Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (38 page)

Authors: Meg Cabot

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BOOK: Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

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“I’m sorry,” I say. “You must be missing the reception.”

“I said I’d go to the wedding,” Cooper says. “I didn’t say anything about the reception. I’m not the hugest salmon fan. And I do not do the chicken dance.”

“Oh,” I say. I can’t really picture him doing the chicken dance, either. “Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Cooper says.

And we head out into the cold, to where he’s parked his car along Twelfth Street. Once inside, he starts the engine and lets the heater run. It’s dark out—even though it’s barely five o’clock—and the streetlights are on. They cast a pinkish glow over the drifts piled up alongside the street. The snow, so beautiful when it first fell, is fast turning ugly, as soot and dirt stain it gray.

“Cooper,” I hear myself saying, as he finally puts the car in gear. “Why did you tell Gavin I’m still in love with your brother?”

I can’t believe I’ve said it. I have no idea where the question came from. Maybe there’s some residual Rohypnol in my central nervous system. Maybe I need to check back into the hospital to get the rest of it out.

“That again?” Cooper asks, looking amused.

The amusement sends a spurt of irritation through me.

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“Yes,that again,” I say.

“Well, what did you want me to tell him?” Cooper asks. “That he has a chance with you? Because I hate to be the one to break it to you, Heather, but that guy has a major crush on you. And the more you ask him to take you to frat parties and the like, the more you’re just reinforcing it. I had to tell him something to try to nip his little infatuation in the bud. I thought you’d be grateful.”

I am careful not to make eye contact with him. “So you don’t believe that. About me and your brother, I mean.”

Cooper is quiet for a minute. Then he says, “You tell me. I mean, it’s kind of hard to believe there’s nothing there when every time I turn around, you two are together.”

“That’s him,” I say adamantly. “Not me. I do not have feelings for your brother. End of story.”

“All right,” Cooper says, in the soothing tone in which one might speak to the mentally disturbed. “I’m glad we got that straightened out.”

“We haven’t,” I hear myself say. What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING?

Cooper, who’d been about to pull out of the parking space, puts his foot on the brake. “We haven’t what?”

“Got it straightened out,” I say. I cannot believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. But they just keep coming. There’s nothing I can do to stop them. This has to be the Rohypnol. Ithas to be. “How come you’ve never asked me out? Is it because you’re not interested in me that way, or what?”

Cooper sounds amused when he replies, “You’re my brother’s ex-fiancée.”

“Right,” I say, beating a fist on the dashboard. “Ex.Ex- fiancée. Jordan’s married now. To someone else. You were there, you saw it for yourself. So what’s the deal? I know I’m not really your type…”

Oh, God. This is going from bad to worse. Still, I can’t go back. ”But I think we get along. You know.

For the most part.”

“Heather.” Now there’s a hint of impatience creeping into Cooper’s voice. “You’ve just come out of a really bad long-term relationship—”

“Ayear ago.”

“—started a new job—”

“Almost a year ago.”

“—reconnected with a father you barely know—”

“Things with Dad are cool. We had a nice talk last night.”

“—are struggling to figure out who you are, and what you’re going to do with your life,” Cooper concludes. “I’m pretty sure the last thing you need right now is a boyfriend. In particular, your ex-fiancé’s brother. With whom you live. I think your life is complicated enough.”

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I finally turn in my seat to look at him. “Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?” I ask him.

This time, he’s the one who looks away.

“Okay,” he says. “Mylife is too complicated. Heather—I don’t want to be your rebound guy. That’s just…that’s not who I am. I don’t chicken dance. And I don’t want to be the rebound guy.”

I’m flabbergasted. “Rebound guy? Rebound guy? Cooper, Jordan and I broke up a year ago—”

“And who have you dated since?” Cooper demands.

“Well, I…I…” I swallow. “No one.”

“There you go,” Cooper says. “You’re ripe for a rebound guy. And it’s not going to be me.”

I stare at him.Why? I want to ask him.Why don’t you want to be my rebound guy? Because you don’t actually want me?

Or because you want something more from me than that?

Looking at him, I realize I’ll probably never know.

At least…not yet.

I also realize I probably don’t want to know. Because if it’s the latter, I’ll find out, one of these days.

And if it’s the former….

Well, then, I’ll just want to die.

“You know what,” I say, averting my gaze, “you’re right. It’s okay.”

“Really?” Cooper asks.

I look back at him. And I smile.

It takes every last little bit of strength I’ve got left. But I do it.

“Really,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” he says.

And smiles back.

And it’s enough.

For now.

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Tad Tocco

Assistant Professor

Office Hours

2–3P .M. weekdays

That’s what the sign on the door says.

Which is why I don’t understand what, when I open the door, a Greek god is doing there, sitting in front of me.

Seriously. The guy sitting at the computer behind the desk has long, golden hair—like as long as mine; a healthy, ruddy glow of good health about him; a placard on his desk that saysKILLER FRISBEE 4-EVER; and the sleeves of his button-down shirt pushed back to reveal a set of forearms so muscular and gorgeous that I think I must have walked into some snowboard shop, or something.

“Hi,” the guy behind the desk says, with a smile. A smile that reveals a set of white, even teeth. But not so even that they’re, like, perfect. Just even enough for me to be able to guess that he’d probably fought with his family over not wanting to get braces.

And that he’d won.

“Wait, don’t tell me,” he says. “Heather Wells, right?”

He’s my age. Maybe a little older than me. Thirty, thirty-one. He has to be, even though he’s wearing reading glasses…adorable gold-rimmed ones, though. Still, there’s aScooby Doo lunch box on a shelf above his head. Not a new one, either. An originalScooby Doo lunch box, the ones kids had when I was in the first grade.

“Um,” I say. “Yeah. How did you…” My voice trails off. Right. I forget, sometimes, that my face was once plastered all over the bedroom walls of teenage girls—and some of their brothers.

“Actually, I saw you perform the other night with Frank Robillard and his band,” the guy says cheerfully.

“Over at Joe’s Pub?”

My stomach lurches. “Oh. You saw that?”

“Jazz isn’t really my thing,” the guy says. “But I liked that song you did.”

“It was an Ella Fitzgerald cover,” I say. I really want to throw up now. Rodgers and Hart’s “I Wish I Were in Love Again” happens to be one of Cooper’s favorite songs. Which isn’t necessarily why I chose to sing it, but…well, it might have been one of the reasons.

Thank God he’d been called away at the last minute by some kind of PI emergency. I don’t think, in the end, that I could have gotten up there if I’d known he was in the audience.

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“Frank and I—” I stammer. “W-we were just fooling around.”

Well,Frank had been fooling around. I’d been deadly serious…at least until no one booed us. Then I began to relax and have a little fun with it. Afterward, people clapped…but of course they were applauding for Frank (even though Patty assures me they were also clapping for me. But only for having the guts to get up there, I’m sure. I’d been rusty…and I hadn’t missed the fact that my dad, in the audience, had been clapping the hardest of anyone. I guess it’s nice to know, whatever else happens, I’ve got one parent watching my back).

“Well, it sounded great to me,” Mr. Gorgeous says. “So, you finally got my messages?”

I blink at him. “Um, I guess so. I got a message from someone named Tad Tocco—”

“That’s me,” Tad says. The smile gets even bigger. So does he, as he stands up and holds out his right hand. He’s taller than me. And possibly even outweighs me. He’s a big, muscular guy. “Your remedial math professor.” His hand swallows mine. “I was going to introduce myself after the show the other night, but you seemed to disappear right after your song.”

I say something. I have no idea what. His hand is callused. From playing so much killer Frisbee, no doubt.

“Anyway, I have to say,” he says, letting go of my hand, finally, and sinking back into his chair, just as my knees give out and I sort of fall back into the one on the other side of his desk, “you have a way better excuse for blowing off my class than most of my students. I mean, I’ve never had anyone miss the first week of school because they were busy catching a murderer.”

My jaw drops. “You’re my…you’re my…” I’ve forgotten how to formulate words.

“I’m your remedial math professor,” Tad says cheerfully. “I wanted to get in touch with you about scheduling some makeup sessions. You know, for the classes you’ve missed? I don’t want you falling behind. So I figured we could meet. At your convenience, of course. How’s after work? There’s a bar near that place you work—Fischer Hall? The Stoned Crow. A bunch of us plays darts down there, so it would be convenient for me if we could meet there, seeing as how we’re both over twenty-one.” Then he winks at me.He winks at me . “I find algebra goes down a lot easier with popcorn and beer. That okay with you?”

I can only stare at him. He’s just so…hot.

Way hotter than Barista Boy.

Suddenly I think I’m going to like college.

A lot.

“That soundsgreat to me,” I say.

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the dish, the scoop and the cherry on top from

MEG CABOT

I have nothing against the Greek system. Honestly. I even have a couple of friends who were in a sorority. Well, okay, one friend. And she got kicked out. But that is not the point.

Even though I grew up in a college town that boasted one of the largest and oldest Greek systems in the country, I was never tempted to join a sorority, because I could not see the point in living in a house with a lot of girls, when I could live in a dorm filled with guys.

Some people might call this boy crazy. I call this fun.

But that is not the point, either.

The point is, for the entire first two decades of my life (when I lived in a town in which seventeen percent of the college community was in the Greek system), and for the decade after that (when I worked as the assistant director of a large urban university dormitory), I never encountered a fraternity like the one in this book, the Tau Phi Epsilon House—which is entirely fictional.

This is not to say theFAT CHICKS GO HOME thing never happened. It was, in fact, painted on the sidewalk of a fraternity at my college. It was the same fraternity whose members would sit on the front porch and hold up scorecards as girls walked by on their way to class, rating their looks on a scale of one to ten (I learned to take a different route to class).

It’s also the fraternity that, as a prank, stole all my mother’s potted plants from our front porch and placed them on their own front porch, then denied having done so when we spotted them there and called the cops.

But I recognize that there are many exemplary fraternities and sororities in existence, whose charitable and philanthropic acts have made them invaluable to many, and are an asset to the communities in which they exist. I include among these the Delta Nus, the Omega Mus, and, of course, the Tri-Lams.

I hope you enjoyed readingSize 14 Is Not Fat Either . Look for my next mystery featuring Heather Wells, currently titledBig Boned , in January 2008.

About the Author

MEG CABOTwas born in Bloomington, Indiana. Armed with a fine arts degree from Indiana University,
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she moved to New York City to pursue an illustration career, but when that failed to materialize, got a job as the assistant manager of an undergraduate dormitory at New York University instead, writing novels on the weekends (and whenever her boss wasn’t looking). Meg has since gone on to publish over thirty novels for younger readers as well as adults, includingThe Princess Diaries series,Size 12 Is Not Fat, andQueen of Babble . She now divides her time between New York City and Key West with her husband and their one-eyed cat, Henrietta.

Be sure to check out Meg’s websites:

www.megcabot.com

www.megcabotbookclub.com

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By Meg Cabot

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