Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (21 page)

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
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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 wordrelax ?

“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 amnothing 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
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mouth, just like he used to do when I was a kid.

Suddenly I am overwhelmed by an urge to cry.

Damn him. How can hedo 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 toblend ,” 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. “Goodfor me? How is having my ex-con dad live with megood 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.”

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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 ofnot going there every day seems strange.

Is this how everybody who works in an office feels? Or is it just that I actuallylike 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 wordsremedial 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 hekill her over it?

“I know the school’s closed,” I say to Tom. “But I’m still coming in.” Because, considering my newest housemate, 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….”

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“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 sureI’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—”

“Wedo care,” I remind him.

“Well, of coursewe care,” Tom says. “But I think he meantwe as in the Housing Department, notwe 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.

“Yes,” I say, averting my gaze. I know what he’s thinking. And nothing could be further from the truth.

Well, maybe notnothing …. “I doubt I’ll find a cab, so I better go bundle up—”

“You’re just going to give Manuel get-well wishes,” Cooper says, “and then head back to work, right?

You wouldn’t, say, hang around and try to question him about who attacked him last night and why, would you?”

I laugh heartily at that. “Cooper!” I cry. “God, you’re so funny! Ofcourse I wouldn’t do that. I mean, the poor guy was brutally stabbed. He was in surgery all night. He probably won’t even be awake. I’ll just sneak in, leave the flowers—and balloons—and go.”

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“Right,” Cooper says. “Because Detective Canavan told you to stay out of the investigation into Lindsay’s murder.”

“Totally,” I say.

Dad, who has been watching our exchange with the same kind of intensity he watched the basketball game the night before, looks confused. “Why would Heather interfere with the investigation into that poor girl’s death?”

“Oh,” Cooper says, “let’s just say that your daughter has a tendency to get a little overinvolved in the lives of her residents. And their deaths.”

Dad looks at me gravely. “Now, honey,” he says, “you really ought to leave that sort of thing to the police. You don’t want to be getting hurt, now, do you?”

I look from Dad to Cooper and then back again. Suddenly it hits me: I’m outnumbered. There’s two of them now, and only one of me.

I let out a frustrated scream and stomp out of the room.

17

This town ain’t just steel and concrete

This town ain’t just millions of stories

Teeth knocked out, but I’m still smiling

A street-smart fighter sayin’,

“Come on and try me.”

“Street Fighter”

Written by Heather Wells

The gift shop is open, thank God. The flowers aren’t exactly very fresh-looking, though—no delivery that morning, on account of the road conditions, which are so bad I not only couldn’t get a cab, but had to walk in pretty much the center of the street in order to avoid drifts up to my knees.