Size 12 Is Not Fat

by Meg Cabot

  “Blondie!”

  Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn in surprise, expecting to see one of the president’s aides, demanding to see my ticket…

  …and find myself staring instead into his son’s laughing gray eyes.

  21

  * * *

  Ask me

  I know you want to

  Ask me

  I’m waiting for you

  Ask me

  I’d never make you guess

  Ask me

  Baby, I might say yes

  “Ask Me”

  Performed by Heather Wells

  Composed by Roberts/Ryder

  From the album Summer

  Cartwright Records

  * * *

  “Hey,” Chris says, smilingly. “Remember me?”

  I stare at him, so freaked out that I can’t utter a sound.

  Christopher Allington. Christopher Allington had sought me out. Chris Allington is holding on to my upper arm and smiling down at me like we’re old friends bumping into one another at the bowling alley or whatever. He’s even offering me a glass of champagne!

  Well, it would be rude to say no.

  I take the flute from him mutely, my heart hammering hard in my ears. Christopher Allington. Christopher Allington. Oh my God. How can you stand there and talk to me like it’s nothing? You tried to kill me today. Remember?

  “I met you outside Fischer Hall last night,” Chris prompts, thinking I can’t place him. As if I’m likely to forget! “That was you, wasn’t it?”

  I pretend to suddenly recover my memory.

  “Oh,” I say, vaguely—though there’s nothing vague about the tingly awareness I feel all up and down my arm, where he still holds it. “Sure. How are you?”

  He lets go of me. His grip hadn’t been unpleasant. Not at all.

  But isn’t that weird? I mean, shouldn’t it have been? Seeing as how he’s a killer, and all?

  Weird.

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  He looks fine. His tux is much better-fitting than his father’s. Instead of a bow tie, though, Chris wears a regular tie. Somehow, on him, it looks exactly right.

  “Actually, I’m a lot better now that I spotted you,” he goes on. “I really hate these things. Don’t you?”

  “Oh,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t know. It isn’t that bad. At least there’s alcohol.”

  I down the champagne he’d offered me in a single swallow, despite Cooper’s warning about drinking on the job. After the shock Chris has given me, sneaking up on me like that, I feel like I sort of deserve it.

  Chris, watching me, laughs.

  “So, who’re are you here with?” he wants to know. “Those tickets aren’t cheap. Are you one of the student reps?”

  I shrug again. Detective Canavan had said that in his experience, people who kill are excessively stupid, and I’m beginning to think that in Chris’s case, this might actually be true. The fact that I’m almost ten years older than your average student government representative doesn’t seem to register on him…

  …which is fine by me. I mean, seeing as how I’m trying to be all sneaky and undercover to get him to slip up and confess and stuff. Not that I have any idea how I’m going to do this, of course.

  And at least Chris, unlike some people, seems to appreciate how I look in my borrowed dress. I see his gaze stray toward my cleavage several times. And not because my zipper is coming apart in the back and everything is hanging loose. I know because I check.

  The band starts playing a slow tune. To my surprise, some couples actually wander out onto the library’s main floor and begin to dance…Chris’s mom and dad among them. I see President Allington lead his wife out onto the dance floor with a sweeping bow that has the trustees laughing and applauding.

  It’s kind of sweet, actually.

  At least until Mrs. Allington trips on her bell-bottoms and almost falls flat on her face. Fortunately President Allington whirls her around and makes it look like it was a fancy step he’d engineered on purpose.

  Which is even sweeter. Maybe Chris isn’t as unlucky as I’d originally thought. In his parentage, I mean.

  “Hey,” Chris says, surprising me yet again, this time by taking the champagne glass from my hand and setting it down on the tray of a passing waiter. “Wanna dance?”

  My head whips around so fast to look at him, a long strand of my hair smacks me in the mouth and sticks to my lip gloss.

  “What?” I ask, desperately trying to remove it. The hair, I mean. From my mouth.

  “Do you wanna dance?” Chris asks. His grin is slightly mocking, to show me that he knows as well as I do that dancing at the New York College Pansy Ball is kind of…well, goobery. Still, he wants to let me know he’s game…

  His grin is infectious. It’s the grin of the high school football captain, the handsomest boy in school, so sure of himself and his good looks that it never even occurs to him that some girl might say No way, Jose to his invitation. Probably because no girl ever has.

  And I’m not about to be the first one.

  And not just because I want to find out whether or not Chris is the one who killed Elizabeth and Roberta.

  So I smile and say, “Sure,” and follow Chris out onto the dance floor.

  I’m not the world’s greatest dancer, but it doesn’t matter, because Chris is good. He’s probably been to one of those prep schools where they teach all the guys the box step, or whatever. He’s so good, he can talk while he dances. I have to count inside my head. One-two-three. One-two-three. Step ball change…oh wait, that’s a different dance.

  “So,” Chris says, conversationally, as he presses my body to his and swings me expertly around, hardly wincing when I accidentally stomp on his toes. “What’s your major?”

  I’m trying to look—surreptitiously—for Cooper. I mean, he’s supposed to be keeping an eye on me, right?

  But I don’t see him anywhere. I don’t see Marian, either, for that matter. Have I been ditched for an ex-girlfriend? After that fuss Cooper made about potentially risking my life in my pursuit of the killer of Fischer Hall, has he run out on me?

  Well! Nice to know how much he cares!

  Although, you know, seeing as how he’s letting me live in his house rent-free—well, virtually—I guess I haven’t got any right to complain. I mean, how many people in Manhattan have such easy access to a washer/dryer?

  In answer to Chris’s question about my major, I say, “Um…I’m undeclared.”

  Well, that much is true.

  “Oh, really?” Chris looks genuinely interested. “That’s good. Keep your options open. I think too many people go into college with their mind already made up about what career they want to pursue when they graduate. They stick to the core curriculum for that major and don’t give themselves the opportunity to try new things. You know, find out what they’re really good at it. It could be something they never thought of. Like jewelry making.”

  Wow. I didn’t know you could take jewelry making for college credit. You could actually wear your final. How practical.

  “What are you leaning toward?” Chris asks.

  I’m going to say pre-med, but changed my mind at the last second.

  “Criminal justice,” I lie, to see how he reacts.

  But he doesn’t run away to cower in fear, or anything. Instead, he says breezily, “Yeah, fascinating stuff, criminal justice. I’ve been thinking about heading into criminal law myself.”

  I bet you have. Aloud I ask, putting on a playful tone, “So what was a great big law student like yourself doing hanging around an undergraduate residence hall?”

  At least Chris has the grace to look embarrassed. “Well,” he says, in an aw shucks voice, “my parents do live there.”

  “And so do a lot of attractive coeds,” I remind him. Remember? You’ve killed two of them?

  He grins. “That, too,” he says. “I don’t know. The girls in my program aren’t exactly—”

 
Over Chris’s shoulder, I finally catch a glimpse of Cooper. He appears to be exchanging words with Professor Braithwaite. Really. They are having what looks like a heated conversation over by the raw bar. I see Cooper fling a glance at me.

  So he hasn’t forgotten. He’s still keeping an eye on me.

  Fighting with his ex, too, it appears.

  But also keeping an eye on me.

  Since I realize he doesn’t know what Chris looks like, he might not know I’m dancing with my lead suspect. So I point to Chris’s back, and mouth, This is Chris to him.

  But this doesn’t work out quite the way I expect it to. Oh, Cooper gets the message, and all.

  But so does Marian, who, seeing that she no longer has his full attention, follows the direction of Cooper’s gaze, and sees me.

  Not knowing what else to do, I wave, lamely. Marian looks away from me coldly.

  Whoa. Sorry.

  “The girls in law school—”

  I swivel my head around and realize that Chris is talking. To me.

  “Well, let’s just say they consider sitting in a carrel in the law library studying till midnight every night a good time,” he says, with a wink.

  What is he talking about?

  Then I remember. Undergrad coeds versus law school students. Oh, right. The murder investigation.

  “Ah,” I nod, knowingly. “Law school girls. Not like those fresh-from-the-farm first years in Fischer Hall, huh?”

  He laughs outright.

  “You’re pretty funny,” he says. “What year are you?”

  I just shrug and try to look like it wasn’t, um, let’s see, seven or so years since my first legal drink.

  “At least tell me your name,” he urges, in this low voice that I’m sure some former girlfriend had told him was sexy.

  “You can just keep calling me Blondie,” I purr. “That way you’ll be able to keep me straight from all your other girlfriends.”

  Chris lifts his eyebrows and grins. “What other girlfriends?”

  “Oh, you,” I cry, giving him a little ladylike smack on the arm. “I’ve heard all about you. I was friends with Roberta, you know.”

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. The eyebrows have furrowed. “Who?”

  God, he’s good. There isn’t a hint of guilt in his silver gray eyes.

  “Roberta,” I repeat. I have to admit, my heart is pounding at my daring. I’m doing it. Detecting! I’m really doing it! “Roberta Pace.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  I seriously can’t believe this guy. “Bobby,” I say.

  Suddenly, he laughs. “Bobby? You’re friends with Bobby?”

  I didn’t miss both the strange emphasis on the you’re and the use of the present tense. I am, after all, a trained investigator. Well, at least, I do the data entry for one.

  “I was friends with Roberta,” I say, and I’m not smiling or pretending to be less than twenty-one anymore. Because I can’t believe the guy can be so cold. Even for a killer. “Until she fell off the top of that elevator last week.”

  Chris stops dancing. “Wait,” he says. “What?”

  “You heard me,” I say. “Bobby Pace and Beth Kellogg. Both of them are dead, allegedly from elevator surfing. And you slept with both of them right before they did it.”

  I hadn’t meant to just blurt it out like that. I’m pretty sure Cooper would have been more subtle. But I just…well, I got kind of mad, I guess. About him being so flippant about it. Roberta’s and Elizabeth’s deaths, I mean.

  I guess a real investigator doesn’t get mad. I guess a real investigator keeps a level head.

  I guess I’m not destined for that partnership in Cooper’s business after all.

  Chris seems to have frozen, his feet rooted onto one black and one white tile.

  But his grip on my waist doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens until suddenly, we’re standing hip to hip.

  “What?” he asks, and his eyes are so wide that the blue-gray irises look like marbles floating in twin pools of milk. “What?” he asks, again. Even his lips have drained of color.

  My face is only inches beneath his. I see the incredulity in his eyes, coupled with—and, shoddy investigator that I might have been, even I can see this—a slowly dawning horror.

  That’s when it hits me:

  He doesn’t know. Really. Chris had no idea—not right up until I’d told him just then—that the two dead girls in Fischer Hall were the ones with whom he’d, um, dallied just days before.

  Is he really such a man-slut that he’d known only the first names—the nicknames—of the women he’d seduced?

  It certainly looks that way.

  The effect my announcement has on Chris is really pretty profound. His fingers dig convulsively into my waist, and he begins to shake his head back and forth, like Lucy after a good shampoo.

  “No,” he says. “That’s not true. It can’t be.”

  And suddenly I know that I’ve made a horrible mistake.

  Don’t ask me how. I mean, it’s not like I have any experience in this kind of thing.

  But I know anyway. Know it the way I know the fat content in a Milky Way bar.

  Christopher Allington didn’t kill those girls.

  Oh, he’d slept with them, all right. But he hadn’t killed them. That was done by someone else. Someone far, far more dangerous…

  “Okay,” says a deep voice behind me. A heavy hand falls on my bare shoulder.

  “Sorry, Heather,” Cooper says. “But we have to go now.”

  Where’d he come from? I can’t go. Not now.

  “Um,” I say. “Yeah, just a sec, okay?”

  But Cooper doesn’t look too ready to wait. In fact, he looks like a man who’s getting ready to run for his life.

  “We have to go,” he says, again. “Now.”

  And he slips a hand around my arm, and pulls.

  “Cooper,” I say, wriggling to get free. I can see that Chris is still in shock. It’s totally likely that if I stick around awhile longer, I’ll get something more out of him. Can’t Cooper see that I’m conducting a very important interview here?

  “Why don’t you go get something to eat?” I suggest to Cooper. “I’ll meet you over at the buffet in a minute—”

  “No,” Cooper says. “Let’s go. Now.”

  I can understand why Cooper is so anxious to leave. Really, I can. After all, not everybody deals with their exes by, you know, sleeping with them on the foyer floor.

  Still, I feel like I can’t leave yet. Not after I’ve made this total breakthrough. Chris is really upset—so upset that he doesn’t even seem to notice that there’s a private eye looming over his dance partner. He’s turned away, and is sort of stumbling off the dance floor, in the general direction of the elevators.

  Where’s he going? Up to the twelfth floor, to his father’s office, to hit the real liquor—or just to use the phone? Or up to the roof, to jump off? I feel like I have to follow him, if only to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.

  Except when I start to go after him, Cooper won’t let me.

  “Cooper, I can’t go yet,” I say, struggling to free myself from his grip. “I got him to admit he knew them! Roberta and Elizabeth! And you know what? I don’t think he killed them. I don’t think he even knew they were dead!”

  “That’s nice,” Cooper says. “Now let’s go. I told you I have an appointment. Well, I’m late for it as it is.”

  “An appointment? An appointment?” I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. “Cooper, don’t you understand? Chris said—”

  “I heard you,” Cooper says. “Congratulations. Now let’s go. I said I’d bring you here. I didn’t say I could stay all night. I do have actual paying clients, you know.”

  I realize it’s futile. Even if Cooper did change his mind and let me go, I don’t have any idea where Chris has disappeared to. And how smart would it have been, really, for me to follow him? I mean, considering what hap
pened to the last couple of girls with whom he’d—how had I put it? Oh yeah, dallied. Hey, maybe I should be an English major. Yeah. A novelist, AND a doctor. AND a detective. AND a jewelry designer…

  Cooper and I slip outside. I don’t even have a chance to say good-bye to anyone, or congratulate Rachel on her Pansy. I’ve never seen a guy so eager to get out of one place.

  “Slow down,” I say, as Cooper hustles me to the curb. “I got heels on, you know.”

  “Sorry,” Cooper says, and drops my arm. Then he put his fingers to his mouth and whistles for a cab that’s cruising along West Fourth.

  “Where are we going?” I ask curiously, as the cab pulls to the corner with a squeal of its brakes.

  “You’re going home,” Cooper says. He opens the rear passenger door and gestures for me to get inside, then gives the driver the address of his grandfather’s brownstone.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning forward in the seat. “It’s just right across the block. I could’ve walked—”

  “Not alone,” Cooper says. “And I have to head in the other direction.”

  “Why?” I don’t miss the fact that Marian the Art Historian has just slipped out the library doors behind us.

  But instead of walking over and joining Cooper on the curb, she shoots him an extremely unfriendly look, then hurries off on foot toward Broadway.

  Cooper, whose back is to the library, doesn’t see the professor, or the dirty look.

  “I’ve got to see a man,” is all Cooper will say to me, “about a dog. Here.” He shoves a five-dollar bill at me. “Don’t wait up.”

  “What dog?” The cab starts to move. “Cooper, what dog? Are you getting another dog? What about Lucy? What’s wrong with Lucy?”

  But we’re already gliding out into traffic. Cooper has turned and strode off towards West Third Street. Soon I can’t see him at all.

  What had all that been about? I mean, really. I know Cooper’s clients are important to him, and stuff. And I know he thinks this whole thing with me and the deaths in my building is like a figment of my imagination, or whatever.

  But still. He could at least have listened to me.

  That’s when the cab driver, who appears to be Indian—like from India, not Native American—says, helpfully, “I believe that’s an expression.”