have done it in some less public forum, when feelings might not have been running quite as high?
In any case, I don’t get to see how Mrs. Veatch One and Two react to Owen’s alleged killer showing up at his memorial service, beyond Mrs. Veatch Number Two’s shriek. That’s because Mark has me inside that stairwell and pressed up against the cinder-block wall in the blink of an eye, where he seems to be trying very hard to convince me that I ought to be keeping the information about his previous places of employment—and subsequent dismissals from them—to myself.
I can’t help being conscious of the fact that we are standing on the top of a very steep stairwell and that Mark is, for his profession, remarkably strong. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that he could throw me down those stairs, snapping my neck, then claim I fell accidentally. Everyone would believe it. I am not known, after all, for my grace.
“Look,” Mark is saying, shaking me with the force of his grip. He has both hands on my upper arms now. His thumbs are actually cutting off my circulation. “It wasn’t my fault about those other girls! I’m a good-looking guy! Girls hit on me! Of course I say no, and when I do, they get mad, and report me! It’s not me… it’s them!”
“Mark,” I say, in the calmest voice I can muster. There’s just a slim metal railing separating us from the stairwell. The smell of chlorine is sharp in the air. It reminds me of all those times I tried to burn calories swimming laps. Yeah. Like that worked. I came home so ravenous, I once ate an entire loaf of Roman Meal. With nothing on it. “I don’t care about those other girls. It’s Owen I care about.”
“Owen?” Mark’s face twists with confusion. “Who the h
ell is OWEN?”
“Owen Veatch,” I remind him. “The man you just gave the eulogy for.”
“What does he have to do with any of this?” Mark wants to know. “Christ—he didn’t say I hit on him, too, did he? I may be a lot of things, but I’m not GAY.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Right,” I say. “Good one.”
“I’m serious,” Mark says. “Heather, I know I have a problem. But I mean… a lot of girls, they like it. Especially the ones who may not be as good-looking as the others, you know what I mean? The homely ones… the chubby ones—it gives them a little boost of self-esteem. I don’t mean anything by it. I really don’t. It’s just to make them feel good.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“My God,” I say. “You really are a piece of work. You know that, don’t you? You’re disgusting.”
“God gave me a gift, Heather,” Mark insists, his face just inches from mine. “These looks, this personality… I’m supposed to use it to bring joy to others. I’m supposed to use it to do His work—”
“And since when,” I demand, “has killing been the Lord’s work?”
“Killing?” Mark blinks down at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Right,” I say, very sarcastically. I’m stalling, of course. Eventually Cooper’s going to have to figure out which door Mark dragged me through, and come busting through it. Until then, I just have to keep him talking. Because if he’s busy talking, he won’t be busy doing other things. Such as killing me.
“Like you didn’t shoot Owen through his office window yesterday morning,” I say, “to keep him from ratting you out to your supervisor and the board of trustees.”
Mark blinks some more.
“What? What are you—”
“Come on, Mark,” I say. “Everyone knows you did it. Jamie knows. I know. The cops know. You might as well give yourself up. You can plant guns on innocent people all you want, but the truth is, you’re going to get caught eventually. It’s just a matter of time.”
