Size 12 Is Not Fat

by Meg Cabot

  “And no one would suspect him,” she cries, “because he is the president’s son! It’s like in a movie! It’s perfect!”

  “Well, almost perfect,” I say. “I mean, why would he go around killing innocent girls? What’s his motive?”

  Magda thinks about that for a while, and comes up with several theories based on movies she’d seen, like that Chris has to kill people as an initiation rite into some kind of secret law school society, or that possibly he has a split personality or a deranged twin. Which brings her around to the fact that Chris Allington is probably going to be at the Pansy Ball, and if I really want to play detective, I should wrangle myself a ticket and go observe him in his natural element.

  “Those tickets cost like two hundred dollars, unless you’re nominated for a Pansy,” I inform her. “I can’t afford one.”

  “Not even to catch a murderer?” Magda asks.

  “He’s only a potential murderer.”

  “I bet Cooper could get a pair.” I’d forgotten that Cooper’s grandfather was a major New York College benefactor, but Magda hasn’t. Magda never forgets anything. “Why don’t you go with him?”

  I haven’t had much to smile about lately, but the thought of Cooper putting on a tuxedo does make me kind of laugh. I doubt he’s ever even owned one.

  Then I stop smiling at the idea of my asking him to go with me to the Pansy Ball. Because he’d never agree to it. He’d want to know why I want to go so badly, then lecture me for sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.

  Magda sighs when she hears this.

  “Okay,” she says, regretfully. “But it could have been just like a movie.”

  I spend my time at Banking carefully not thinking about the night before—which had definitely been nothing like a movie. If it had been like a movie, Jordan would have showed up this morning with a big bouquet of roses and two tickets to Vegas.

  Not, you know, that I’d have gone with him. But like I said, it would have been nice to be asked.

  I’m walking back across the park, toward Fischer Hall, mentally rehearsing the “I’m sorry, but I just can’t marry you” speech I decide I’m going to give to Jordan in case, you know, he does turn up with the flowers and the tickets, when I look up, and there he is.

  No, seriously. I practically bump into him on the sidewalk in front of the building.

  “Oh,” I say, clutching an envelope filled with dollar bills to my chest protectively, like it might be able to ward him off. “Hi.”

  “Heather,” Jordan says. He’s standing beside a black stretch limo parked—not exactly unobtrusively—in front of the dorm. He’s obviously just come from his press junket. He doesn’t have any roses with him, but he does have on multiple platinum chains and a very hang-dog look.

  Still, I don’t feel too sorry for him. After all, I’m the one with the rug burns on my ass.

  “I’ve been waiting out here for you,” Jordan says. “Your boss said you’d be back within the hour, but—”

  Oops. It’s eleven-thirty, and I’d left the office at ten. Rachel probably hadn’t anticipated my heading out to the park to chat with Magda.

  “Well,” I say. “I’m back.” I look around, but I still don’t see any flowers. Which is fine, since I’ve forgotten my speech anyway. “What’s up?”

  You are not getting back together with him, I tell myself, firmly. You are not getting back together with him. Even if he crawls on his knees…

  Well, maybe if he crawls on his knees.

  No! Not even then! He’s the wrong brother, remember? The wrong brother!

  Jordan looks around uncomfortably. “Listen. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “We can talk right here,” I say. Because I know if I go off somewhere alone with him, I might do something I’ll regret later.

  Might? I already had.

  “I’d feel better,” he says, “if we could talk inside the limo.”

  “I’d feel better,” I say—stay strong, stay strong—“if you’d just say what you have to say.”

  Jordan looks surprised at the firmness of my tone. It surprises me, too.

  That’s when I realize that he probably believes I think we’re getting back together or something.

  Ahem.

  Next thing I know, he’s spilling his guts right there on the sidewalk.

  “It’s just that…I’m…I’m really confused right now, Heather,” he says. “I mean, you’re so…well, you’re just great. But Tania…I talked it over with Dad, and I just…well, I can’t break up with Tania right now. Not with the new album coming out. My dad says—”

  “What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I mean, I believe it. I just can’t believe he’s actually saying it.

  “Seriously, Heather. He’s really pissed about that photo in the Post—”

  “You don’t think that I—”

  “No, no, of course not. But it looks really bad, Heather. Tania’s got the best-selling album on the label right now, and my dad says, you know, if I were to leave her, it’d really hurt my new album’s chances of—”

  “Okay,” I say. I don’t think I can bear to hear any more. This so isn’t anything I’d rehearsed a speech for. “It’s all right. Really, Jordan. It is.”

  And the weirdest thing is that, at that moment, it kind of is all right. Somehow, hearing Jordan tell me that he can’t get back together with me because his dad won’t like it completely snuffs out whatever romantic feelings I still have for him.

  Not that I had any. Anymore.

  Jordan’s mouth kind of falls open in astonishment. He’d clearly been expecting tears of some kind. And in a way, I do feel like crying. But not because of him.

  I don’t see any point in telling Jordan that, though. I mean, the guy has enough problems as it is. Sarah would probably have a field day diagnosing all his deep-seated neuroses…

  Jordan returns my smile with almost childlike relief, and says, “Wow. Okay. That’s just…that’s really sweet of you, Heather.”

  Strangely enough, all I can think of at that moment is Cooper. Not, you know, how sad it is that I think he’s so hot, and he barely knows I’m alive…except, you know, for the fact that the pile of receipts on his desk keeps slowly disappearing.

  No, I find myself actually praying that Cooper, wherever he is, doesn’t happen to pick up a copy of this morning’s Post. Because the last thing I want is him knowing I’d been making out with—and thank God this was all the Post had photographic evidence of—his brother on his front stoop…

  I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been working in Fischer Hall for so long that I’ve sort of developed a sixth sense about these things or what. But it’s right about then that I feel something. A sudden rush of air, a shadow out of the corner of my eye, and I let go of Jordan’s hand fast and yell, “Look out!” before I’m even completely aware of what’s happening.

  Then the next thing I know, there’s a sickening thudding sound, then a crash. Then dirt and sharp things are flying through the air.

  When I take my arms away from my head and uncover my eyes, I’m horrified to see Jordan sprawled across the sidewalk next to his limo, a huge gash on the side of his head from which blood is pumping steadily, making a soup out of the fine layer of dirt, geraniums, and cement shards that litter the area.

  I’m transfixed with shock for a second or two.

  Then I’m on my knees at Jordan’s side.

  “Ohmigod!” A girl who’d been standing a few feet away, trying to hail a taxi, comes running up. “Ohmigod, I saw the whole thing! It was a plant! A potted plant! It came flying down from that penthouse up there!”

  “Go inside,” I say to her, in a calm voice I don’t recognize as my own, “and tell the security guard to call an ambulance and the police. Then ask the desk attendant for the first aid kit.”

  The girl does as I say, wobbling on her high heels. She’s all dressed up for a job interview, but doesn’t seem to realize that she’s going to be very, very l
ate for it.

  What had that instructor said, way back when I’d first trained for this position, about CPR?

  Oh, right. Stop. Look. And listen.

  I stop and see with relief that Jordan’s chest is rising and falling. He’s still breathing. A pulse beats in his neck, hard and steady. He’s unconscious, but not near death—yet. The planter has struck a glancing blow, sliding down the side of his head, behind his ear, and causing a huge welt on his shoulder. His shirt is torn right through.

  Blood is still coursing from the open wound on his head, though, and I’m considering whipping off my own shirt to use as a bandage—that wouldn’t make me too popular with the guys in the chess circle—when the limo driver comes running around the car, at the same time that Pete comes bursting through the front door of the residence hall.

  “Here, Heather.” He thrusts the reception desk first aid kit at me, his dark eyes wide. “I got an ambulance on the way, too.”

  “Is he dead?” the limo driver asks nervously, a cell phone to his ear. Undoubtedly he’s on with Jordan’s dad.

  I hand over my envelope from Banking to Pete, then rummage through the first aid kit, find a rolled up Ace bandage, and shove that into the wound. It turns dark red almost immediately.

  “Go get me a towel, or something,” I say to Pete, still in this strange, calm voice that sounds so unlike my own. Maybe it’s my future voice. You know, the voice I’m going to use in my medical practice, after I get my degree. “There are some linens left over from summer conference housing in the package room. Go get me a couple towels.”

  Pete is off like a shot. People have started to gather around, Fischer Hall residents as well as people from the chess circle in the park. They all have plenty of medical advice to offer.

  “Lift up his head,” one of the drug dealers urges me.

  “No, lift up his feet,” someone else says. “If the face is red, raise the head. If the face is pale, raise the tail.”

  “His face is red, mon.”

  “That’s just from all the blood.”

  “Hey, isn’t that Jordan Cartwright?”

  Pete returns with several clean white towels. The first turns red after only a minute or so. The second seems to do the trick. Blood stops gushing out so alarmingly as I press the towel to Jordan’s head.

  “How did it happen?” everyone keeps asking.

  A man from the chess circle volunteers: “I saw the whole thing. You’re lucky you weren’t killed, lady. That thing was heading straight for you. If you hadn’t jumped outta the way—”

  The police arrive before the ambulance, take one look at what I’m doing, and apparently approve, because the next thing I know, they’ve started shooing people away, telling them the show is over.

  I say, urgently, “Take statements from the witnesses! This thing didn’t just fall, you know. Somebody pushed it!”

  Everyone gathers eagerly around the policemen, wanting to tell their story. It’s right around then that Rachel comes running out of the building, her high heels clacking on the pavement.

  “Oh, Heather!” she cries, picking her way through the shards of cement and clods of dirt and geranium. “Oh, Heather! I just heard. Is he—is he going to be—”

  “He’s still breathing,” I say. I keep the towel pressed to the wound, which has finally stopped bleeding. “Where’s that ambulance?”

  But right then it pulls up, and the EMS workers leap out and, thankfully, take over. I’m more than happy to get out of the way. Rachel puts an arm around my shoulders as we watch them take Jordan’s vital signs. One of the cops, meanwhile, goes inside, while the other one picks up one of the larger chunks of planter and looks at me.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he wants to know.

  Rachel says, “I guess that’d be me.”

  “Any idea where this came from?” the cop asks, holding up the slab.

  “Well, it looks like one of the cement planters from the Allingtons’ terrace,” Rachel replies. She turns and points up, toward Fischer Hall’s facade. “Up there,” she says, craning her neck. “Twentieth floor. The penthouse. There are planters like this lined all around the terrace.” She quits pointing and looks at me. “I can’t imagine how it could have happened. The wind, maybe?”

  I feel really cold, but it isn’t from any wind. It’s as warm a day in fall as any.

  Magda, who has joined us, seems to agree.

  “There is no wind today,” she says. “On New York One they said it would be mild all day long.”

  “None of those planters ever blew over before,” Pete says. “And I been here twenty years.”

  “Well, you can’t be suggesting someone pushed it,” Rachel says, looking horrified. “I mean, the students don’t even have access to the terrace—”

  “Students?” The cop squints at us. “This some kind of dorm, or something?”

  “Residence hall,” both Rachel and I correct him automatically.

  The EMS workers load Jordan onto a backboard, then onto a stretcher, and then into the back of the ambulance. As they are closing the doors, I glance at Rachel.

  “I should go with him,” I say to her.

  She gives me a little push toward the vehicle. “Of course, you should,” she says kindly. “You go. I’ll take care of things here. Call me and let me know how he is.”

  I tell her I will, and hurry after the EMS guys, asking them if I can hitch a ride to the hospital with them. They’re totally cool about it, and let me take the passenger seat of the cab.

  From the front seat, I can look back through this little door and see what the paramedic who isn’t driving is doing to Jordan. What he is doing to Jordan is asking him what day of the week it is. Apparently, Jordan’s regaining consciousness. He doesn’t know what day of the week it is, though, and only grunts in response, like someone who’d really like to go back to sleep.

  I think about suggesting that they ask him who he’s engaged to, but then decide this would be too mean.

  As we pull away from the hall, I notice that Rachel, Sarah, Pete, and Magda are all huddled on the sidewalk, gazing worriedly after me.

  I realize then, with a kind of pang, that yeah, okay, maybe I don’t have a boyfriend.

  But I do have a family.

  A weird one, maybe.

  But I’ve got one.

  18

  * * *

  You got me crying

  With all your lying

  Why you gotta be

  So mean to me?

  Baby, can’t you see

  You and me were

  Meant to be?

  Instead you got me

  Crying

  And you’re not even

  Trying

  Baby why you gotta

  Be this way?

  “Crying”

  Performed by Heather Wells

  Composed by Dietz/Ryder

  From the album Summer

  Cartwright Records

  * * *

  In the nearly four months since I started working at New York College, I’ve been to just about every emergency room in Manhattan with various sick or injured students. St. Vincent’s isn’t really one of my favorites. There’s a TV in the waiting room and everything, but it’s always turned to soap operas, and the candy machine is always out of Butterfingers.

  Also, a lot of junkies go there to try to convince the triage nurse that they really need some morphine for these mysterious pains in their feet. The junkies are entertaining to watch for a while, but when they start withdrawing they get hostile, and then the security guard has to throw them out and then they beat on the windows and in general make it very hard to concentrate on Jane magazine or whatever I happen to be reading.

  But though the waiting room at St. Vincent’s sucks, the medical staff is excellent. They ask me all sorts of questions about Jordan that I can’t answer. But as soon as I say his full name, they whoosh him into the emergency room ahead of everybody, because, you know, even doctors have he
ard of Easy Street.

  Visitors aren’t allowed in the ER except during the first five minutes of every hour, so I’m banished to the waiting room. But I employ my time there wisely by calling Jordan’s dad to give him the details about the accident.

  Mr. Cartwright is understandably upset by the news that his most popular male solo artist—oh, and son—has been felled by a geranium planter, so I don’t take it personally when he is very curt on the phone with me. Our most recent conversation before that hadn’t gone very smoothly, either—the one where he’d told me that he’d get Jordan to dump Tania and “fly right” if I’d just quit demanding to sing my own songs on my next album.

  Mr. Cartwright is kind of a jerk. Which might be why Cooper hasn’t spoken to him in almost a year.

  After I hang up with Jordan and Cooper’s dad, I can’t think of anyone else to call. I guess I could let Cooper know his brother’s been hurt.

  But Cooper is bound to ask what Jordan was doing at Fischer Hall in the first place. And the truth is, I’m not the world’s greatest liar. I just have this feeling Cooper will see right through any attempt on my part to pull the wool over his eyes.

  So I sink into a plastic chair in one corner of the waiting room and have fun watching other emergency patients being carted in instead of making any more phone calls. It’s just like Trauma in the ER, on the Learning Channel, only, you know, live. I see a jovial drunk with a bleeding hand, a frazzled mom with a baby she’s spilled her cappuccino on, a kid in a school uniform with a big cut on his chin being steered around by a nun, a construction worker with a broken foot, and a bunch of Spanish women with no visible problems who talk very loudly and get yelled at by the triage nurse.

  I sit for twenty more minutes, and then the security guard announces that everyone waiting has five minutes to see their loved ones in the ER. So I herd along with the nun and the nervous mom and the Spanish ladies through the double doors and look around for Jordan.

  He is unconscious again, or at least his eyes are closed, the white bandage around his head contrasting startlingly with the deep tan of his skin. (His parents have a really nice summer place in the Hamptons. The pool has a waterfall and everything.) They’d put his gurney in a pretty secluded, quiet section of the ER, and when I ask, the nurse tells me a bed is being prepared for him upstairs. They’re still waiting for his X-rays, but it looks as though a concussion is likely.