Meg Cabot - Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“Dad.” I can’t help it. I can’t stand up anymore. I sink down onto the side of the queen-sized bed. “Did Cooper say how long you could stay?”

“In fact,” Dad says, reaching out to ruffle Lucy’s ears, since she’s followed me inside, “he did. He said I could stay as long as it took in order for me to get back on my feet.”

“Dad.” I want to scream. “Seriously. You can’t do that. It’s not that I don’t want to work on our relationship—yours and mine, I mean. It’s just that… you can’t take advantage of Cooper’s generosity this way.”

“I’m not,” Dad says matter-of-factly. “I’m going to be working for him, in exchange for rent.”

I blink. “You’re… what?”

“He’s taking me on as an employee of Cartwright Investigations,” Dad says… a little proudly, I think. “Just like you, I’m working for him. I’m going to help him tail people. He says I’ve got just the right looks for it… sort of unnoticeable. He says I blend.”

I blink some more. “You blend?”

“That’s right.” Dad opens up the drawer to his nightstand and takes out a small wooden flute. “I’m trying to take it as a compliment. The fact that I’m so unnoticeable, I mean. I know your mother often felt that way, but I wasn’t aware it was true of the world in general. Oh, well. Listen to this little tune I learned at camp. It’s quite restful. And after the night you’ve had, I’m sure you could use a little relaxation.” He proceeds to lift the flute to his lips and begins to play it.

I sit there for a minute more as the notes—plaintive and, as he’d mentioned, oddly restful—wash over me. Then I shake myself and say, “Dad.”

He immediately stops playing. “Yes, dear?”

It’s the endearments that are killing me. Or possibly making me want to kill HIM.

“I’m going to bed now. We’ll talk about this again in the morning.”

“Well, all right,” he says. “But I don’t see what there is to talk about. Cooper is obviously a man of good sense. If he wants to hire me, I don’t see why you should object.”

I can’t see why I should object, either. Except… how am I going to get Cooper to realize I’m the woman of his dreams if my DAD’s around? How am I ever going to make him that romantic steak dinner for two I’d been planning? There’s nothing romantic about steak forthree.

“I realize I haven’t been the best father to you, Heather,” Dad goes on. “Neither your mother nor I provided you with very good role models growing up. But I hope the damage isn’t so serious that you are incapable of forming loving relationships now. Because it’s my sincerest wish that that is what you and I can have with one another. Because everyone needs a family, Heather.”

Family? Is that what I need? Is that what’s wrong with me? I don’t have a family?

“You look tired,” Dad says. “Which is understandable, after the day you’ve had. Here, maybe this will help soothe you.” Then he starts playing the flute again.

Okay.This I don’t need.

I lean down, blow out Dad’s green tea candle, and snatch it from the nightstand.

“These are a fire hazard,” I snap, in my most assistant residence hall directory voice.

Then I stalk from the room and upstairs to my own apartment.

The snow doesn’t stop. When I wake up in the morning, I look out the window and see that it’s still coming down—slower now, and less of it. But still in big fluffy flakes.

And when I get out of bed—which isn’t easy, considering how snug it is in there, with Lucy sprawled half across me— and go to the window, I find myself looking out at a winter wonderland.

New York City looks different after a snowfall. Even an inch can make a difference—it covers all the dirt and graffiti, and makes everything look sparkly and new.

And twenty inches—which is what it appears we got overnight—can make the city look like another planet. Everything is quiet… no honking horns, no car alarms… every sound is muffled, every branch straining under the weight of so much fluffy white stuff, every windowsill coated in it. Gazing out at it, I realize, with a sudden zing to my heartstrings, what’s going on:

It’s a Snow Day.

I realize it even before I pounce on the phone and call the college’s weather hotline. Oh, yes. Classes are canceled for the day. The school is closed. The city, in fact, is shut down. Only necessary emergency personnel should be on the streets.Yes.

Except, of course, when you live two blocks away from where you work, you can’t exactly plead that you couldn’t get in.

But still. You can be late.

I take my time bathing—because why stand up if you don’t have to? — and getting dressed. I have to resort to the backup jeans because of the bloodstains on my primary pair, and I am dismayed to find they are slightly snug. Okay, more than slightly. I have to pull my old trick of stuffing wadded-up socks along the waistband of my jeans to stretch them out, while doing deep knee bends. I tell myself it’s because they just came out of the dryer. Two weeks ago.

And when I remove the socks before going downstairs, they are a little less tight. At least I can breathe.

It’s as I’m breathing that I realize I’m smelling something unfamiliar. At least, unfamiliar in this house.

Bacon. And, if I’m not mistaken, eggs.

I hurry down the stairs—Lucy at my heels—and am horrified when I walk into the kitchen and find Cooper there, reading the paper, while my dad stands at the stove in a pair of brown cords and a woolly sweater. Cooking breakfast.

“This,” I say loudly, “has to stop.”

Dad turns around and smiles at me. “Good morning, honey. Juice?”

Cooper flicks down one side of the paper. “Why are you up?” he wants to know. “They just said on the news New York College is closed.”

I ignore him. But I can’t ignore Lucy, who is at the back door, scratching to be let out. I open the door, letting in an arctic blast. Lucy looks disappointed by what she sees out there, but bravely soldiers ahead. I close the door behind her and turn to face my father. Because I’ve come to a decision. And it has nothing to do with the wooden flute.

“Dad,” I say. “You cannot live here. I’m sorry, Cooper. It was nice of you to offer. But it’s too weird.”

“Relax,” Cooper says, from behind his newspaper.

I feel my blood pressure shoot up another ten points. Why does this always happen whenever anyone says the word relax?

“Seriously,” I say. “I mean, I live here, too. I’m also an employee of Cartwright Investigations. Don’t I get a say in this?”

“No,” Cooper says, from behind his newspaper.

“Honey,” Dad says, turning around and handing me a steaming mug of coffee. “Drink this. You never were a morning person. Just like your mother.”

“I am not like Mom,” I say. Though I take the coffee. Because it smells delicious. “Okay? I am nothing like her. Do you see, Cooper? Do you see what you’ve done? You’ve invited this man to live here, and he’s already telling me I’m like my mother. And I am nothing like her.”

“Then let him stay here,” Cooper says, still not looking out from behind his paper, “and find that out for himself.”

“Your mother is a lovely person, Heather,” Dad says, as he puts two sunny-side-up eggs and some bacon on a plate. “Just not in the mornings. Rather like you. Here.” He hands the plate to me. “This is how you used to like them as a little girl. I hope you still do.”

I look down at the plate. He has arranged the eggs so that they are like eyes, and the bacon is a smiling mouth, just like he used to do when I was a kid.

Suddenly I am overwhelmed by an urge to cry.