Big Boned

by Meg Cabot

  “Her name is Muffy. Seriously, you’re gonna get me in trouble. What do you want?”

  “Muffy?” Gavin shakes his head in disbelief, as if now he’s finally heard it all. “Okay. Well, here’s the deal. I thought you’d want to know. There’s this chick on my floor, Jamie?”

  I shake my head. “Yeah?”

  “Well, I guess she had some meeting with Veatch or something this morning?”

  Comprehension dawns. “Oh, right. Price. Jamie Price. Gavin, seriously, I don’t have time—”

  “Whatevs!” Gavin holds up both hands in an I-surrender motion. “You know, she told me nobody would care. But I told her, I was, like, listen, Heather is different. Heather cares. But if you’d rather go back in there and play cowboys and Indians—”

  I glare at him. “Gavin, what is it? Just tell me.”

  Gavin shrugs. “Nothing. Just…well, I heard this Jamie girl…she was in her room, crying, right? And her roommate comes out and says she won’t stop, right? And I go, Let the Gavinator have a try at her, you know what I mean?”

  “Gavin.” I seriously can’t believe my day. I really can’t. And it started so early. Six in the morning! Only to be followed by pain—my pain—and okay, then sex. But then bloodshed. And now this. “Do you want to die right now? Because I will—”

  He drops the gangbanger routine.

  “Okay, seriously. So I go in there, and I ask her what’s the matter, and she says to go away, and I say, No, really, I can help, on account of—” Here Gavin has the grace to look embarrassed. “Well, that part doesn’t matter. But anyway, she goes—”

  “No, Gavin,” I say. “That part does matter. What did you say?”

  “No, it doesn’t. It’s not an integral part of this narration. Okay? So she goes—”

  “Gavin. I am turning around and walking right back in there if you don’t tell me—”

  “Itoldhermymom’sagynecologist, okay?” Gavin is blushing now. “Look, I know it’s stupid, but…chicks’ll tell you anything if they think your mom’s a gynecologist. I don’t know why.”

  I stare at him. It’s a shame, actually, that Gavin is a film major, because he would be a true asset to our nation in any of its security agencies.

  I can’t think of anything to say except “Go on.”

  “So, anyway, I’m thinking she’s gonna tell me…you know, that she’s got VD, or whatever. That’s what I’m hoping it’s gonna be, anyway, because that means, you know, that she likes to get nasty—”

  I sigh. “Oh, Gavin,” I say, looking toward the ceiling. “And I thought your love for me was pure, like freshly driven snow.”

  “Whatevs.” Gavin’s blush returns, but this time he rocks a little on his Nikes. “A man’s got needs. And, you know, she’s kinda…well, Jamie, she’s kinda hot. You know. In a…well…like you. Sorta.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Now I’m gonna be sick. Gavin, I swear, if you dragged me out of that meeting to hit on me—”

  “I didn’t!” Gavin looks too indignant to be lying. “Heather! Come on!”

  “Then what is this about, Gavin?” I demand.

  “What she told me!” he says, thrusting out his goateed chin.

  “Well?” I fold my arms across my chest. “What was it?”

  “That she knows why he got shot,” Gavin says. “Your boss, I mean. And she was real upset about it.”

  Startled, I drop my arms. “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know why,” Gavin says. “I’m just telling you what she said. She said it was all her fault. That if it weren’t for her, Dr. Whatever His Name Was would still be alive today.”

  9

  * * *

  June brought out the boys in linen shirts

  Like July and August, talk about jerks

  September’s man had the softest hands

  October’s took me to foreign lands

  “Calendar Boys”

  Written by Heather Wells

  * * *

  I’m standing in the middle of the second floor hallway, staring at Gavin McGoren with my mouth hanging open. To our right, the elevator doors slide open, and two giggling freshman girls stagger out of the car and toward the Fischer Hall library doors, too caught up in their hysterics and enormous Jamba Juices to see the Closed for Meeting—Do Not Disturb sign posted there.

  “Dudes,” Gavin says to them.

  They quit giggling for a second, and turn to look at him.

  “Don’t go in there,” he says, and points at the sign. “Closed. See?”

  The girls look at the sign. Then they look at Gavin. Then they look at one another, burst into more giggles, and bolt for the emergency stairwell, laughing maniacally.

  Gavin looks back at me. I guess he can tell by my expression that I’m not exactly buying what he’s selling yet, since he goes, “I swear to God, Heather, I’m not playing. That’s what she said. And you can take that to the bank.”

  “She said it was her fault Owen was dead?” I shake my head. “Gavin, that doesn’t even make any sense.”

  “I know,” Gavin says, with a shrug. “But that’s what she said. And that’s why I knew I had to come find you. Because I figured that was like—you know. A clue. Right?”

  I’m still shaking my head. “I don’t know what it is. Did she say anything else?”

  “Naw. She started crying so hard after that, I couldn’t get anything more out of her. She said she wanted to go home. She’s from Westchester, you know, so it’s not like she can’t take off if she wants to. She said she was going to call her mother to pick her up at the train station. So I figured I better come get you. You know, so you could try to keep her here before she attempts to flee the, uh, premises. This was like five minutes ago so if you hurry you can probably still catch her.”

  Surprised by this show of common sense on Gavin’s part, I nod. “Okay. Good. Well, thanks, Gavin. I’ll go up and see her now. Maybe I can get her calmed down enough to talk to the police before she—”

  I’m interrupted, however, by a bloodcurdling scream. It appears to have come from downstairs.

  I don’t wait for any of my superiors in the library before I tear open the doors to the emergency stairwell and barrel after the two freshmen girls to the first floor, taking the steps three at a time, Gavin at my heels.

  I find both girls standing in the lobby, apparently unharmed. They’re huddled with a number of other openmouthed residents, all staring in astonishment as several of New York’s Finest are escorting a handcuffed Sebastian Blumenthal past the reception and security desks, a grim-faced Detective Canavan following behind, holding his hands palms out and saying, “Okay, kids, show’s over. Get back to your rooms. Move along, now.”

  No one is moving along, though. How can they, when the show is clearly so very far from over?

  “Get a good look!” Sebastian is shouting, as he is dragged past us. He is not exactly coming along willingly, although, lanky as he is, he doesn’t seem to be posing much of a problem for the burly officers. “This is your tax money in action! Well, okay, maybe not your tax money, because you’re all students, and out-of-state. But this is what your tax money will be paying for someday: the persecution of individuals who were only hoping to make a difference in the lives of the poor and oppressed. I guess it doesn’t matter that I’m completely innocent of the charges being leveled against me. I guess it doesn’t matter that all I’m trying to do is improve the working conditions of your teaching instructors, who are treated like virtual slaves—”

  “What”—Dr. Jessup, his silk scarf now dangling around his neck in a manner not unlike an RAF fighter pilot, steps off the elevator, followed by Drs. Flynn, Kilgore, and as many of the rest of the housing staff as the two-thousand-pound weight capacity the car would allow—“is going on down here?”

  The source of the scream we’d all heard earlier soon becomes apparent when Sarah, peeking out from behind Detective Canavan, sees me in the crowd.

  “HEATHER!” she shrieks, and stagg
ers toward me, throwing herself into my arms, her face a slick mask of tears, her hair an even unholier mess than usual. “They’ve arrested Sebastian! For m-murder! You’ve g-got to stop them! He ddidn’t do it! He can’t have done it! He doesn’t believe in murder! He’s a v-vegetarian!”

  Let me tell you something. Sarah is a pain in my ass a lot of the time, but she’s a hard worker, and she has a good heart. For the most part, she’s a sweet girl.

  But one thing Sarah is not is light. And she’s leaning all of her body weight on me. Which I’m about to collapse under.

  Thank God for Pete, who comes hurrying over from behind the security desk, going, “Okay, Sarah, why don’t we sit you down over here in the lobby and get you some water. Would you like some water? How about a nice cold glass of water? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “I don’t want water!” Sarah cries, her face buried against my chest.

  I can’t see what’s going on in the rest of the lobby because all of Sarah’s hair is flying up in my face, blocking my view.

  “I want justice!” she wails.

  “Well, we’ll get you some of that, too.” Magda has appeared from out of nowhere. “Maybe there’s some in the freezer.” Together, she and Pete are lifting Sarah off me. Suddenly I can see that the police have successfully removed Sebastian from the building. Detective Canavan is still in the lobby, speaking in a low voice with Drs. Jessup, Flynn, and Kilgore. Muffy Fowler is there, too, but she only has eyes for Reverend Mark, who seems to have found some of his student brethren (constituents? whatever the word is) and is joking with them in a hearty manner, while Muffy pretends to know what they are talking about and laughs along.

  Gavin, meanwhile, has followed me down from the second floor and is glaring at me. Jamie, he mouths, and nods meaningfully at the elevators.

  Hold on, I mouth back, and nod at Sarah. Clearly he can see I can only deal with one crisis at a time. I’m not Super Assistant Dorm Director, after all. I mean, Residence Hall Director.

  Pete and Magda get Sarah into the cafeteria and propped up in one of the blue vinyl chairs with a glass of water that she drinks only after much urging. The caf is closed for cleanup between the lunch and dinner shifts, so we don’t have to worry about anyone observing us…which is good for Sarah, since she doesn’t exactly look her best. Her skin is flushed and clammy. Tendrils of her curly black hair are sticking to her forehead and temples.

  “It was so awful,” she murmurs. “We were sitting in the storage room. Just sitting there, minding our own business, because they were still doing all that forensic stuff in our office, Heather. And then suddenly Detective Canavan comes in, and says he wants to talk to Sebastian. And Sebastian was like, Okay. Because he has nothing to hide. Why shouldn’t he have said yes? And the next thing I know, they’re leading him away in handcuffs. Heather—they arrested him! What are we going to do? I have to call his parents. Someone has to call his parents—”

  “We’ll call his parents,” I say, in what I hope is a soothing voice. I try to push some of the tendrils back from her forehead, but it’s no use. She’s so sweaty, they’re stuck there, like glue. “I’m sure he’ll call them himself, though.”

  “Right,” Magda says. “Don’t prisoners get one phone call?”

  This question starts a fresh wave of weeping. I give Magda a dirty look over the top of Sarah’s head.

  “What?” Magda demands, defensively. “They do. When my cousin Tito—”

  “No one wants to hear about your cousin Tito right now, Magda,” Pete says. From his tone, I kind of get the feeling Magda might be right: Pete doesn’t like her—not that way. On the other hand, maybe he has other things on his mind. He’s looking down at Sarah, clearly concerned for her. “The question is, why did they arrest him? What kind of proof do they have?”

  “No proof,” Sarah wails, into her arms, which are folded on the tabletop. “They don’t have any proof, because he didn’t do it! Sebastian is a pacifist! He wouldn’t hurt a fly! He’s getting his master’s in religious studies…he keeps kosher, for Christ’s sake!”

  Pete and I look at each over her shaking shoulders. “They have to have something,” he says quietly. “Something good, too. Or they wouldn’t have arrested him. A case like this, so much publicity…They’d never have made a move like this without something solid. They wouldn’t want to make a mistake, risk any bad press.”

  I pull out the chair beside Sarah’s and slide into it. “Sarah,” I say to her. I’m trying to ignore her tears. Now is not the time for weeping. Not if she wants to spare her friend life in prison. Or worse. New York’s got the death penalty. “Think. What could they have on Sebastian that would make them think he did it? Does he own a gun?”

  “God, no,” Sarah says, with a shudder. “I told you, he’s a pacifist.”

  She’d also told me he was very adversarial. But I let that one slide. Besides, anyone can get a gun. This is New York City, after all.

  “Well, where was he this morning when Dr. Veatch died? Do you know? Does he have an alibi?”

  Sarah raises her head. Her face glistens with tears. “H-how should I know?” she asks. “I’m not exactly his girlfriend. How would I know where he was at eight this morning?”

  It is obvious this admission pains her more than she wants us to know.

  Pete licks his lips. Then he says, “This is bad.”

  Sarah wails, “But he didn’t do it! I know he didn’t!”

  “Yeah,” Pete says. “Funny how juries and judges usually want something called proof, and you saying you know he didn’t do it? That is not considered proof. I gotta get back to my desk. You girls be all right?”

  We nod, and Pete leaves…shaking his head as he goes. Sarah watches him until the cafeteria doors ease shut behind him, then looks at Magda and me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Okay. So what are we going to do?”

  Magda glances at her genuine zirconium-encrusted watch. “I don’t know about you, but I have an appointment for an important eyebrow waxing after work.”

  Sarah sighs. “That’s not what I meant. I meant about Sebastian.”

  “I don’t see what we can do, Sarah,” I say. “I mean, the police—”

  “—have arrested the wrong man.” Sarah’s stopped crying, but her eyes haven’t lost the feverish glitter they seem to have taken on from the moment the cops slipped the cuffs over Sebastian’s wrists…and her scream ripped through the corridors of Fischer Hall. I’m surprised she didn’t burst any blood vessels, that shriek was so loud. “Obviously, they’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “Sarah.” I hesitate. Still, it has to be said. “I know you really, um, like this guy. But how can you be so sure that he didn’t do it?”

  Sarah just stares at me.

  “I mean, the GSC does stand to gain from having Dr. Veatch out of the way—”

  Sarah continues to stare.

  “Look, I know,” I go on. “I was there this morning. And, yeah, he seemed as surprised as anyone to hear that Owen was dead. But we both know that sociopaths are good actors. Maybe…”

  Sarah blinks. I sigh.

  “Okay,” I say. “Fine. He didn’t do it.”

  “Finally,” she grumbles. “You know, sometimes you seem to have difficulty processing information. You might look into a temporal lobe disturbance. Just a slight one. Did you ever suffer a concussion as a child? Because that might explain it. Anyway. I guess what we need to do is concentrate on finding the person who really did shoot Dr. Veatch.”

  I swallow. “Uh, Sarah? Cooper and I already had this conversation earlier. And he seemed to think that would be a really bad idea.”

  “Yeah?” Sarah sounds completely disinterested. “Well, things are a little bit different now, aren’t they? An innocent man has been wrongly jailed for a crime he did not commit. Now, who else can you think of who might have had motive to do this? Anyone? Magda? Any ideas?”

  Magda looks at her watch again. “I’ve got to go.”

  Sarah’s
face crumples. “Really, Magda. Is it too much to ask that just this once you think of something besides your personal grooming? Like the life of a young man who is so forward thinking and self-sacrificing, he could conceivably one day be president of the United States?”

  Magda looks dubious. “I don’t know,” she says. “I got some pretty funky stuff starting to grow where no hairs should be…”

  The cafeteria doors open, and Gavin comes striding in.

  “Hey,” Magda yells at him. “We’re closed till five—”

  “Duh,” Gavin says. “Heather, we’re too late. I just called up to Jamie’s room. Her roommate says she just left for home—”

  I swear beneath my breath, and Sarah glances at me sharply. “Jamie who?” she wants to know.

  “Jamie Price,” I say. “She had a meeting—”

  “With Owen this morning,” Sarah finishes for me. “I remember, I scheduled it for her. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about. Why does Gavin know about it, though? And what does it matter that she’s gone home? What’s this about?”

  “Nothing,” I say. I don’t want to give her false hope. “Just something she said—”

  Gavin’s already approached our table. “We should go after ’er. Rent a car, or whatever. Go to her place and find out what’s going on.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say, flattening my hands against the slightly sticky tabletop. “What? No.”

  “We could take the train, I guess,” Gavin goes on. “But, like, how are we going to get from the train station to her house? It’s quicker to rent a car.”

  “Not at rush hour, it isn’t,” Sarah says. “And it’s almost four. Why, exactly, are you doing this?”

  “’Cause she knows why Dr. Veatch got iced,” Gavin explains, with a shrug.

  Sarah’s whole demeanor changes. Her spine stiffens, and her rounded shoulders go back. She turns her suddenly laser-sharp gaze upon me. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she demands.

  “Sarah,” I say, already reading the writing on the wall—and not happy about it. “It’s just—we don’t even know what Jamie’s talking about. It could be nothing.”