Meg Cabot - Size 12 Is Not Fat

Meanwhile, Magda’s staring at my hands, her jaw moving in a weird way. I’ve never seen her eyes so big.

“Oh my God,” she keeps saying, throwing accusing looks in Pete’s direction. “You said it was bad, but you didn’t say how bad.”

“I’m okay,” I insist, trying to extricate myself from Patty’s impossibly long arms. “Really, Patty, I’m okay—”

“Jesus, Pats, you’re hurting her.” Frank tries to pry his wife off me. He peers down at me anxiously as he untangles Patty’s arms from mine. “You really okay, kid? You look like hell.”

“I’m okay,” I lie. I’m still shaken up, not so much from my ordeal in the elevator shaft as from my ordeal at the hands of those reporters. Where had they come from? And how had they found out about the bomb so fast? New York College appeared in the press rarely, and positively, if at all. How was this going to reflect upon my six months’ performance review? Would it be held against me?

Then Dr. Jessup coughs, and everyone looks at him. In his arms is an enormous bouquet of sunflowers. For me. Dr. Jessup has brought me flowers.

“Wells,” he says, in his gravelly voice. “Always hafta be in the spotlight, dontcha?”

I smile, moved beyond speech. After all, Dr. Jessup is very busy, being assistant vice president and all. I couldn’t believe he’d taken time out to come down to the hospital to give me flowers.

But Dr. Jessup isn’t done. He leans down and kisses my cheek, saying, “Glad you’re all in one piece, Wells. These are from the department.” He thrusts the flowers at me, and when I helplessly raise my bandaged hands, Magda steps in, taking the bouquet for me. Dr. Jessup doesn’t see her scowl, or if he does, he ignores it. He also doesn’t hear her mutter, “He gives her flowers, when what he should be giving her is a big fat raise… ”

“Rachel said to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t come, but somebody has to hold down the fort.” Dr. Jessup grins, showing all of his teeth. “ ’Course, she didn’t know about all the paparazzi. Bet she’ll be sorry she missed that when she hears about it. So, who you gonna sell the story to,Entertainment Tonight or Access Hollywood?”

“The Post ’ll offer you top dollar,” Magda informs me, not aware that Dr. Jessup is kidding. “Or the Enquirer.”

“Don’t worry,” I say with a smile. “I won’t be talking to the press.”

Dr. Jessup doesn’t look convinced. His expression has gone from one of friendly concern to one of worried suspicion. I realize suddenly that the only reason he even showed up at the hospital was to see if I intended to go public with my story.

I should have known, I guess. I mean that Dr. Jessup wasn’t there out of concern for me. Dr. Jessup was there for one reason, and one reason only:

Damage control.

I think he suspected it was going to be bad—why else would he have braved the traffic this far into the West Village? — but I don’t think he ever thought it was going to be this bad. A bomb going off in a New York College dormitory—I mean, residence hall—is news with a capital N. Something similar had happened at Yale, and it had made CNN, and been a lead story on all the local networks, even though it had turned out to have nothing to do with terrorism.

And the fact that one of the victims of this bomb is a former teen pop sensation? Well, that just makes the story that much juicier. My disappearance from the world of music had not gone unnoticed, and the reason behind it—including my mother’s new Argentinian cattle ranch—had been made graphically public. I could just see the cover of the Post:

BLOND BOMBSHELL

Former Pop Star Heather Wells

Nearly Blown to Bits

at low-paying job she was forced to take at New York College in order to support herself after her music career tanked and she was thrown out by former fiancé, Easy Street member Jordan Cartwright.

Still, I can understand Dr. Jessup’s concern. Having two of his employees injured in an elevator accident is one thing.

But a bomb in one of his dormitories—I mean, residence halls? Worse, a bomb in the building in which the president of the college lives? What’s he going to tell the trustees? The poor guy probably thinks he’s watching his vice presidency slip away.

I don’t blame him for being more worried about his own skin than mine. After all, he’s got kids. All I’ve got is a dog.

“Heather,” Dr. Jessup begins again. “I’m sure you under stand. This thing is a PR nightmare. We can’t have the public thinking our residence halls are out of control—”

To my surprise, it’s Detective Canavan who interrupts the assistant vice president. Noisily clearing his throat, then looking around unsuccessfully for a place to spit, Detective Canavan sighs, then swallows.

Then he says, “Hey. Hate to break this up, but the longer Ms. Wells here sticks around, the harder it’s gonna be for my boys to maintain crowd control out there.”

I feel an arm slip around my shoulders. Looking up, I’m surprised to see that the arm belongs to Cooper. He isn’t looking at me, though. He’s looking at the door.

“Come on, Heather,” he says. “Frank and Patty brought their car. They parked it down below, in the garage. They’ll give us a lift home.”

“Oh yes, let’s go,” Patty urges. Her beautiful face is filled with distaste. “I hate hospitals, and I hate reporters even more.” Her dark, almond-shaped eyes slide toward Dr. Jessup, and she looks as if she’s about to add,And I hate uptight bureaucrats most of all, but she refrains, entirely for my sake, I’m sure, since I choose that moment to step on her foot sort of hard, causing her to let out a little yelp of pain.

After I say good-bye to Pete and Magda—who promise to stick around the hospital until they get to see Julio—a hospital administrator gladly shows us the way down to the parking garage, as if any sacrifice she can make to get rid of us—and ergo, all the reporters—will be well worth it.

All I can think the whole way to the car is,Oh God. I am so fired. When I’m not thinking,Oh God, what’s with the arm? about Cooper, that is.

Except that once we’re safely in the car, Cooper removes his arm. So then I just have the one thing to worry about.

“Oh God,” I can’t help saying miserably, a catch in my throat, from the backseat. “I think Dr. Jessup is going to fire me.”

“Nobody’s going to fire you, Heather,” Cooper says. “The guy’s just looking out for his own interests.”

“That man even crosses his eyes at you, baby, he’s gonna hafta deal with me,” Patty growls, from behind the wheel. Patty is an assertive—one might almost say aggressive—driver, which is why she, instead of Frank, does all the driving when they’re in the city. She leans on the horn as a yellow cab cuts her off. “Nobody messes with my best girlfriend.”

Frank, looking back at me from the front passenger seat, says, “Cooper give you his jacket?”

I look down at the leather coat still wrapped around my shoulders. It smells of Cooper, like leather and soap. I never want to take it off, not ever again. But I know I’m going to have to, when we get home.

“No,” I say. “I mean, just to borrow.”

“Oh,” Frank say. “Because, you know, you’ve got your blood all over it.”

“Frank,” Patty says. “Shut up.”

“It’s all right,” Cooper says, as he studies the many weirdos out his window who make up the street life of the West Village.

It’s all right!My heart swells. Cooper had said it’s all right that I got my blood all over his leather jacket! Probably because, you know, we’ll be dating after this, and he’s just going to give the coat to me anyway. And I’ll have it—and Cooper—always, to keep me warm.

But then Cooper adds, “I know of a dry cleaner who’s good at getting bloodstains out.”

You know, it just isn’t my day.

25

Hello

Do I have the right number?

Hello

Yes, I’m looking for my lover

Hello

Can you get him

On the line for me?

Hello

I know he used to live there

Hello

I know he used to care

Hello

Please get my lover on the line

For me

“Hello”

Performed by Heather Wells

Composed by Jones/Ryder

From the album Magic

Cartwright Records

Patty drops us off at the brownstone, even though Frank insists it isn’t safe there, what with somebody wanting to kill me and all.

All I want to do is take a bath and crawl into my own bed and sleep for a thousand years. I don’t want to have a big long discussion about whether whoever is trying to kill me knows where I live. Frank wants me to go stay with him and Patty.

Until Cooper points out that that might put Indy at risk.

At first I’m kind of shocked, you know, that Cooper would say something so horrible. It’s only when I see how swiftly Frank says that he thinks it would be better if I just stay at Cooper’s, after all, what with Cooper being a trained crime fighter, that I realize what Cooper was up to. He knows I just want to go home. He knows I don’t want to stay in Frank and Patty’s guest room.

And because he’s Cooper, and he’s always doing nice things for me—giving me a free apartment when I have nowhere else to go, and no money for rent anyway; taking me to a party he doesn’t really want to go to, since he might run into a former flame, with whom things had ended badly; risking his own life to save mine; that kind of thing—he’d done his best to get me what he knew I wanted.

Except, of course, the one thing I want more than anything.

But apparently that, for reasons I’ll probably never know—and am pretty sure I don’t want to, anyway—he’s not prepared to give me.

Which is totally fine. I mean, I understand. I’ll just open my OWN doctor’s office/detective agency/jewelry shop, without his help.

Of course, having the kids on my own might be harder, but I’m sure I’ll manage somehow.

Fortunately, I have an unlisted number, so there aren’t any reporters lurking on my front stoop when we pull up. Just the usual drug dealers.

Lucy is wild with joy to see me—though I have to ask Cooper to walk her for the time being, since there’s no way I can hold a leash with my torn-up hands. Once the two of them are gone, I slip upstairs to my apartment, where I peel off my grimy clothes and slide, at long last, into the tub.

Although it turns out that bathing with stitches in your hands is no joke. I have to get out of the tub and go into the kitchen, pull out some rubber gloves, and put those on before I can wash my hair, because the doctor warned me that if I got the stitches wet, my hands might fall off, or something.

Once I get all the elevator grime and blood off me, let the bath refill, and I just lay there, soaking my sore shoulder for a while, wondering what I’m going to do now.

I mean, things aren’t exactly looking good. Someone is trying to kill me… probably the same someone who’d already killed two people, at least. The only common denominator between the dead girls appears to be the president of the college’s son.