Size 14 Is Not Fat Either Page 16

  Until now.

  Well, so what? He’s having a sleepover. It doesn’t have anything to do with me. I’ll just creep up to the third floor and go to bed. No reason to stop and knock and ask him how he’s doing. Even though I’m dying to see what she looks like. Cooper has a reputation in his family for always dating superintelligent, incredibly beautiful, even exotic women. Like brain surgeons who are also former models. That kind of thing.

  Even if I thought I ever had a chance with Cooper romantically, one look at his many exes would cure me. I mean, what guy would want a washed-up ex-pop star who now works as an assistant residence hall director and wears vanity size 8 jeans (or possibly 10s) when he could have a physicist who was once Miss Delaware?

  Yeah. Right. No one. I mean, unless the physicist happens to be really boring. And maybe doesn’t like Ella Fitzgerald (I’ve got all her songs memorized, including the scat). And maybe isn’t the warm, funny human being I just happen to believe I am….

  Stop. STOP IT.

  I’m creeping up the stairs to the second floor as quietly as I can—Lucy panting at my side—when I notice something strange. The door to Cooper’s bedroom is open…but there’s no light on. Whereas the door to the guest room down the hall from Cooper’s bedroom is open, and there’s a light on, and the light is flickering. Like a candle flame.

  Who on earth would be in our guest room with a candle?

  “Hello?” I say again. Because if Cooper’s entertaining lady friends in our guest room, well, that’s just his tough luck if I come busting in. His room is his inner sanctum—I’ve never dared venture into it…if only because he’s so rarely to be found in it. Also because thousand-dollar sheets scare me.

  But the guest room?

  The door is really only slightly ajar. Still, it’s technically open. Which is why I push on it to open it a little farther, and say, “Hello?” for a third time….

  …then shriek at the sight of my father doing the downward-facing dog.

  16

  Love is a line in a bad movie

  Heartbreak an old song on the radio

  And you, you’re nothing but trouble

  But trouble knows the way to my heart.

  Untitled

  Written by Heather Wells

  “I find yoga extremely relaxing,” Dad explains. “Back at camp, I did it every morning and every night. It’s really rejuvenated me.”

  I stare at him from across the room. It’s strange to hear your father call jail camp. Especially while he’s doing yoga.

  “Dad,” I say. “Could you quit that for a minute and talk to me?”

  “Of course, sweetheart,” Dad says. And comes back to his feet.

  I can’t believe this. He’s clearly moved in. His suitcase is open—and empty—on the window seat. His shoes sit by the dresser, lined up as neatly as if he were in the military. There’s a typewriter—a typewriter!—on the antique desk, along with a tidy stack of stationery. He’s wearing a set of blue pajamas with darker blue piping, and there’s a fat green tea candle burning on his nightstand, along with a copy of a Lincoln biography.

  “My God,” I say, shaking my head. “How did you get in here? Did you break in?”

  “Of course not,” Dad says, looking indignant. “I learned a lot of things at camp, but I didn’t acquire any tips on picking a Medeco lock. Your young man invited me to stay.”

  “My—” I feel my eyes roll back into my head. “Dad. I told you. He is not my young man. You didn’t say anything to him about how I lo—”

  “Heather.” Dad looks sad. “Of course not. I would never betray a confidence like that. I merely expressed a dislike in front of Mr. Cartwright for my current living situation, and he offered me accommodation here—”

  “Dad!” I groan. “You didn’t!”

  “Well, the Chelsea Hotel was hardly a suitable place for a man in my position,” he says patiently. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Heather, but many people with criminal records have resided in the Chelsea Hotel. Actual murderers. That’s not the kind of environment a person who is trying to rehabilitate himself should be in. Besides which, it was quite noisy. All that loud music and honking horns. No, this”—he looks around the pleasant white bedroom happily—“is much more me.”

  “Dad.” I can’t help it. I can’t stand up anymore. I sink down onto the side of the queen-sized bed. “Did Cooper say how long you could stay?”

  “In fact,” Dad says, reaching out to ruffle Lucy’s ears, since she’s followed me inside, “he did. He said I could stay as long as it took in order for me to get back on my feet.”

  “Dad.” I want to scream. “Seriously. You can’t do that. It’s not that I don’t want to work on our relationship—yours and mine, I mean. It’s just that…you can’t take advantage of Cooper’s generosity this way.”

  “I’m not,” Dad says matter-of-factly. “I’m going to be working for him, in exchange for rent.”

  I blink. “You’re…what?”

  “He’s taking me on as an employee of Cartwright Investigations,” Dad says…a little proudly, I think. “Just like you, I’m working for him. I’m going to help him tail people. He says I’ve got just the right looks for it…sort of unnoticeable. He says I blend.”

  I blink some more. “You blend?”

  “That’s right.” Dad opens up the drawer to his nightstand and takes out a small wooden flute. “I’m trying to take it as a compliment. The fact that I’m so unnoticeable, I mean. I know your mother often felt that way, but I wasn’t aware it was true of the world in general. Oh, well. Listen to this little tune I learned at camp. It’s quite restful. And after the night you’ve had, I’m sure you could use a little relaxation.” He proceeds to lift the flute to his lips and begins to play it.

  I sit there for a minute more as the notes—plaintive and, as he’d mentioned, oddly restful—wash over me. Then I shake myself and say, “Dad.”

  He immediately stops playing. “Yes, dear?”

  It’s the endearments that are killing me. Or possibly making me want to kill HIM.

  “I’m going to bed now. We’ll talk about this again in the morning.”

  “Well, all right,” he says. “But I don’t see what there is to talk about. Cooper is obviously a man of good sense. If he wants to hire me, I don’t see why you should object.”

  I can’t see why I should object, either. Except…how am I going to get Cooper to realize I’m the woman of his dreams if my DAD’s around? How am I ever going to make him that romantic steak dinner for two I’d been planning? There’s nothing romantic about steak for three.

  “I realize I haven’t been the best father to you, Heather,” Dad goes on. “Neither your mother nor I provided you with very good role models growing up. But I hope the damage isn’t so serious that you are incapable of forming loving relationships now. Because it’s my sincerest wish that that is what you and I can have with one another. Because everyone needs a family, Heather.”

  Family? Is that what I need? Is that what’s wrong with me? I don’t have a family?

  “You look tired,” Dad says. “Which is understandable, after the day you’ve had. Here, maybe this will help soothe you.” Then he starts playing the flute again.

  Okay. This I don’t need.

  I lean down, blow out Dad’s green tea candle, and snatch it from the nightstand.

  “These are a fire hazard,” I snap, in my most assistant residence hall directory voice.

  Then I stalk from the room and upstairs to my own apartment.

  The snow doesn’t stop. When I wake up in the morning, I look out the window and see that it’s still coming down—slower now, and less of it. But still in big fluffy flakes.

  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 differen
ce—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 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 word relax?

  “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 am nothing 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 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 he do 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 to blend,” 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. “Good for me? How is having my ex-con dad live with me good 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.”

  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 of not going there every day seems strange.

  Is this how everybody who works in an office feels? Or is it just that I actually like 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 words remedial 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 he kill 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….”

  “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 sure I’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—”

  “We do care,” I remind him.

  “Well, of course we care,” Tom says. “But I think he meant we as in the Housing Department, not we 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—”