Size 14 Is Not Fat Either hwm-2

by Meg Cabot

  I practically choke on the piece of chicken I’m swallowing. “You mean… sing?”

  “No, perform a strip tease,” Patty says. “Of course sing.” Suddenly Frank’s voice fills the phone.

  “Before you say no, Heather,” he says, “think about it. I know you’ve been working on your own stuff—”

  “How do you know that?” I demand hotly, although I know perfectly well. Patty’s mouth is even bigger than mine. She just doesn’t tend to stuff hers with as many Dove Bars as I do mine, which is why she’s a size 6 and I’m a 12. And growing.

  “Never mind how I know,” Frank says, ever the loyal husband. “You haven’t been up on a stage in years, Heather. You’ve got to get back up there.”

  “Frank,” I say, “I love you. You know I do. That’s why I’m saying no. I don’t want to ruin your gig.”

  “Heather, don’t be like that. You got burned by that asshole Cartwright. Senior, not junior. But don’t listen to him. I’m sure your stuff is great. And I’m dying to hear it. And the guy’s’d get a kick out of playing it. Come on. It’ll be a fun crowd.”

  “No, thank you,” I say. I am trying to keep my tone light, so he won’t hear the panic in my voice. “I think my songs are a little too angry-rocker-chick for a Frank Robillard crowd.”

  “What?” Frank sounds incredulous. “No way. They’ll love you. Come on, Heather. When else are you going to get a chance to play the pub? It’s a perfect venue for angry-rocker-chick stuff. Just you, a stool, and a microphone—”

  Fortunately, at that moment, the call waiting goes off.

  “Oops,” I say. “That’s the other line. I have to grab it. It could be Cooper.”

  “Heather. Listen to me. Don’t—”

  “I’ll call you back.” I click over to the other line, my relief over my narrow escape palpable. “Hello?”

  “Heather?” a semi-familiar male voice asks hesitantly.

  “This is she,” I say, with equal hesitance. Because not that many guys I don’t know call me. On account of I don’t give out my home number. To anyone. Because no one ever asks for it. “Who is this?”

  “It’s me,” the voice says, sounding surprised. “Your dad.”

  7

  The fog in the park

  Reminds me of my heart

  How you blocked me out

  Filled me with doubt

  What was that about?

  Why won’t you die?

  “Just Die Already”

  Written by Heather Wells

  I sit there in stunned silence for maybe three seconds.

  Then I go, “Oh! Dad! Hi! Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice right away. It’s—it’s been a really long day.”

  “So I heard,” Dad says. He sounds tired. Well, you would, too, if you were serving ten to twenty in a federal prison for tax evasion. “That’s the dorm where you work, right? The one where they found the girl’s head?”

  “Residence hall,” I correct him automatically. “And yeah. It was pretty upsetting.” I’m frantically trying to figure out why he’s calling. It’s not my birthday. It’s not a holiday. It’s not his birthday, is it? No, that’s in December.

  So what’s the occasion? My dad has never been the type to just pick up the phone and call for a chat. Especially since—even though he’s serving time at Eglin Federal Prison Camp in Florida, one of the cushiest federal prisons in America—he’s still only allowed to call collect, and then only during certain set—

  Hey, wait a minute. This isn’t a collect call. At least, no operator had asked if I’d accept the charges.

  “Um, Dad,” I say. “Where are you calling from? Are you still at Camp Eglin?”

  What am I talking about? Of course he’s still at Camp Eglin. If he were being released, I’d have heard about it, right?

  Only… from whom? Mom doesn’t talk to him anymore, and, now that she lives in Buenos Aires with my money, she doesn’t talk to me all that much anymore, either… .

  “Well, that’s the thing, honey,” Dad says. “You see, I’ve been released.”

  “Really?” I check to see how I feel about that. I am surprised to find that I feel… nothing. I mean, I love my dad, and all. But the truth is, I haven’t seen him in so long—Mom would never take me to visit him, of course, since she hated his guts for losing all his money and forcing her to have to work (as my agent and promoter).

  And once I got old enough to go by myself, I was too broke ever to make it to Florida. Dad and I were never that close, anyway… more like polite acquaintances, really, than parent and child. Thanks to Mom.

  “Wow,” I say, looking in the cardboard box to see how much dark meat is left. I am determined to save the breasts for Cooper, since they’re his favorite. “That’s great, Dad. So, where are you now?”

  “Funny you should ask. I’m actually calling you from down the street—the Washington Square Diner. I was wondering if you wanted to get together for coffee.”

  Seriously. I just don’t get it. I go for months—literally—where nothing at all unusual happens to me. My days are a blur of dog-walking, work, and Golden Girl reruns. And then WHAM! In one day, I find a head in a pot on a stove; get asked to play my songs at Joe’s Pub with none other than super-mega-rock-star Frank Robillard; and my dad gets out of jail, shows up in my local coffee shop, and asks to see me.

  Why can’t things happen a little at a time? Like one day I find the head; another day Frank asks me to jam with him on stage; and another day my dad calls to let me know he’s out of jail and in my hometown.

  But I guess we don’t get to choose how things transpire.

  Because if we did, I definitely wouldn’t have eaten all that chicken before going to see my dad. Because the sight of him sitting there in that booth—before he notices me, so I have a chance to study him before he knows he’s being observed—causes my gut to twist. Not in the same way it twisted when I saw Lindsay’s head in that pot—that was horror. The sight of my dad just saddens me.

  Maybe because he looks sad. Sad and thin. He’s not the robust golf player I knew from two decades ago—the last time I saw him outside of Camp Eglin’s visitors’ center—but a sort of shell of that man, reed-thin, with graying hair and the even whiter beginnings of a beard and mustache.

  Still, that face transforms when he glances my way and finally notices me in the doorway. Not that he is overcome with joy or anything. He just plasters a grin on his face—a grin that doesn’t reach his sad, tired eyes—every bit as blue as my own.

  And every bit as cautiously guarded.

  What do you say to the father you haven’t seen for so long, with whom your relationship has always been… well, nonexistent, even when you lived together?

  I say, “Hey, Dad,” and slide into the booth across the table from him. Because what else am I supposed to say?

  “Heather,” he says, and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, once I’ve stripped off my gloves. His fingers feel warm against mine. I squeeze back, with a smile.

  “So this is a surprise,” I say. “When did you get out?”

  “Last week,” he says. “I thought about calling you then, but… well, I wasn’t sure you’d be too happy to see me.”

  “Of course I’m happy to see you, Dad.” Dad’s not the one I have a beef with. Well, not really. I mean, it wasn’t exactly cool of him not to pay taxes all those years. But it wasn’t MY money he wasn’t paying taxes on. Or, in the case of Mom, stole. “When did you get here? To the city, I mean?”

  “This morning. I took the bus. Lovely way to see the country.” The waitress comes up as he’s saying this, and he looks at me questioningly. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Oh, yes,” I say. “I’m good. Just hot chocolate would be nice”—I say this last to the waitress—“with whipped cream.”

  Dad orders chicken noodle soup to go with his coffee. The waitress nods and goes away. She looks distracted. She’s probably worrying about the impending snowstorm, which a weatherm
an on New York One, playing on the TV hanging over the counter, assures us is due at any moment.

  “So,” I say. “The bus.” For some reason I can’t stop thinking about Morgan Freeman’s ride to freedom on that bus in the movie The Shawshank Redemption. Well, I guess it isn’t too surprising. Morgan Freeman had been a prisoner, too. “Isn’t that like a parole violation? I mean, for you to leave the state of Florida?”

  “Don’t worry about me, kiddo,” Dad had said, patting my hand. “I’ve got things under control. For a change.”

  “Great,” I say. “That’s great, Dad.”

  “So what do you hear from your mother?” he wants to know. I notice that he doesn’t make eye contact when he asks this. He busies himself adding more half and half to his coffee.

  “Well,” I say, “you mean since she took off for Buenos Aires with the contents of my bank account? Not a whole heck of a lot.”

  Dad purses his lips and shakes his head. Now he makes eye contact. “I’m sorry about that, Heather,” he says. “You can’t know how much. Your mother isn’t like that. I don’t know what could have come over her.”

  “Really? Because I have a pretty good idea,” I say, as the waitress comes back with his soup and my hot chocolate.

  “Oh?” Dad digs into his soup like it’s his first food of the day. For such a skinny guy, he has a pretty good appetite. “What’s that?”

  “Her meal ticket lost her recording contract,” I say.

  “Oh, now, Heather,” Dad says, looking up from his soup. “Don’t say that. Your mother loves you very much. She’s just never been a strong woman. I’m sure it wasn’t her idea—taking your money, I mean. I’m positive that Ricardo character put her up to it.”

  And I’m positive it was the other way around, actually, but I don’t say so, because I don’t feel like getting into an argument about it.

  “How about you?” I ask instead. “Have you heard from her?”

  “Not in quite some time,” Dad says. He opens one of the packs of crackers that came with his soup. “Of course, given the way I let her down, I don’t suppose I deserve to.”

  “I wouldn’t beat yourself up over that one, Dad,” I say, feeling that twinge in my stomach again. Only this time, I realize the twinge is actually north of my stomach. It’s more in the vicinity of my heart. And it appears to be pity. “She hasn’t exactly been Miss Parent of the Year herself.”

  Dad shakes his head over his soup. “Poor Heather,” he says, with a sigh. “When they were handing out parents up in heaven, you certainly got the short end of the stick.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, surprised to find myself prickling a little. “I think I’ve done all right for myself. I mean, I’ve got a job, and a nice place to live, and… well, I’m getting my BA.”

  Dad looks surprised… but pleasantly so. “Good for you!” he says. “At New York College?”

  I nod. “I get tuition remission through my job,” I explain. “I have to take this remedial math course before I can start taking real courses, but—”

  “And what are you going to study?” Dad wants to know. His enthusiasm about the subject takes me aback, a little. “Music? I hope you’re studying music. You’ve always been so very talented.”

  “Uh,” I say. “Actually, I was thinking more of criminal justice.”

  Dad looks startled. “Good heavens,” he says. “Why? Do you want to be a policewoman?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I’m too embarrassed to tell him the truth… that I’d hoped, with a BA in criminal justice, Cooper might take me on as a partner in his business, and the two of us could detect crimes together. Like Remington Steele. Or Hart to Hart.

  It’s a little sad that all my fantasies are rooted in eighties television shows.

  “You should study music theory,” Dad says firmly. “To help with your songwriting.”

  I flush. I forgot that I sent Dad a tape of myself singing some of my own stuff for Christmas one year. What had I been thinking?

  “I’m too old for a singing-songwriting career,” I tell him. “I mean, have you seen those girls on MTV? I can’t wear short skirts anymore. Too much cellulite.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Dad says dismissively. “You look fine. Besides, if you’re self-conscious, you can just wear slacks.”

  Slacks. Dad kills me sometimes. He really does.

  “It would be a shame,” Dad says. “No, not just a shame—a sin—to let God-given talent like yours go to waste.”

  “Well,” I say, “I don’t think I have. I did the singing thing already. I think maybe now it’s time to try a different talent.”

  “Criminal justice?” Dad looks confused. “That’s a talent?”

  “Well, at least one where no one’s going to boo me off a stage,” I point out.

  “No one would dare!” Dad cries, laying down his spoon. “You sing like an angel! And those songs of yours—they’re much better than some of that garbage I hear on the radio. That girl, going on about her lumps, or her humps, or whatever she’s talking about. And that other one—that Tracy Trace, the one that old boyfriend of yours is marrying this weekend. Why, she’s half naked in that video!”

  I have to repress a smile. “Tania Trace,” I correct him. “And that’s the number one video on TRL right now.”

  “Well,” Dad says firmly, “regardless. It’s trash.”

  “What about you, Dad?” I ask, thinking I’d better change the subject before he gets too overexcited. “I mean, you were at Camp Eglin for… gosh. Almost twenty years. What are you going to do now that you’re out?”

  “I have a few irons in the fire,” Dad says. “Some of which look quite promising.”

  “Yeah?” I say. “Well, that sounds good. Here in New York?”

  “Yes,” Dad says. But I notice he’s gotten more hesitant in his replies. And he’s not making eye contact with me anymore.

  Uh-oh.

  “Dad,” I say. Because suddenly I have a new feeling in my stomach. And it isn’t horror or pity. It’s dread. “Did you really call me because you wanted to see me and catch up on old times? Or was there something else?”

  “Of course I wanted to see you,” Dad says, with some asperity. “You’re my old daughter, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Right,” I say. “But… ”

  “What makes you think there’s abut?” Dad wants to know.

  “Because,” I say, “I’m not nine anymore. I know there’s always abut. ”

  He lays down his spoon. Then he takes a deep breath.

  “All right,” he says. “There’s a but.”

  Then he tells me what it is.

  8

  Tick-tock

  Alarm clock

  Doesn’t ring

  Funny thing

  I wake

  No break

  Somebody please

  Shoot me.

  “Morning Song”

  Written by Heather Wells

  I’m fifteen minutes late to work the next day. Personally, I don’t think fifteen minutes is all that long. Fifteen minutes shouldn’t even count as tardy… especially when you take into account what happened to me the night before—you know, the whole return of the prodigal dad thing.

  But fifteen minutes can be quite a long time in the life cycle of a residence hall. Fifteen minutes is long enough, in fact, for a representative from Counseling Services to find my desk and station herself at it.

  And when I run breathlessly into the office and see her there, and go, “May I help you?” those fifteen minutes she’s been at my desk are apparently long enough to make her feel enough at home at it to go, “Oh, no, thank you. Unless you’re going for coffee, in which case I could use one, light, no sugar.”

  I blink at her. She’s wearing a tasteful gray cashmere sweater set—with pearls, no less—and is making me feel quite under-dressed in my professional wear of jeans and chunky cable-knit sweater. She doesn’t even have hat hair. Her chestnut curls are swept into a perfect chig
non. How the hell did she make it across the park—or, as I’ve been calling it lately, the Frozen Tundra—from Counseling Services without freezing her head off?

  Then I spy them, sticking out of the black wool trench she’s hung on the coat rack—on my peg. Earmuffs. Of course.

  Tricky fashionista.

  “Oh, Heather, there you are,” Tom says, coming out of his office. He looks much better today than he did yesterday, now that he’s gotten some sleep and actually washed and styled his blond hair. He is even wearing a tie.

  And okay, he’s wearing it with a bright pink oxford and jeans. But it’s an improvement.

  “This is Dr. Gillian Kilgore from Counseling Services,” he goes on. “She’s here to offer grief counseling to any residents who feel they might need it, in light of yesterday’s events.”

  I smile briefly at Dr. Kilgore. Well, what else am I supposed to do? Spit at her?

  “Hi,” I say. “You’re in my seat.”

  “Oh.” Tom seems to notice for the first time where Gillian Kilgore has stationed herself. “That’s right. That’s Heather’s desk, Dr. Kilgore. I meant for you to take the GA’s desk—”

  “I like this desk better,” Dr. Kilgore stuns us both (I can tell Tom is stunned because his face goes as pink as his shirt) by saying evenly. “And of course, when students do come by for their appointments, Mr. Snelling, I’ll be meeting with them in your office. For more privacy.”

  This is clearly news to Tom. He is standing there kind of bleating, like a lost sheep—Baaah… baaah… but—when Gillian Kilgore’s first victim, I mean appointment, comes loping into the office. Mark Shepelsky is the Pansies’ six-foot-seven power forward, and current resident of Room 212, one of the most sought-after doubles in the entire building due to its view of the park and the fact that, being on the second floor, its occupants can take the stairs instead of depending on the elevators, which are crowded at best, broken most of the rest of the time.

  “Someone needed to see me?” Mark says. More like grunts, really. A skinny, pasty-skinned kid, he’s good-looking in a crew-cutted ballplayer way.