Size 12 and Ready to Rock

by Meg Cabot

  I sigh. “It sort of makes sense, I guess,” I say. “I could see her feeling unsafe in her and Jordan’s apartment, and even at your parents’, though it’s highly unlikely Gary would ever be able to get in. Still, I think she’d be harder to find—and more anonymous—checked into a hotel. We don’t have a doorman or even a super—”

  “That’s true,” Cooper says. “On the other hand, here it’s only us. There’s no one to leak her presence to the press, no unsuspecting busboy who can be bribed to let some guy in ‘just to slip something under her door.’ No maid service, no room service, no one knocking to ask if she wants turn-down service. Once the deadlock on the front door is bolted and we switch on the alarm, there’s no way anyone can get in or out without us knowing about it. Considering the level of anxiety she’s been living with, being here must be something of a relief.”

  “And,” I point out, “you have your gun.”

  “And,” he agrees, “I have my gun. And don’t forget, there’s you, with your sunny disposition and that welcoming smile you gave her when you first came through the door and saw her—”

  I lift a pillow and bop him on the head with it.

  “Still,” I say, as he laughs, “if she’s expecting the Waldorf, she’s going to be sadly disappointed. No one’s going to be putting a mint on her pillow. I ate all the Oreos the other night.”

  “I think all she wants—” Cooper begins to say, but he’s interrupted by a knock on the door. Literally, someone says, “Knock, knock.”

  Cooper looks at me curiously, then calls, “Come in.”

  Jordan, in black silk pajamas and a robe, leans in and says, “Oh, hey. Sorry to disturb you guys. Where do you keep your herbal tea? Tania wants some. I was trying to find some myself in that little kitchenette upstairs so as not to be a pain, but this big orange cat started following me around, and I think he wants me to feed him or something—”

  “You know what,” I say, getting up off the bed, “why don’t I make some tea for Tania and take it upstairs to her?”

  “Are you sure?” Jordan looks worried. “We really don’t want to be any bother. We feel bad enough, putting Heather out of her apartment the way we have.”

  “It isn’t a bother at all,” Cooper says. “Is it, Heather?”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Oh no,” I say. “Cooper was happy to surrender his room to me. He likes sleeping on the couch.”

  Upstairs I find Tania huddled in the middle of my bed, piled beneath so many down comforters that only her head is peeping out. In her hand is the remote to my television. She’s bathed in the rosy glow of my bedside lamp and the bright colors of Freaky Eaters.

  “You really like this show, don’t you?” Tania asks as I come in holding a steaming mug of tea. “You have nine episodes of it recorded, both new ones and repeats.”

  “Well,” I say, “you certainly know your way around a digital video recorder, don’t you?”

  “You watch a lot of Intervention too,” Tania remarks. “I think that show is sad.”

  “Not really,” I say, setting the mug down on the nightstand. “The people on it usually beat their addictions and go on to live productive lives.” Although considering what Jared told me about how docu-reality series manipulate the truth—and what I’ve seen Stephanie doing around Fischer Hall—I’m beginning to wonder if there is any honesty at all reflected in the shows I like to watch. “Here’s some chamomile tea. Jordan said you wanted some. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better,” Tania says. “I like it here. It’s snug, like my grandma’s house.”

  I’m sure Tania means this as a compliment, but I’m not 100 percent positive I want my home being compared to someone’s grandma’s house.

  “And look,” she says, pointing to the floor, “our dogs are in love.”

  I glance down and see that her dog, Baby, is curled up in Lucy’s bed, fast asleep. Lucy is sitting a few feet away, looking distressed. She blinks from her bed to me as if to say, Help! I’m not certain how Tania can interpret this as two dogs being in love.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sweet. So, is there anything else you need?”

  Tania reaches for the tea I’ve brought her, then looks at the built-ins above our heads. “What’s going on with all those dolls?”

  Crap.

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, that’s my collection of dolls from many nations. My mom got me one from each country I toured in.”

  “Aw,” Tania says, taking a sip of the tea and looking positively delighted. “That’s so cute.”

  “Not really,” I say. “I should have taken the time to visit the sights in the countries, not let my mom grab a doll from the airport in each one. When will I ever be able to afford to go to South Africa again? Or Brazil? Or Japan? Never. But, you know.” I shrug. “I love them. They’re sort of talismans, or whatever.”

  “You’re lucky,” Tania says. “My mom never gave me anything like that. She worked really hard, but she didn’t have money to spend on presents. That’s really special, to have a doll collection, or anything you can pass on to your own daughter.”

  I glance back at the dolls. “Yeah,” I say thoughtfully. It seems as if neither Tania nor I lucked out in the mom department. Hers was working too hard to notice what was happening to her, and mine was working me too hard to care what was happening to me. “I guess it is . . . if you have a daughter of your own.”

  “The pink one is especially beautiful,” Tania says admiringly.

  “That’s Miss Mexico,” I say.

  “She’s so elegant. I love her dress. And her fan.”

  “Here,” I say, and reach up to take Miss Mexico down from the shelf. “You can have her.”

  Tania gasps. “Oh no. I couldn’t!”

  “Yes,” I say. “You can. You can give it to your daughter. Miss Mexico can be the first in her collection.”

  Tania puts down her mug and takes Miss Mexico gingerly in her hands, as if she’s afraid the doll will fall apart at her touch. But she won’t. Miss Mexico is beautiful, but tough underneath—a lot like Tania.

  “Thank you,” Tania says. “She’s so gorgeous. I . . . I don’t deserve her. That thing today . . . that girl’s mom must hate me,” Tania says.

  I don’t ask what girl she means.

  “No one hates you,” I say. “You didn’t do anything to Bridget. Gary did. And Bridget is going to be all right. Her family is driving up to get her, and I’m sure Cartwright Records Television is going to give her a nice scholarship to wherever she wants to go to college.” I was betting New York College was going to offer her one too, but I had my doubts she’d want to attend. “She’s going to need a lot of counseling . . . which, if you don’t mind my saying, Tania, is something you could probably—”

  “It is my fault,” Tania interrupts firmly. “If I had told people sooner—”

  “It’s only one person’s fault,” I say. “And that’s Gary’s.” And Simon Hague’s. But I suppose a residence hall director can’t personally meet every person who checks into his building. Still, I couldn’t wait to hear what the fallout was going to be when it’s discovered that Simon has been taking extra-long weekends in the Hamptons with his assistant.

  “Will you tell the girl,” Tania asks in a tiny voice, “that I’m so, so sorry about what happened to her? And the security guard too?”

  “No,” I say. “You’re going to tell them yourself.”

  She stares at me. Then her face crumples, and she’s crying. “I know I have to,” she says, “but I don’t think I can. I don’t think I can leave this room.”

  “You can stay here for a while,” I say. “But eventually you’re going to have to leave.”

  “But not right away,” she says, holding Miss Mexico close—which can’t be comfortable, considering her pointy Spanish comb and fan.

  “No,” I say. “Not right away.”

  I leave Tania not long afterward, since either the chamomile or the stress of the day appears to
have knocked her out. She falls asleep clutching Miss Mexico to her, like a little girl with a new birthday present.

  I turn off the television and walk out of my room, holding the mug of tea. The last thing I expect is to bump into Jordan on my way downstairs to the main kitchen—I’ve forgotten he’s in the house—but I do.

  “Sorry,” he says when I nearly throw the mug in his face, I’m so startled. “I was coming up to see how she’s doing.”

  “She’s asleep,” I say. “Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

  “Sorry,” he says again. “Here, I can take that back to the kitchen.”

  “No, I can do it.”

  “Really,” he says. “I want to help.”

  Except that he won’t help. He’ll just make a mess. Jordan doesn’t know where the trash is, nor has he ever rinsed out a mug in his life. He leaves every dish he’s ever touched for the maid or room service to clean up. He is so annoying. How did we date—let alone live together—for so many years?

  “Fine, you can help,” I say with ill grace.

  He follows me like a puppy back to the kitchen, then sits down at the table and does nothing as I put the tea bag in the trash and rinse out the mug.

  “Where’s Cooper?” I ask, hyperconscious of his gaze on me.

  “He’s taking a shower,” Jordan says. “Can I ask you some-thing?”

  Oh great. I knew this was coming, but had been hoping to avoid it.

  “Not right now,” I say, drying my hands on a dish towel. “I . . . I have to take the dog for a walk.”

  “But it’s eleven o’clock at night,” Jordan says, looking shocked.

  “I can’t help it,” I say. “When Lucy’s got to go, she’s got to go.” This is a complete fabrication. When Lucy has to go, she goes through the doggie door to the backyard. But I need some excuse to get away from Jordan.

  “Baby just goes on a wee-wee pad,” he says, in a tone that suggests this in some way makes Tania’s dog superior to mine.

  “Well,” I say, “good for Baby.”

  “I don’t think you should walk the dog at this time of night when there is a deranged psychopath on the loose who might be watching the house and wants to kill my wife.”

  “My not walking my dog when I normally do so at this time of night might tip the deranged psychopath off that your wife is here,” I counter.

  Jordan considers this. “Can I still ask you one thing before you go?”

  I realize I can’t avoid him forever, especially when we’re both living in the same house, and I have no intention of going outside with Gary Hall—injured as he might be—on the loose in the neighborhood. I pull out a kitchen chair and sink into it. “What is it, Jordan?”

  “Is this guy who’s after Tania really her husband?”

  Chapter 26

  Little Girl Rap

  My little girl

  Any boy pursues her

  Ever tries to woo her

  I will knock him dead

  Boy, don’t mess with me

  When she comes

  Won’t be with no bums

  Or end up in the slums

  She’ll only ever come

  Home to me

  She got to be dressed

  Only in the best

  Never need to guess

  Who her dad might be

  Don’t know how I’m gonna make it

  Beg, borrow, steal, or fake it

  But I swear I’m gonna make her

  Proud of me

  “Little Girl Rap”

  Performed by Jordan Cartwright

  Written by Jordan Cartwright,

  with thanks to Rodgers and Hammerstein

  Goin’ Solo album

  “What makes you ask that, Jordan?”

  I’m trying to keep my outward demeanor calm so that Jordan doesn’t suspect that inside I’m cursing to myself. How has he found out? Was he eavesdropping? But I could have sworn that Tania and I never once used the word “husband” or even “marriage.” How had Jordan guessed?

  “A long time ago—well, maybe not that long—he sent me a letter,” Jordan says, pulling a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his robe. “I got it a few days before Tania and I were married.”

  I take the paper from him. “Okay,” I say. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, I didn’t think much of it. I get so much mail—not to brag or anything. I’m just stating a fact. My assistant, she only passes on what she thinks is important. Then I put it in one of three files—the Dad File, the Friends File, or the Crazy File. If it seems like it’s something that might come back to bite me on the ass, I send it to Dad to take care of. If it’s a girl who sends me a picture of her with her”—he glances at me—“well, then I usually forward it to all my friends. You know. Everything else goes in the Crazy File, which means I ignore it. Most crazy people are harmless, right? All they want is to let off a little steam, let their freak flag fly. And if I’m the target of their freak, well, okay, whatever. That’s cool. Long as they don’t hurt anyone.”

  I unfold the letter. “Keep going.”

  Cooper, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, a damp towel around his neck, appears in the kitchen. “What’s going on?” he asks curiously, seeing us sitting together.

  “Jordan says he got a letter from Gary Hall a few days before he and Tania were married,” I say, numbly scanning the page in front of me. “If you don’t . . .” and “a million dollars . . .” and “I will . . .” jump out at me.

  “You did?” His hand on the door handle of the refrigerator, Cooper is about to go for what he’s been calling lately one of his “midnight snacks,” a ridiculously large, insanely good sandwich that involves a great deal of mustard, mayonnaise, pickles, cheese, and lunch meat. Normally nothing can tear him away from one. Me either.

  Until now.

  “Yeah,” Jordan says. “I thought it was a joke. If Tania was married, people would know about it, right? TMZ and Dad and stuff. So it couldn’t be true. It seemed crazy. So I put it in the Crazy File and ignored it.” He gives Cooper a worried smile. “Guess maybe I should have sent it to Dad, huh, bro?”

  Cooper drops his hand away from the refrigerator door handle.

  “What does the letter say?” he asks carefully.

  I gaze at the neatly typewritten script.

  “It says that unless Jordan pays Gary Hall a million dollars, Gary will go public with the information that he and Tania were once married,” I say, feeling a strange tightness in my throat, “and that they never divorced. He’ll also cause Tania ‘a world of hurt.’ ”

  “Oh God,” Jordan says, burying his head in his hands. “Oh God, oh God. I knew I should have told you guys about this that night Bear got shot, when we saw you at those people’s apartment. I knew it. Then Jared never would have died, right? And this little girl today would never have been hurt. This is all my fault for not paying him. Oh God.”

  Cooper walks over to the kitchen table, pulls out a chair, and sits down in it. “When did you get this letter?” he asks, taking the towel from around his neck.

  “About a week before Tania and I got married,” Jordan says. “I’m telling you, I thought this guy was just another crazy fan! Tania’s never been married.” He laughs, but nervously. “She’d have told me, right? How could she not have told me?”

  “My guess? Because she’s never been divorced,” Cooper says.

  “Cooper—” I look worriedly at Jordan.

  “He’s a grown man, Heather,” Cooper says. “Even if he doesn’t look like one in that bathrobe.”

  “It’s a genuine samurai warrior—” Jordan begins to ex-plain.

  “Shut up,” Cooper says. “I couldn’t find any record of Tania being divorced from this guy, but she’s been paying him ten grand a month. If I had to guess? It’s not alimony. She’s been paying straight-up blackmail to this guy for him to keep his mouth shut so you wouldn’t find out she’s still married to him. That’s how much she loves you.”

  I gla
re at Cooper, wondering what’s happened to his code of ethics. It’s not like him to betray the privacy of a client.

  On the other hand, this isn’t just any client. Tania is family.

  “I’m not surprised either,” Cooper says. “What else was she supposed to do? It wasn’t like she could turn to you, her loving husband, for support. You’d simply put it in the Crazy File.”

  “Cooper,” I say again. I don’t approve of the way Jordan’s handled the situation, but I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him. He’s led a privileged life, allowing his parents to do everything for him, and has never had to deal with anything like this before. “Come on. He didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know that someone threatened to cause his pregnant wife ‘a world of hurt’?” Cooper snaps, his eyes flashing. “Yes, he did, Heather. And if someone did that to you, I would not put it in my Crazy File. I would go crazy on that person.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Jordan asks, looking from one to the other of us. His expression is queasy. “Are you two—?”

  “Hate to give you all the bad news in one night, bro,” Cooper says, leaning over to clap a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “But the answer is yes.”

  Jordan lets out an expletive, then stares unseeingly at Owen, who has strolled into the kitchen and is stretching luxuriously in the middle of the floor. “So you two are together. And I’m . . . what? A polygamist? Like that guy on TV?”

  “The correct term, when it’s a woman with more than one husband, is polyandrist, not polygamist,” Cooper says. “And no, you’re not. Tania is. You’re just an idiot.”

  Jordan’s face disappears into his hands once more—only this time it stays there. I see his shoulders begin to shake. He’s weeping.