Meg Cabot - Big Boned

Except one. Make that two. There, high up in the bleachers, I see them. Jamie and Gavin. Holding hands. And, yeah, okay, right at that particularly moment, making out.

But they’re there, and not because someone threatened them, but to show their respect. My eyes fill with tears. God, what’s happening to me? I’ve never been this emotional over a murder victim in my building. It’s not like there haven’t been plenty. And I didn’t evenlike this one.

Dr. Jessup coughs into the microphone, and I turn back to face the podium. The head of housing thanks Reverend Mark for that fine eulogy, then announces that from now on, the Fischer Hall library will be known as the Owen Leonard Veatch Library. A plaque is being engraved, and there will be a hanging ceremony as soon as it’s finished.

This announcement is met with applause, after which Dr. Jessup asks that donations for the Owen Leonard Veatch Library be sent to the administrative offices of Fischer Hall.

Oh, so great. Now I’ll be keeping track of checks all day, on top of everything else. Dr. Jessup adds that for those who wish to attend, there’ll be refreshments served on the main floor of the sports center (in front of the fitness office) from six o’clock this evening until six-thirty.

The youth choir startles just about everybody then by suddenly bursting into a particularly spirited rendition of a song from the musical Hair. It isn’t just that “Good Morning Starshine” is the type of song you’d never expect to hear at a memorial service. It’s that “Good Morning Starshine” is a song you’d never expect to hear anywhere. The Mrs. Veatches, though, appear to be enjoying themselves, along with Mrs. Allington. Every single one of them is holding a tissue to the corner of one eye. Even Mrs. Veatch Senior has woken up a little, and is asking, in a loud voice, “Is it over yet? Is it over?”

Sadly, the song ends way too soon, and Dr. Jessup returns to the microphone to say, “And now, the person with whom Dr. Veatch worked most closely while he was here on campus, the assistant director of Fisher Hall, our own Heather Wells, will say a few words. Heather?”

My heart, which had seemed to return to normal since Cooper drove off, does this weird swoopy thing inside my chest. I’ve never had a problem with stage fright when it comes to singing. You can, after all, hide behind the song. But when it comes to public speaking—forget about it. I’d seriously rather be hanging by an elevator cable or be roofied by a psychotic frat president than have to get up and speak in front of all these people.

I clutch my notes and try to swallow my fear, taking no comfort at all in Tom’s whispered “You can do it!” and Muffy’s “Just picture ’em all in their boxers and panties!” That kind of thing works great on The Brady Bunch, but in real life? Not so much.

I make my way to the podium, wishing more than ever I’d thought to stop home first to change. I’m dressed, I realize, no differently than any of the students.

Convinced I’m going to hurl, I turn to address the sea of faces I see before me—and only then realize I recognize more of them than I’d previously realized. Like, sitting directly in the middle of the folding chairs before me, Tad, who raises a hand and smiles encouragingly. I manage a queasy grin back…

… which fades as soon as I realize that seated not four rows behind him is Cooper, who raises a hand as well, thinking I’m smiling at him.

Oh God. I’m going to hurl. I just know it.

Glancing down at the note cards I’ve stacked on the podium, I shake my head. I can’t do this. I can’t. Why can’t I just chase down Reverend Mark and kick him in the back a few times? It would be so much easier.

“Hi,” I say, into the microphone. My voice echoes disconcertingly throughout the gym. Hi… hi… hi. “Um… The day I met Dr. Owen Veatch, the first thing he unpacked in his new office at Fischer Hall was a Garfield Month-at-a-Glance calendar.”

I look out at the audience to see how they’re receiving this information. They all look back at me stonily. Except Tom. He’s buried his face in his hands. And Tad. He’s smiling encouragingly. Cooper just looks confused.

That’s when I notice my dad, in a chair next to Cooper’s. Oh God. My dad is here, too? Seriously, this is proof there is no God.

“Dr. Veatch,” I go on, “loved Garfield—more, it turned out, than I ever knew. So much, in fact, that he adopted a big orange cat that looked just like him, and named him Garfield. And when that cat developed thyroid disease, what did Dr. Veatch do? He didn’t worry about the expense of caring for a sick animal, or put him down. He gave Garfield pills for it. That’s the kind of man Dr. Veatch was. The kind who loved his cat, Garfield.”

I glance at Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch. She’s crying, and gazing up at me happily. Well, good. That’s who this is for, after all. The people who’d really cared about Dr. Veatch. And Garfield. I’m doing the right thing. I know it.

Even if I can see that Tom is currently sticking his finger down his throat and making gagging motions.

“The last time I saw Owen,” I go on, “he was sitting at his desk, writing the speech he was going to give the senior RAs at their graduation dinner at the end of the month. Commencement was Owen’s favorite school function, he told me, because it was a celebration, he said, of accomplishment. Not just the accomplishments of the students, but the accomplishments of the staff of New York College. Commencement was one of the few concrete proofs Owen had that our efforts were a success. Every senior who graduated from New York College was a personal victory not just for us administrators, but all of the staff of the college.” I look directly at President Allington as I say this. “Everyone who pulled together to help the students pass their classes and get their degrees, from the teaching assistants who graded their exams to the custodians who kept their classrooms clean.”

I’d like to say that at this moment, President Allington stood up, said he realized I was right, and declared that he was ending the strike and capitulating to all the demands of the GSC.

But he just keeps his head down, obviously still playing Fantasy Football.

“I don’t know much,” I go on, “about what happens to us when we die. I don’t know anything about the afterlife. But I do know this. And that’s this year, Owen will be sorely missed at New York College’s commencement ceremony. But I can’t help feeling that he’ll be there in spirit… just as he’ll always be here, in our hearts.”

There is a moment of total silence following this last part of my speech. Then there is some applause, polite at first. Then, thanks to Cooper standing up and thundering, “YEAH!” and making very loud noises with his palms, followed very shortly by Tad, after first throwing a startled look over his shoulder, then leaping to his feet and doing the same thing, the applause becomes more heartfelt, until soon the entire audience is on its feet, everyone applauding warmly.

A few seconds later, Brian—the same Brian who’d shown up earlier that morning with Mr. Rosetti at Fischer Hall—hurries up to replace me at the microphone, murmuring nervously, “Uh, thank you? Thank you, Heather. Uh, thank you, everyone. Like, Dr., uh, Jessup said, if you want, there will be refreshments in front of the fitness office upstairs. So. That’s all. Good-bye.”

The youth choir, perhaps inspired by this news, bursts into song. Their choice?

“Kumbaya,” of course.

“You know,” Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch says, her eyes pink from tears. “Owen spoke very fondly of you. I believe that you and Garfield were probably the two people he was closest to in the world at the… end.”

“Wow,” I reply. Which seems inadequate. But what else are you supposed to say when someone tells you something like this? “Thank you, Pam.”

The thing is, if this is true, it’s completely unsettling. Until he’d been killed, I’d rarely, if ever, given Owen Veatch a thought outside of working hours.

But I smile at the Mrs. Veatches, who’d gathered around me as soon as the memorial service was over like a couple of hungry lionesses around a wounded gazelle. I tried not to look too desperate to escape.

“Owen once told me that you were the fastest typist he’d ever seen,” Mrs. Veatch Number One (Owen’s mom) says, with a watery smile.

Pam nods. “He did,” she confirms.

“Well,” I say. “Thank you, Mrs. Veatch. And… Pam.” Owen was obviously talking about someone else. I type like twenty words a minute.

I look around the atrium we’re standing in—the main floor of the student athletic center, which has been transformed into a temporary wake, with long tables set up for punch and cookies. Of course, no one has bothered to close the sports center off to the students, so there are still people in sweats walking through the mourners, showing IDs to the temporary security officers (provided by Mr. Rosetti, and looking quite unlike our own security officers, in that they are considerably larger and more menacing in appearance) in order to get in, then glancing curiously at the floral wreaths and asking, “Is this some kind of ice cream social?”

I am doing my best to avoid certain parties who have shown up, but I don’t seem to be having much success. This is made more than clear when Dad touches my arm.