Meg Cabot - Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

I creep along the galley, straining my ears. I can hear the murmur of male voices out in the dining area. There’s a light on there, as well… but not the lights in the chandeliers. They haven’t turned on the overheads. Instead, they’ve got some kind of flickering lamp on… flashlights?

Or flames?

If they’re burning candles in there, they are in so much trouble. Burning candles isn’t allowed in any of the residence halls.

I’m not really sure what my plan is. I figure I’ll creep as close as I can behind the service counters, then peer out over them to see what the boys are up to. Then I’ll creep back and report what I’ve seen to Detective Canavan when he arrives with backup. That way they’ll have a good idea how many people they’re dealing with.

I crawl along behind the steam tables, thinking that I’m really going to have to have words with Gerald, because it is just disgusting back there. Seriously, the knees of my jeans are getting filthy, and my hand lands on something squishy that I sincerely hope is a furry Tater Tot.

Except that Tater Tots don’t make squeaking noises and jump away.

It’s all I can do to restrain a scream.

Good thing I go to the trouble, though. Because when I peek up over the top of the steam tables, I see something that both horrifies and stuns me.

And that’s a dozen figures in deeply hooded robes—like monks wear—only blood red, standing around one of the dining tables, which has been dragged from its normal place and put in a position of prominence in the center of the room, and covered with a blood-red cloth. On top of it are various items I’m too far away to identify. One of them, though, has to be a candelabra or something. The flickering light I’m seeing really is candlelight.

I’m not too far away to identify the figure that’s sitting off to one side, his wrists tied to the arms of one of the dining chairs. It’s Gavin. With duct tape over his mouth.

That is totally going to hurt when I pull it off. I mean, when it catches on his goatee.

Of course, I know right away what I’m looking at. I subscribe to all the premium cable channels, after all. It’s some kind of fraternity initiation ritual, like in that movie The Skulls.

And I want no part of it. Gavin appears to be all right—at least, he doesn’t seem to be in any imminent danger. I decide the best thing to do might be to retreat and wait for reinforcements.

Which is why I’m crawling back toward the kitchen when my coat pocket catches on a steel mixing bowl stashed way too low on a shelf. It falls to the (grimy) floor with a clatter, and the next thing I know, there are a pair of Adidas in front of me, peeping out from the hem of a red robe.

“Look what we have here,” a deep male voice says. And a second later, hard hands slip beneath my armpits and pull me to my feet.

Not that I go quietly, of course. I lift my hand to direct a stream of pepper spray inside the hood, only to have the canister knocked from my hand. I am, however, wearing Timberlands, the footwear of choice for the intrepid Manhattan assistant dorm director. I level one of my steel-encased toes at the shins of my captor, causing him to swear colorfully.

Sadly, however, he doesn’t release me, and the only result is that another robed guy comes up and grabs me, too. Plus a lot more mixing bowls fall down, making a horrendous racket.

But a racket is what I want to make now. I want everyone in the building to come running. Which is why I start screaming my head off as I’m dragged over to the ceremonial table the Tau Phis have set up.

At least until Steve Winer—or a guy I assume is him; he’s the tallest and has fancy gold trim around the cowl of his robe, as befitting the president of a frat house—walks over to where Gavin is sitting and smacks him, hard, across the face with some kind of scepter he’s holding.

I stop screaming. Gavin’s head has snapped back at the blow. For a minute it stays that way. Then, slowly, he turns his neck, and I see the gash that’s opened up on his cheek… and the fury blazing in his eyes.

Along with the tears.

“No more screaming,” Steve says, pointing at me.

“She kicked me, too,” says Adidas, beside me.

“No more kicking,” Steve adds. “You kick and scream, the kid gets whacked again. Understand?”

I say, in what I consider a relatively calm voice, “The cops are going to be here any minute. I know you said not to call them, but… too late.”

Steve pushes back his hood so he can see me better. The only light source—it really is a candelabra, sitting on the middle of the altar he’s created—isn’t exactly bright, but I can see his expression well enough. He doesn’t, however, look alarmed.

And this alarms me.

Especially when, a second later, the double doors to the café are thrown open, and Crusty Curtiss comes shuffling in, looking annoyed. He’s got a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. It appears to be a Blimpie Best.

Which just happens to be one of my favorites, especially with sweet and hot pickles.

“Can’t you keep her quiet?” he asks Steve, in an irritated voice. “People are wondering what the hell is going on in here.”

I stare at him in horror. Seeing my expression, Steve chuckles.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “There are loyal Tau Phis all over the world, Heather. Even working as security guards at major urban colleges.”

“Some cops showed up,” Curtiss says to me, taking another bite from his sandwich and speaking with his mouth full. “I told ’em I didn’t know what they was talkin’ about, that I’d been here all night and hadn’t see you. So they left. They looked kinda pissed off. I don’t think they’ll be back.”

I glare at him. “You,” I say, “are so fired.”

Curtiss laughs at that. He seems to genuinely be enjoying himself.

“Fired,” he says, chuckling. “Right.”

He turns around and shuffles back the way he’d come.

I look at Steve. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s get this over with. But let Gavin go. Your problem’s with me, not him.”

“We don’t have a problem,” Steve explains politely, “with either of you.”

“Well.” I look around the room at the assorted Tau Phis, wondering which one is Doug. “What am I doing here, then?”

“Oh, did I not explain over the phone?” Steve wants to know. “I guess I forgot.” He steps forward and lifts a long, ornamental knife from the altar he’s made. Ornamental in that the handle is gold and covered with semiprecious stones.

The blade, however, looks plenty real. And sharp.

“Pledges,” Steve says, “it’s time.”

And from out of the shadows step another half dozen robed figures, who’d apparently been lurking in the back, over by Magda’s register.

“Time for what?” I ask curiously.

“Initiation,” Steve informs me.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me with this” I say disgustedly.

“Pledges,” Steve says, ignoring me, “now is the time when you will be given the opportunity to prove your dedication to the house of Tau Phi Epsilon.”

“Seriously,” I say. “This is freaking stupid.”

Steve finally looks over at me. “If you don’t shut up,” he says, “we’ll off your boyfriend first, then you.”

I blink at him. I want to be quiet. I really do. But…

“Gavin’s not my boyfriend,” I say. “And seriously. Don’t you think there’s been enough killing?”

“Um.” One of the pledges throws back his hood. I’m astonished to see Jeff Turner, Cheryl Haebig’s boyfriend, standing there. “Excuse me. What’s she doing here?”