Meg Cabot - Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“That’s not—” Jordan sounds affronted. “Heather, how can you imply such a thing? That is totally ridiculous.”

“Is it?” I plonk everything I’ve gathered from the fridge onto the butcher-block kitchen table, then grab a plate and a glass and sit down. “Didn’t your solo album tank? And wasn’t it partially because your boy-next-door image got slightly tarnished by all the headlines when it got out that you’d been cheating on me, the Mall Princess, with your dad’s latest discovery?”

“Heather,” Jordan cuts me off tersely. “No offense, but the American public’s memory is not quite that sharp. By the time you and I split, you hadn’t had an album out in years. It’s true you were once beloved by a certain segment of the population, but that segment has long since moved on—”

“Yeah,” I say, stung in spite of myself. “They’ve moved on to wanting nothing to do with either of us. Good thing you’re attaching yourself to Tania’s shiny star. Just don’t ask me to watch you do it.”

“Heather.” Now Jordan sounds long-suffering. “Why do you have to be this way? I thought you’d forgiven me for what happened with Tania. It certainly seemed as if you’d forgiven me that night in Cooper’s hallway—”

I feel myself blanch. I can’t believe he has the nerve to bring that up.

“Jordan.” My lips feel numb. “I thought we agreed we were never going to speak about that night again.” Never speak of it, and never, ever allow it to happen again.

“Of course,” Jordan says soothingly. “But you can’t ask me to act like it didn’t happen. I know you still have feelings for me, Heather, just like I still have feelings for you. That’s why I really want you there—”

“I’m hanging up now, Jordan.”

“No, Heather, wait. That thing I saw on the news just now, about some girl’s head. Was that your dorm? What the hell kind of place do you work in, anyway? Some kind of death dorm?”

“’Bye, Jordan,” I say, and press OFF.

I put down the phone and reach for the chicken. Lucy takes up position at my side, alert for any food that might not make it from my plate to my lips, and instead fall haphazardly onto my lap or the floor. We work as a team that way.

I know there are some people out there who prefer their fried chicken hot. But they’ve probably never had the fried chicken from the bodega around the corner from Cooper’s brownstone—or, as Cooper and I call it, bodega fried chicken. Bodega fried chicken isn’t just for everyday consumption. It’s definitely comfort food on a different scale than your ordinary fried chicken, your KFC or Chicken Mc-Nuggets. I’d bought a nine-piece the day before, knowing today would be hellish, on account of it being the first day of the new semester.

I just hadn’t anticipated it would be this hellish. I might have to eat all nine pieces myself. Cooper was just going to have to suffer. A little salt, and…

Oh. Oh, yes. No mouth orgasm, but close enough.

I’m plowing through my second bodega fried chicken leg—Lucy starting to whimper because I haven’t dropped anything yet—when the phone rings again. This time—after I’ve wiped my hands on a paper towel—I check the caller ID before answering. I’m relieved to see that it’s my best friend, Patty. I answer on the second ring.

“I’m eating bodega fried chicken,” I tell her.

“Well, I certainly would if I were you, too”—Patty’s voice, as always, is as warm and comforting as cashmere—“considering the day you’ve had.”

“You saw the news?” I ask.

“Girl, I’ve seen the new sand the newspapers from this morning. And you will not believe who called me a little while ago.”

“Oh, my God, he called you, too?” I’m stunned.

“What do you mean, me, too? He called you?”

“To make sure I was coming. Even though I RSVP’d no.”

“No!”

“Yes! Then he even said I could bring Cooper as my date.”

“Holy Christ.” That’s what I love about Patty. She knows all the appropriate responses. “His publicist must have put him up to it.”

“Or Tania’s,” I say, finishing off the chicken leg and reaching into the box for a thigh. I know I should probably eat the apple instead. But I’m sorry, an apple just isn’t going to cut it. Not after the day I’ve had. “It would make her look like less of a skank if I showed up. Like I don’t blame her for breaking Jordan and me up.”

“Which you don’t.”

“Well, we were destined for Splitsville, USA, anyway. Tania just hastened our arrival. Still, I’m not going. How gross would that be? It’s all well and good to invite the ex, to show there’s no hard feelings and all. But the ex isn’t supposed to actually go.”

“I don’t know,” Patty says. “It’s the in thing to go now. According to the Styles section in the Times.”

“Whatever,” I say. “I haven’t been stylish since the nineties. Why should I start now? You’re not going, are you?”

“Are you insane? Of course not. But, Heather, can we please talk about what happened in your dorm today? I mean, residence hall. Did you know that poor girl?”

“Yeah,” I say, picking a stringy chicken piece from between my teeth. Fortunately we’re not on video phone. “Sort of. She was nice.”

“God! Who would do such a thing? And why?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I break off a chunk of thigh meat for Lucy, after making sure it contains no cartilage or bone, and give it to her. She inhales it, then looks at me sadly, like,Where’d it go? “That’s for the police to figure out.”

“Wait.” Patty sounds incredulous. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me. I’m not getting involved in this one.”

“Good for you!” Patty takes the phone from her mouth and says to someone in the background, “It’s all right. She isn’t getting involved in this one.”

“Say hi to Frank for me,” I say.

“She says hi,” Patty says to her husband.

“How’s the new nanny working out?” I ask, since the two of them have just hired a real British nanny—a middle-aged one, because Patty swore what happened to Sienna Miller was never going to happen to her.

“Oh,” Patty says. “Nanny is fine. We’re both terrified of her, but Indy seems to adore her. Oh, Frank says to tell you that he’s very proud of you. Leaving the murder investigation to the police… this shows real growth on your part.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Magda doesn’t agree, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“She thinks the cops are going to blame the victim. Which is probably true. I mean, even Reggie said something about what happened to Lindsay looking as if it might be retribution for something she did.”

“Reggie… the drug dealer on your street corner?” Patty asks, in an incredulous voice.

“Yeah. He’s going to ask around. You know, find out the word on the street for me.”

“Heather,” Patty says, “I’m sorry, I’m confused. But when you say things like that, it makes it sound like you really do plan on getting involved in the investigation.”

“Well,” I say, “I’m not.”

There is a masculine mumble in the background. Then Patty says to Frank, “Fine, I’ll ask her. But you know what she’s going to say.”

“Ask me what?” I want to know.

“Frank has a gig at Joe’s Pub next week,” Patty says, in a tense voice. “He wants to know if you’d like to join him.”

“Of course I’ll come,” I say, surprised she feels like she has to ask. “I love that place.”

“Um, not come to the performance,” Patty says, still sounding tense. “He wants to know if you’ll join him on stage.”

I practically choke on the piece of chicken I’m swallowing. “You mean… sing?”