Size 12 and Ready to Rock (13 page)

“Christ,” says Tom. “There’s no word for that.”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to be dealing with for the next two weeks.”

“Steven and I will pray for you,” Tom says, and like the altar boy he used to be before he came out of the closet (his mother now says she always knew he was gay and that she doesn’t care so long as he and Steven adopt one of those adorable Chinese babies like that gay couple did on that funny TV show), he makes the sign of the cross over me with his beer glass.

“So how did your staff take the news?” Steven wants to know. “Are they looking at it as their God-given chance to bang Tania Trace? Because that’s all I’m hearing from my boys.” Steven is the New York College basketball coach. “They think because they live in the building, they may actually have a chance at her.”

“I highly doubt they’re going to be able to get anywhere near her,” I say. “She’s got bodyguards. Or she will have, once they hire someone to replace the one who got shot. And they do realize she’s married and pregnant, right? Not that married pregnant ladies can’t still be incredibly sexy, but to a teenage boy—”

Steven rolls his eyes. “Please. She’s female. To some of those guys, that’s all that matters. They’d bang a tree if it was female.”

I bite my lip nervously. “Well, they better not be planning on banging the campers,” I say. “They’re underage.”

“I’ll remind them,” Steven says. “But I highly doubt they’ll be interested in some sixteen-year-old from Kansas when Tania Trace is around, pregnant or not. What about your staff?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “Their schedules are so insane, I hardly ever see them.” Unless, of course, I’ve given them money for pizza. “I sent them a mass text. Of the replies I got, three were smiley-face emoticons, four were nothing but exclamation points, and one, from Gavin—of course—was a long diatribe against the evils of reality television as opposed to the scripted drama and how auteurs like himself are going to suffer because of it. Like I can do something to change the nature of the show.”

It had become more and more apparent to me as the day wore on and I got to know more people involved with the shooting of
Jordan Loves Tania
that no one was going to listen to my opinion about anything.

As I gave Stephanie Brewer and another of the show’s producers—how many producers did one show need anyway?—a tour of the building, I began to realize how little of “reality television” is actually “reality.” Stephanie and the other producer, a tall, lanky guy named Jared Greenberg, were already determining what would be shot where (very little outside the rooms where the girls would live, they decided once they saw Fischer Hall’s common areas, which were “all wrong”).

“
God-awful
” was how Jared described the cafeteria when I took them in there.

Once a ballroom, the caf still had what
I
considered to be a certain elegance, with a large chandelier (admittedly not so elegantly lit by fluorescent bulbs) hanging from a skylit rotunda in the center of its twenty-foot ceiling, a rotunda that, okay, yes, had lost some of its Belle Epoque luster, not just from the weather over the decades but from a body landing on it in the past year.

“It’s being renovated,” I explained defensively as I saw them taking in the white sheets of plastic covering all the piled-up tables and chairs and heard Stephanie’s scream at the audible scurrying that occurred when I flicked on the lights.

Tom and Steven have a good laugh over this story—the fancy TV producers screaming over a few little mice.

But as we sit in the nice, nearly empty bar with our overpriced beers, the late afternoon sun pouring in through the plate-glass windows, I can’t help wondering a little sadly if
we
are the oddballs, not the producers. Doesn’t everyone find mice a little scary? What does it say about us that we do not?

I guess it says that some of us have encountered much scarier things than mice—things I didn’t mention to the crew of
Jordan Loves Tania
as they tried to figure out if they could use the Fischer Hall cafeteria for their show.

“If we bring in our own tables and chairs—maybe some really funky ones from that design place we used for
Rock the Kasbah,
remember, Steph?—and shoot only in this corner,” Jared Greenberg said, “I think we could make it work.”

Stephanie shuddered. “I wouldn’t eat here if you paid me.”

“Well, you won’t have to.” Jared’s tone was withering. “The girls will. We’ll order in, and charge it to the network, of course.”

I was a little insulted. It’s true that New York College uses the same food-service company as the New York State prison system, but it also services many of the hotel chains and theme parks in this country.

And Julio, the head of Housekeeping, had done a very good job of getting the remains off the outside of the skylight. I’d never known before starting this job—and there was no reason to tell the crew of
Jordan Loves Tania
—but it isn’t the responsibility of rescue services to clean the bodily fluids of a corpse from the sidewalk, floor, window, or roof that it lands on. The coroner takes only the body. Anything else that’s leaked out is the responsibility of building management.

That’s something I’d learned assistant-directing Fischer Hall. It’s why I’ve resolved that if I ever have to kill myself (because I’ve found out I have a painful life-threatening disease for which there is no cure, or the apes have suddenly acquired superintelligence and are about to take over the planet and enslave humankind), I’ll make sure to do it in a bathtub or shower or somewhere else that promotes easy cleanup. Otherwise, it will be up to my landlord or some poor maid or janitor (or, God forbid, my family members) to
literally
have to clean up my shit. That isn’t fair (or the way I want to be remembered).

My cell phone vibrates. I pick it up.

“Oh, wait, hold on, here’s another text from my staff now,” I say. “Brad thinks this is his big chance to, and I quote, ‘Tap Jordan Cartwright.’ ”

“I’d tap that too,” Tom admits with a gusty sigh. Then, when Steven elbows him, he remembers himself, sucks in his breath, and looks guiltily at me. “Oh God, Heather. Sorry. I forgot.”

I shrug. “It’s okay. I like to think it’s because I’m so down to earth and normal now, everyone forgets that I too was once part of the Cartwright family freak show. I take it as a compliment.” My cell hums again. “Oh good. Cooper’s on his way over,” I say after reading the text that appears on the screen. “Whatever that meeting was that he had, it appears to have agitated him. He’s neglected to use any capital letters or punctuation.”

“It would seem,” Tom says, with a glance at Steven, “that you’re still part of the Cartwright family freak show.”

I’m distracted, texting Cooper back. “What do you mean? Because of this Tania Trace thing?”

“Because you’re so obviously with Cooper now, you dumb slut,” Tom says. “Dumb slut” is a term of endearment to Tom, the way Magda, in the cafeteria, calls the students her movie stars. “Did you think we were never going to notice? You can try to pretend you two are just friends, but—”

“Your eyes do kind of light up when you mention him,” Steven says, “and it’s obvious from the way he looks at you that he’s in love with you.”

“Is it?” I ask, delighted in spite of the fact that we were trying to keep our relationship a secret and I already know Cooper is in love with me since he’s said so himself, multiple times.

“Not to mention you two have been attached at the hip all summer,” Tom complains. “When we asked you to come see the latest Reese Witherspoon rom-com with us and you dragged the poor man along—”

“He likes comedies,” I say in Cooper’s defense.
Golden Girls
is one of his favorite TV shows . . . although in some ways I think he watches it more as cheap therapy than as a comedy.

“I get why you’re keeping it on the down low,” Tom says, as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’d be awkward in any circumstances, dating your ex’s big brother, but it’s got to be especially bad in this case, given the Cartwright family freak-show factor. Still, you’re all grown-ups. I expect everyone should be able to handle it.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say, thinking back to the way Jordan had reacted at the Allingtons’ when a relationship between his brother and me had been suggested. Not good.

I still haven’t been able to shake the image of Tania the last time I saw her, huddled on President Allington’s couch, looking so lost and alone . . . all except for her dog, which she’d been clutching as if it were the only creature in the world she could trust. Shouldn’t that have been
Jordan?
Something seems a little off in that relationship.

Well, I’m sure when the baby comes, Jordan and Tania will be so caught up in their blissful happiness, they won’t even notice anything else going on around them. Cooper and I will be able to run off and get married, and it will all be water under the bridge . . . until, of course, everyone starts asking when
we’re
going to have kids.

“Have you told Cooper the news yet?” Steve asks.

“About my endometriosis?” I widen my eyes at him. “God no.” How did Steven even know about that? I haven’t told a soul.

Then I realize, even before Tom reacts, that of course Steven wasn’t referring to that. “I mean—”

“I think Steve meant about Cooper’s brother’s show being shot at your place of work,” Tom says, his eyebrows raised. “But if you’d prefer to give us an update on the status of your vagina, by all means, go ahead.”

Steven puts his beer glass down with a thump, causing its contents to slosh over the sides. “
Really?
” he says to his boyfriend.

Tom looks innocent. “She brought it up, not me,” he says. “So, Heather, is there something you want to tell us about your vagina?”

“I think you mean her uterus,” Steven says.

“
No,
” I say firmly, feeling my cheeks begin to heat up. “There’s nothing I want to tell you about my uterus. I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else. I’ve had some things on my mind lately . . .” I shake my head. “Never mind. I clearly need more female friends.”

“It must be difficult,” Steven sympathizes, “with Magda transferred to the Pansy, and Patty gone.”

My best friend Patty is married to a well-known musician, Frank Robillard. Though we speak and e-mail often, I don’t want to burden her with my problems, which seem petty compared to hers, given that she’s traveling on a multi-nation world tour with her husband, their small child, the baby they have on the way, and her husband’s band, a bunch of musicians who not only act like children but often need supervision. I mainly forward Patty videos of funny things I’ve seen on the Internet so she can have a gentle laugh at the end of a long day.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be swimming in estrogen in a couple of days, once Lisa moves in, not to mention the girls from Tania’s camp—”

Lisa Wu had said her family, who live in Staten Island, would be helping her and her fiancé, Cory, who works for an investment company, move in over the weekend. The residence hall director position, unlike my own, is live-in, so that the director can be on hand for any emergency that occurs after hours. The director’s apartment in Fischer Hall is a stunning corner suite on the sixteenth floor, with views of the Hudson River, the West Village, and SoHo. Not knowing when it would next be occupied or by whom after the loss of our last director, the building facilities staff has worked at keeping it move-in ready at all times. Julio and his nephew Manuel restored the parquet floor until it shone a rich mahogany brown, and Carl, the building engineer, painted the walls in the living room a feminine powder blue and the bedroom, kitchen, and bath a soft eggshell white.

Their efforts had paid off: the second Lisa stepped into the apartment she gasped with delight.

“Cory’s going to shit his pants,” she said, to my surprise and, by the look on his face, Dr. Jessup’s.

“Are you sure Cory’s a guy?” Tom asks when I relate this story at the bar. “Maybe it’s a lesbian wedding. That would be awesome. We need more lesbians on staff. Too bad Sarah’s not a—”

“Tom,” Steven says in a warning tone.

“I’m just saying,” Tom says. “She could do so much better than Sebastian.”

Steven nods in agreement. It takes a lot to get him to say anything bad about anyone. “He’s a bit of a—”

“
Dick?
” Cooper slides into our booth.

“
Cooper.
” I’m shocked. I hadn’t noticed him walk in, which is unusual. Normally when he enters any room, my gaze is drawn to him first thing. I don’t think it’s because I’m in love with him. He simply exudes something. Not masculinity exactly, because he isn’t a bodybuilder or anything like that, and he isn’t always the tallest or fittest man in the room. My Psych 101 professor would probably call it pheromones.

But since it’s actually part of Cooper’s job to be unobtrusive when he needs to be, he can sneak up on people, which is what he’s done now, startling all three of us.

“Dick,” he says again, and points to the name on the drink menu in front of us. His dark eyebrows are raised skeptically. “Really? A gay bar named Dick? Couldn’t they have thought of something a little more subtle?”

Tom has collapsed into giggles across the table, but Steven is clutching the menu and pointing at the tiny line beneath the word “Dick.”

“
Moby-
Dick,” Steven says. “As in Herman Melville’s greatest novel. That’s why there are spear guns and fishing nets on the walls. This is a Herman Melville tribute bar.”

Cooper isn’t having any of it.

“Sure it is,” he says. He glances at the bored-looking waiter who’s wandered toward our table. “I’ll take a—Christ, look at these prices. Whatever you have on draft. And a shot of Glenfiddich.” Cooper turns to me. “You’ll never guess who I spent my afternoon with.”

I’m startled. He’s actually going to share something about his work?

“The fact that you just ordered a shot tells me a little something,” I say. “You’re not much of a drinker, except under certain conditions. Were you with your family?”