Meg Cabot - Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

Jordan, most of his scarves halfway unwound, glares at him. “Hey,” he says. “Fuck you, kid.”

Gavin feigns offense. “Is that any way to talk to the son of one of the only people who bought your last CD, man? Dude, that is cold.”

“I’m serious,” Jordan says to Gavin. “I just cross-country skied down here from the East Sixties, and I am in no mood for shenanigans.”

Gavin looks surprised. Then he grins at me happily. “Jordan Cartwright said shenanigans,” he says.

“Stop it,” I say. “Both of you. Jordan, put your skis back on. We’re going to a party, and you’re not invited. Gavin, buzz up so we can get someone to sign us in.”

Gavin blinks at me. “The frats don’t have to sign anyone in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say to him. “The sign-in policy is campus-wide. I’d show my ID to get us in, but, you know, I don’t want them knowing a housing official is on the way up.” I look at my ex, who is still unwinding his various scarves. “Jordan. Seriously. Gavin and I are here on a mission, and you’re not invited.”

“What kind of mission?” Jordan wants to know.

“One that involves keeping a low profile,” I say. “Which we aren’t going to be able to do if we waltz in there with Jordan Cartwright.”

“I can keep a low profile,” Jordan insists.

“The sign-in policy doesn’t include the Greek system,” Gavin says, in a bored voice.

I glance at the security guard. “Really?”

“Anyone can go up there,” the guard says, with a shrug. He looks almost as bored as Gavin. “I just don’t know why they’d want to.”

“Does this have something to do with that dead girl?” Jordan wants to know. “Heather, does Cooper know about this?”

“No,” I say, through gritted teeth. I can’t help it, I’m so annoyed. “And if you tell him, I’ll… I’ll tell Tania you cheated on her!”

“She already knows,” Jordan says, looking confused. “I tell Tania everything. She said it was okay, so long as I didn’t do it again. Listen, why can’t I go with you guys? I think I’d make an awesome detective.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I say. I’m still reeling from the information that his fiancée knows he cheated on her. I wonder if she knows it was with me. If so, it’s no wonder she always gives me such dirty looks whenever she sees me.

On the other hand, dirty looks are the only kind Tania ever gives anyone.

“You don’t blend,” I accuse Jordan.

Jordan looks insulted. “I do, too, blend,” he insists. He looks down at the skis he’s holding, then hastily leans them, and the ski poles, against the wall, along with his goggles. “Can you watch these?” he asks the security guard.

“No,” the guard says. He’s gone back to whatever it is he’s watching on his tiny desk-drawer television.

“See?” Jordan holds his arms out. He’s wearing a shearling coat, multiple scarves, jeans, ski boots, a woolly sweater with a snowflake pattern stitched into it, and a balaclava. “I blend.”

“Can we go up already?” Gavin wants to know, giving a nervous look out the door. “A whole bunch of people are coming. The max capacity of the elevator is three. I don’t want to wait.”

Tired of arguing with Jordan, I shrug and point to the elevator. “Let’s go,” I say.

I’m almost positive Jordan says, “Goodie!” under his breath.

But that’s not possible.

Is it?

I’ve never really liked parties. The music’s always turned up too loud, and you can never hear what anyone is saying to you.

Although at a party like the one at the Tau Phi House, that might actually be a good thing. Because no one here looks like much of a scintillating conversationalist, if you know what I mean. Everyone is super-attractive—the girls with stick-straight blow-outs, the guys with product carefully layered through their rumpled locks, to give them the appearance of having bed head, when you so know they just got out of the shower.

And though it might be below freezing outside, you wouldn’t know it by the way the girls are dressed—spangly halter tops and low-riders so low they’d make a stripper blush. I don’t see a single pair of Uggs. New York College kids are nothing if not up on their Hot or Not lists.

I am dismayed when we come off the rickety elevator to see that the words FAT CHICKS GO HOME are still spray-painted along the hallway, though it looks as if a little progress has been made in removing them. They’re not quite as fluorescent as they were last time I was here.

But they’re still there.

And I certainly don’t see anyone above a size 14 at the party. If I had to guess, I’d say the average size present is a 2.

Although I don’t know how these girls find thongs in the children’s section, which is undoubtedly where most of them have to shop in order to find anything that fits them.

But not everyone seems to find their incredibly slim waists (how do all their internal organs even fit in there? I mean like their liver, and everything? Isn’t it all squashed? Don’t you need at least a twenty-nine-inch waist in order for everything in there to have enough room to do its job?) freakish. Jordan is soon having a very nice time, since the minute he walks through the door, a size 2 runs up to him and is all, “Ohmigod, aren’t you Jordan Cartwright? Weren’t you in Easy Street? Ohmigod, I have all your CDs!”

Soon more size 2s are gathered around him, wriggling their narrow, nonchildbearing hips and squealing. One of them offers Jordan a plastic cup of beer from a nearby keg. I hear him say, “Well, you know, after my solo album came out, there was a bit of a backlash from the media, because people aren’t comfortable with that which isn’t familiar,” and I know he’s gone, sucked into the Size 2 Zone.

“Leave him,” I say to Gavin, who is staring at Jordan in concern—as who wouldn’t? Those girls look as if they haven’t eaten in days. “It’s too late. He’s going to have to save himself. Have you seen Doug anywhere?”

Gavin looks around. The loft is so crowded with people—and the lights are turned so low—that I don’t see how he could recognize anyone. But he manages to spy Doug Winer in a corner over by the wide windows, making out with some girl. I can’t tell if the girl is Dana, his paramour of the other morning. But whoever she is, she is keeping Doug occupied… enough so that I don’t have to worry about him lifting his head and spotting me for the time being.

“Great,” I say. “Now, which one is Steve?”

He looks around again. This time he points in the direction of the billiards table and says, “That’s him. Playing pool. The tall one, with the blond hair.”

“Okay,” I say. I have to shout in order for him to hear me, because the music is pulsing so loud. It’s techno pop, which I actually sort of like. To dance to. Sadly, no one is dancing. Maybe it’s not cool to dance at college parties? “We’re going in. You’re going to introduce me, right?”

“Right,” Gavin says. “I’ll say you’re my girlfriend.”

I shake my head. “He’ll never believe that. I’m too old for you.”

“You’re not too old for me,” Gavin insists.

I’m unbuttoning my coat and pulling off my hat. “You called me Grandma!”

“I was joking,” Gavin says, looking sheepish. “You couldn’t really be my grandma. I mean, how old are you, anyway? Twenty-five?”

“Um,” I say. “Yeah.” Give or take four years. “But still. Tell him I’m your sister.”