Meg Cabot - Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

Damn him. How can he do this to me?

“They’re fine, thanks,” I mutter, and sit down at the kitchen table.

“Well,” Cooper says, finally lowering the paper, “now that that’s settled, Heather, your dad is going to be staying with us for a while, until he figures out what his next move is going to be. Which is good, because I can use the help. I have more work than I can handle on my own, and your dad has just the kind of qualities I need in an assistant.”

“The ability to blend,” I say, chomping on a strip of bacon. Which is, by the way, delicious. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Lucy, whom Dad lets back in after she scratched on the door, is enjoying a strip I snuck her, as well.

“Correct,” Cooper says. “An ability which should never be underestimated when you are in the private investigative field.”

The phone rings. Dad says, “I’ll get that,” and leaves the kitchen to do so.

The second he’s gone, Cooper says, in a different tone, “Look, if it’s really a problem, I’ll get him a room somewhere. I didn’t realize things were so… unsettled… between you two. I thought it might be good for you.”

I stare at him. “Good for me? How is having my ex-con dad live with me good for me?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Cooper says, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just that… you don’t have anyone.”

“As I believe we have discussed before,” I say acidly, “neither do you.”

“But I don’t need anyone,” he points out.

“Neither do I,” I say.

“Heather,” he says, flatly. “You do. No one died, left you their townhouse, and made you independently wealthy. And, no offense, twenty-three thousand dollars a year, in Manhattan, is a joke. You need all the friends and family you can get.”

“Including jailbirds?” I demand.

“Look,” Cooper says. “Your dad’s an extremely intelligent man. I’m sure he’s going to land on his feet. And I think you’re going to want to be around when that happens, if only to inflict enough guilt on him to get him to throw some money your way. He owes you college tuition, at least.”

“I don’t need tuition money,” I say. “I get to go free because I work there, remember?”

“Yes,” Cooper says, with obviously forced patience. “But you wouldn’t have to work there if your dad would agree to pay your tuition.”

I blink at him. “You mean… quit my job?”

“To go to school full-time, if getting a degree is really your goal?” He sips his coffee. “Yes.”

It’s funny, but though what he’s saying makes sense, I can’t imagine what it would be like not to work at Fischer Hall. I’ve only been doing it for a little over half a year, but it feels like I’ve been doing it all my life. The idea of not going there every day seems strange.

Is this how everybody who works in an office feels? Or is it just that I actually like my job?

“Well,” I say, miserably, staring at my plate. My empty plate. “I guess you’re right. I just… I feel like I take enough advantage of your hospitality. I don’t want my family sponging off you now, too.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about protecting myself from spongers,” Cooper says wryly. “I can take care of myself. And besides, you don’t take advantage. My accounts have never been so well organized. The bills actually go out on time for a change,and they’re all accurate. That’s why I can’t believe they’re making you take remedial math, you do such a great job—”

I gasp at the words remedial math, suddenly remembering something. “Oh, no!”

Cooper looks startled. “What?”

“Last night was my first class,” I say, dropping my head into my hands. “And I spaced it! My first class… my first course for college credit… and I missed it!”

“I’m sure your professor will understand, Heather,” Cooper says. “Especially if he’s been reading the paper lately.”

Dad comes back into the kitchen, holding the cordless phone from the front hallway. “It’s for you, Heather,” he says. “Your boss, Tom. What a charming young man he is. We had a nice chat about last night’s game. Really, for a Division Three team, your boys put on quite a show.”

I take the phone from him, rolling my eyes. If I have to hear one more thing about basketball, I’m going to scream.

And what am I going to do about what Kimberly said last night? Was there something going on between Coach Andrews and Lindsay Combs? And if so… why would he kill her over it?

“I know the school’s closed,” I say to Tom. “But I’m still coming in.” Because, considering my newest house-mate, a monsoon couldn’t keep me away, let alone a little old nor’easter.

“Of course you are,” Tom says. Clearly, the idea that I might do what all the other New Yorkers are doing today—staying in—never even occurred to him. “That’s why I’m glad I caught you before you left. Dr. Jessup called—”

I groan. This is not a good sign.

“Yeah,” Tom says. “He called from his house in Westchester, or wherever it is he lives. He wants to make sure a representative from Housing shows up at the hospital to visit Manuel today. To show we care. Also to bring flowers, since there are no florist shops open, thanks to the storm. He says if you buy something from the hospital gift shop, I can reimburse you from petty cash… .”

“Oh,” I say. I’m confused. This is a sort of a high-profile assignment. I mean, Dr. Jessup doesn’t usually ask his assistant hall directors to step in as representatives of the department. Not that he doesn’t trust us. Just that… well, I personally haven’t been the most popular person on staff since I dropped the Wasser Hall assistant hall director during that trust game. “Are you sure I’m the one he wants to go?”

“Well,” Tom says, “he really didn’t specify. But he wants someone from the Housing Department to go, to make it look like we care—”

“We do care,” I remind him.

“Well, of course we care,” Tom says. “But I think he meant we as in the Housing Department, not we as in the people who actually know Manuel. I just figured since you and Manuel have a previously existing relationship, and you’re the one who, in effect, saved his life, and—”

“And I’m two blocks closer to St. Vincent’s than anyone else at Fischer Hall right now,” I finish for him. It’s all becoming clear now.

“Something like that,” Tom says. “So. Will you do it? Swing over there before coming here? You can take a cab there and back—if you can find one—and Dr. Jessup says he’ll reimburse you if you bring back the receipt… .”

“You know I’m happy to do it,” I say. Anytime I get to spend money and charge it to the department is a happy day for me. “How areyou doing, though?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, even though the answer is vitally important to my future happiness. There’s no telling what kind of heinous boss I might get assigned if Tom left. Possibly someone like Dr. Kilgore… . “Are you still thinking… I mean, the other day you mentioned wanting to go back to Texas—”

“I’m just trying to take this one day at a time, Heather,” Tom says, with a sigh. “Murder and assault were never covered in any of my student personnel classes, you know.”

“Right,” I say. “But, you know, in Texas they don’t have fun blizzards. At least, not very often.”

“That’s true,” he says. Still, Tom doesn’t sound convinced of New York’s superiority over Texas. “Anyway, I’ll see you in a bit. Stay warm.”

“Thanks,” I say. And I hang up… … to find Cooper looking at me strangely over his coffee.

“Going to St. Vincent’s to visit Manuel?” he asks lightly. Too lightly.