Size 12 and Ready to Rock

by Meg Cabot

  I send Cooper a look of disbelief. Really? You had to make your brother cry?

  Cooper shakes his head at me and leans back in his chair, his arms folded, refusing to utter a single word of sympathy.

  “It isn’t entirely your fault, Jordan,” I get up and say, going to Jordan’s side and laying my hands on his shoulders. “Nor is it Tania’s. Gary Hall has been terrorizing her. She was probably too traumatized to file for a divorce.”

  This only seems to make him weep harder. Cooper, unimpressed, reaches down to stroke Owen under the chin.

  “And I think she might not entirely trust authority figures,” I add desperately, “and she might not have been in the best state of mind when the two of you decided to get married to make the right judgment calls. There was a lot of pressure on you both—”

  Jordan finally lifts his head.

  “Cooper’s right,” he says. “I am an idiot.”

  “Finally,” Cooper says with a nod. “The first step is admitting it. The second step is deciding what you’re going to do about it.”

  Jordan wipes his face with the wide sleeve of his robe. “A samurai,” he says after some consideration, “would find this guy and kill him.”

  Cooper suppresses a smile. “You’re headed in the right direction,” he says. “But ‘Turn him over to the authorities’ is the correct answer.”

  “Jordan?”

  The voice is sweetly soft and comes from the kitchen doorway. We all turn toward it, startled. None of us heard Tania approach, and no wonder, considering she’s in her bare feet, wearing only one of my many Sugar Rush T-shirts. Though both Baby and Lucy followed her, we even failed to hear the click of the dogs’ claws on the hardwood floors.

  “Tania,” Jordan says, standing up. His jaw has gone slack. “I . . . I . . .” He appears at a loss for words.

  Tania’s gaze darts toward me, her eyes filling with tears. “You told him?” she cries, so hurt you’d have thought I’d stabbed her in the heart.

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I swear, Tania, he figured it out all on his—”

  “Christ, Jordan,” Cooper says angrily. “Tell her the truth.”

  “Tania.” Jordan staggers out from behind the table, the sleeves of his samurai robe falling over his hands as he holds them out in supplication to his wife. “Baby. It’s all my fault. He wrote to me too—”

  Tania’s voice breaks. “He did?”

  Jordan nods. “He did, baby. But I didn’t do the right thing. I know that now. I should have been there for you. You never should have had to go through this alone.”

  “I thought you’d hate me,” Tania says with a sob.

  “Tania,” Jordan says with a sob of his own, “how could you ever think such a thing? You’re my angel.”

  Tania takes two staggering steps forward and ends up being enveloped in Jordan’s arms, disappearing into the multicolored silks of his robe. Jordan buries his face in her tousled curls, and the two of them stand together weeping beneath the kitchen greenhouse windows, the lights of Fischer Hall twinkling in the distance. The Hallmark moment is only somewhat ruined when Baby finds Lucy’s dog bowl and begins to crunch noisily on its contents.

  “It’s all right, girl,” I say, scratching Lucy’s ears. “You’ve been a very good hostess.”

  She seems placated by this.

  “Well, we’re going to bed,” Cooper announces after some moments pass and Jordan and Tania show no sign of breaking their embrace.

  “All right,” Jordan says, his voice muffled in Tania’s hair. “See you in the morning.”

  Cooper looks at me, his expression comically perplexed. “Okay,” he says. “Don’t try to open any of the windows or go out—even onto any of the balconies—without waking one of us up first to enter the alarm code, because if you do, it will automatically make a sound that will wake the entire neighborhood, plus notify the alarm company and the NYPD that there is an intruder, and they’ll be here in two to three minutes. But before they get here, I will already have shot you.”

  “All right,” Jordan says, still speaking into Tania’s hair.

  “We won’t try to go out,” Tania says, her own voice muffled against Jordan’s chest and the folds of his samurai robe. “We’re going to stay in Heather’s room with Miss Mexico.”

  Cooper looks at me questioningly. I shake my head. “Don’t ask,” I say.

  Chapter 27

  For Immediate Release

  Tania Trace Rock Camp

  and Cartwright Records Television

  present the first-ever

  ROCK OFF

  Thirty-six of the most talented teen girls in America will compete Saturday night at the Tania Trace Rock Camp for the title of Girl Rockrrr of the Year. The camp—which has been held for the past two weeks at New York College—helps to provide young women with opportunities they might not otherwise have had through music education.

  “The purpose of this camp was to empower young women through songwriting and performing,” says Tania Trace, winner of four Grammy Awards and a mother-to-be. “Instead, these girls have empowered me with their strength and courage in the face of adversity.”

  The winner of the Rock Off will receive $50,000 and a recording deal with Cartwright Records.

  I’m staring at my reflection in the dressing room mirror. I look nothing like my usual self. That’s because I’ve been covered from head to toe—that is, on all the parts of my skin that are showing outside the neckline, sleeves, and sparkly hem of the dress I’m wearing—in airbrush foundation, my blond hair has been piled onto the top of my head with about a million bobby pins, my lips have been slathered in tawny lipstick, and false eyelashes have been stuck onto my lids.

  “I look like a freak,” I say.

  “You look beautiful,” Tania says as the stylist sticks one last bobby pin into my hair. “Like Miss Mexico.”

  “Oh, I worked that pageant this year,” the stylist says. “I thought Miss Mexico was a brunette.”

  “She’s not talking about the pageant,” I say.

  The dressing rooms beneath New York College’s Winer Auditorium for the Performing Arts are state of the art, but purposefully designed to look like the old-fashioned ones they always show in movies, where the star is sitting in front of a mirror, framed by dozens of shiny round lightbulbs. For their performance in the Rock Off, the campers are being allowed to use the dressing rooms, but they still have to do their own hair and makeup, as well as provide their own wardrobe . . . except, of course, those girls like Cassidy whose mothers were savvy enough—or rich enough—to hire someone to be their daughter’s own professional stylist. This has already caused enough drama among the campers to give Stephanie hours of footage.

  The judges of the Rock Off, however, get hair and wardrobe provided by Cartwright Records Television. That’s why I’m sitting in a vintage Givenchy gown, having bobby pins stuck into my updo. Tania’s personal hair and makeup people are working me over because somehow I got strong-armed into being one of the Rock Off’s celebrity judges.

  I’m still not certain how it happened. Up until the last minute, I was telling Tania that she really needed to find someone else.

  And yet, here I am, coated in Nude Beige Number 105 so my skin tone will look even in high definition.

  “You’re not going to regret it,” Tania says from the makeup chair beside me. She has a large plastic smock covering the gown she’s wearing for the evening, which is black, slit up the side, covered in sequins, and made by Oscar de la Renta. “We’re going to have so much fun! It’s not like we have to worry about what to say either. Everything is going to be on the teleprompter. So don’t worry. Just read your lines.”

  I smile nervously at her reflection in the mirror. It’s not the event that has me worried. I enjoy performing, even if it’s sitting in a judge’s seat, saying a bunch of lines written by someone else (so long as the lines aren’t too dopey).

  We spent the day in rehearsals, running through wha
t marks to hit when we walk out on the stage. As the evening’s official hostess and emcee, Tania has to walk out first, then introduce Jordan and me, before we each go to our judge’s seats. I tried to point out that there were plenty of better—or at least more current—celebrities they could have asked to judge instead of me, but Tania was still feeling insecure from what happened earlier in the week and said she needed “family only” around her.

  Cooper, of course, will be in the auditorium the whole time, along with a half-dozen NYPD officers and almost every campus protection officer the college employs, including the department head, who stopped by the dressing room a little while ago to assure “Miss Trace” that her personal security was foremost in his and every single one of his officers’ minds.

  “Nothing,” he’d said, his crinkled blue eyes becoming moist, “is more heartbreaking to me than what happened to that young lady in Wasser Hall. Nothing. I hope you will accept my deepest apologies and sincerest promise that that man will get nowhere near you tonight.”

  Tania had been very gracious in assuring him that the incident wasn’t his fault. And it wasn’t . . . at least not personally. But the president’s office had a lot of questions about how a suspected murderer was able to walk in and out of so many New York College buildings for the past several weeks without being recognized, let alone able to register for housing and classes using false identification in the first place.

  “Although with that kind of customer volume,” Cooper had pointed out, “it’s bound to happen once in a while. Do you have any idea of the percentage of people who check into hotels under fake names?”

  What had happened to Bridget was appalling, but, as I had predicted, the college was offering her a full scholarship, and Cartwright Records had topped it by offering to pay full tuition and room and board at any American college she wished to attend.

  Muffy Fowler had been philosophical when I’d congratulated her at lunch earlier in the week for managing to keep the story about what happened to Bridget out of the press.

  “No one wants to write about an underage girl who was mentally tortured by a psychotic stalker that the police can’t seem to catch,” she said, shrugging over her habitual tuna-salad wrap. “And they can’t mention her name anyway, since she’s a minor. I had no trouble at all getting that one squelched. They were thrilled to write instead about how that stalker managed to secure student housing and participate in our summer session for weeks and none of us noticed. I don’t know how we’ll ever live this one down.” She bit into her sandwich. “On the bright side, though, at least no one’s talking about Pansygate anymore. And in the meantime, I’m going to play up the Rock Off angle as much as possible. That’s the only positive development that I can see.”

  Muffy was right. The fact that Tania as well as all the girls and their mothers were so determined to put on the camp Rock Off despite the fact that Gary Hall was still at large in the tristate area (if he hadn’t yet found his way to Canada) had touched and even charmed the media, and the network had been inundated with requests for press passes to the event. Every major network was sending a reporter, and as a result, with all the girls’ families attending and many of the college’s donors insisting on coming too, every seat in the auditorium was full.

  This was probably the reason why most of the girls—especially the extremely PR-savvy Cassidy and her mother—were so determined to go on with the show in the first place . . . and also the reason why I was so ready to be rid of them. In the corridor outside the dressing rooms earlier in the evening, I’d overheard Mallory say, “Hey, you guys, I forgot to tell you. I got a text from Bridget today. She says to tell everyone to break a leg.”

  “Awww,” said several of the other girls. But not, of course, Cassidy.

  “Knowing her, she means it,” she’d huffed. “She probably wants me to break a leg for real.”

  “Oh, Cass, get over yourself,” Emmanuella had said. “You’re just jealous because you know if Bridget were here tonight, she could beat you, vocal nodules or not.”

  “Yeah,” said Mallory. “It’s lucky for you she got those and had to be put on complete vocal rest, or you’d have to beat me and her.”

  This brought laughter from all the girls . . . except Cassidy.

  “Bridget did not get vocal nodules,” Cassidy said, her voice rising. “She stole that idea from Adele, and you know it, Mallory. You know she was seeing a guy over in Wasser Hall, probably that same guy—”

  “Cut.” Stephanie’s voice had sounded sharp. “Girls, remember what we talked about? The legal department has said that any mention of that man will result in all your scenes being eliminated from the show. Is that what you want, Cassidy?”

  “No, ma’am,” Cassidy said, but there was still resentment in her voice.

  “Fine,” Stephanie said. “Why don’t we go back to how you got a text from Bridget today, Mallory, and all you girls say something supportive about her. Cassidy, you can say something bitchy, just don’t mention a man.”

  Cassidy then muttered something about reality shows “not being very real” that got her sent down the hall by Stephanie “to cool off.”

  A little while later, when I went to the ladies’ room, I’d found Stephanie standing over a sink, staring at her own reflection, circles under her eyes. Stephanie no longer wore cute suits and Louboutins to work. Instead, she wore jeans and Uggs and a pained expression.

  “How’s it going?” I asked her, even though I knew the answer.

  “I’m never having children,” she answered bleakly.

  I hesitated before closing my stall door. “Yours wouldn’t necessarily turn out like Cassidy,” I pointed out.

  “No,” she said. “But what if they did?”

  There was no reply I could make to that. So, in an attempt to cheer her up, I said, “Tomorrow it’ll be over.”

  “Thank God,” Stephanie said with a groan and turned on the faucet to plunge her face into the cool water.

  That’s the thought I keep clinging to . . . that it’s the last night of Tania Trace Rock Camp, and tomorrow all the girls are going to check out and go home. Which means that Stephanie and the film crew will leave too. Which means that maybe my life will start to go back to normal.

  Except that Tania and Jordan are still living in my house. And Gary Hall is still at large.

  “Five minutes.” Lauren the PA ducks into the dressing room. She has her headset on. “Five minutes to curtain, ladies. You going to be ready?”

  “No,” says Ashley, one of Tania’s stylists. She’s still flat-ironing Tania’s hair. “Why do we have to be on time if they aren’t shooting live?”

  “Because we’ve got all the girls’ families out there,” Lauren says. “They came in to see their daughters perform. And we’re already running twenty minutes late. The natives are getting restless. There are little brothers and sisters out there who are starting not to look so adorable for the camera. Do the best you can, okay?”

  Ashley sends Lauren a look over the top of Tania’s head, so Tania can’t see it. I’ve seen the look before. It means, Get off my back, only less polite.

  “Where’s Jordan?” Tania asks Lauren.

  “I don’t know,” Lauren says after hesitating for only a fraction of a second. “I thought he was in here with you.”

  “We sprayed him, put him in his tux, and sent him on his way about ten minutes ago,” Anna, one of the other stylists, says.

  “Well, then he’s either in the bathroom or saying hi to his family,” Lauren says. “I heard they all just came in.” She touches her headset. “Let me check—”

  “It’s okay.” Tania whips her crystal-covered phone out from beneath her smock and begins to thumb a text. Baby, on her lap, appears undisturbed. “This is the first time he’s ever been ready before me. He’s usually always last.”

  I look back at my reflection. My scalp is itching beneath my towering updo. I wish I had a pen or a chopstick or something I could use to poke in th
ere to scratch it.

  I hear a low whistle from the doorway and turn my head to see Cooper standing there. He’s wearing a tux, to blend in with the other male judges . . . namely Jordan.

  “Ay, caramba,” he says, his gaze on my reflection.

  “There’s that insouciant wit I love so much,” I say. “You don’t look so bad yourself, big guy.”

  He spins around. “Big Ted’s House of Tuxedos.”

  Tania looks dismayed. “I told your dad to make sure they sent you an Armani. I never heard of a designer named Big Ted.”

  “He’s joking,” I tell her. “It’s Armani.”

  “What’s taking you guys so long?” Cooper asks. “You both look great. And the audience is getting a little cranky. They booed my soft-shoe routine. I don’t know how much longer I can keep them entertained.”

  “You don’t have to entertain them,” Tania says, still looking dismayed. “We’re doing that part.”

  “He’s kidding,” I say to Tania.

  “Oh,” she says, and smiles a little shyly. “I get it.”

  “Done,” Ashley says and pats Tania’s last curl into place. Her hair looks exactly the same as it always does. I’m perplexed as to why a flatiron was used to make dozens of spiral curls, but there are some mysteries to which I guess I’ll never know the answer.

  “Thank you,” Tania says politely and lifts Baby from her lap as the hairstylist pulls off her smock. I see that, besides her matching black-sequined clutch, she’s also been keeping Miss Mexico underneath it.

  Cooper notices the doll at the same time and raises a questioning eyebrow, but knows better now than to ask.

  “Where’s Jordan?” he asks.

  “He went to say hi to your mom and sisters,” Tania says. She’s reading a text from her cell phone. “He says Nicole is upset because she wants to sing one of her songs. I’m not changing the rules, though, just for her.” Tania tosses some of her ringlets. “The only people who can perform tonight are the girls from camp. And me, of course.”