Meg Cabot - Size 12 Is Not Fat

“It’s so sad, isn’t it?” I ask, in a voice even I think sounds way too chipper—sort of like Less Than Zero’s voice from the jean store the other day. “All the losers there are in this city, I mean. Like that pants-dropping drunk getting hauled away right across the street. Oh, and those stupid girls here in the buildings. The ones that died—what was it, again? Oh, yeah. Elevator surfing. Can you believe anyone would do anything that dumb?”

I glance at Chris to see how he’s taking this direct reference to his victims. But he doesn’t look disturbed at all…

… unless you can call pulling out another cigarette and lighting it disturbed.

Which, uh, I guess it is. In a way. But not in the way I meant.

“Oh,” gasps Amber, in a valiant attempt to hold up her end of the conversation. “I know! That was so sad. I knew that last girl, sort of. One time I got stuck in the elevator with her. It was only for about a minute, but she was freaking out, because she hated heights. When I heard how she’d died, I was like, ‘What?’ ’Cause why would somebody that scared of heights do something so dangerous?”

“Roberta Pace, you mean?” I slide my gaze toward Chris, to see how he reacts to the name.

But he’s busy checking his watch—a Rolex. A real one, too, not one of those ones you can buy on the street for forty bucks, either.

“Yeah, that was her name. God, wasn’t that sad? She was so nice.”

“I know,” I nod gravely. “And what’s even weirder than her being afraid of heights, but elevator surfing anyway, is that I heard just the day before she died, she’d met some guy—”

I don’t get to finish my sentence, though. Because just then iron fingers close around my upper arm, and I suddenly find myself yanked from behind, hard.

Stumbling, I put out a hand to steady myself, and feel the unmistakable ripple of rock-hard—and gym-formed—abdominal muscles beneath my fingers.

Is there any part of Jordan Cartwright that isn’t hard?

Including, apparently, his head?

He drags me a few feet away from Chris and Amber.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jordan demands, ripping the cigarette from my fingers and stomping on it. “You’re smoking now? A few months of living with that degenerate Cooper, and you’re smoking? Do you have any idea what that stuff will do to your vocal cords?”

“Jordan.” I can’t believe this is happening. And in front of my prime suspect!

I try to keep my voice down, so Chris won’t overhear me.

“I wasn’t inhaling,” I whisper. “And I don’t live with Cooper, all right? I mean, I do, but on a separate floor.” Then I stop whispering, because suddenly I’m furious. I mean, who does he think he is, anyway? “And what business is it of yours? Do I need to remind you that you’re engaged? And not to me?”

“I may be engaged to someone else, Heather,” Jordan says, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t still care—deeply—about you. You know, Dad said you’d hit rock bottom, but I had no idea. A guy like that, Heather?Really? I mean, he has about as much fashion sense as”—he throws a glance at Chris’s khakis, and shudders—“Cooper!”

“It’s not like that, Jordan.” I look over my shoulder. Chris and Amber are still there, far enough away that—fortunately—they can’t hear our raised voices. Chris looks relatively unaffected by my conversation with him, but I do notice that every now and then, his gray-eyed gaze strays toward us. Is he afraid? Afraid that the jig is up at last?

Or is he just wondering where Jordan bought his puffy shirt?

“Don’t look,” I say softly to Jordan. “But that guy I was talking to? I think he might be a murderer.”

Jordan looks over at Chris. “Who? That guy?”

“I said don’t look!”

Jordan tears his gaze from Chris and stares down at me instead. Then he reaches out and crushes me to his chest.

“Oh, you poor, sweet girl,” he says. “What’s Cooper done to you?”

I struggle to break free of his smothering embrace—or at least to speak without getting chest hair in my mouth.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Cooper,” I say, conscious that the student worker at the desk is trying to hide a smirk as she watches us through the window. “Girls are dying in this building, and I think—”

“So this is where you two disappeared to!”

We both spin around and stare wide-eyed at Rachel, who’d slipped outside unnoticed by either of us.

“You missed the awards ceremony,” Rachel chastises us, jokingly. “Marnie was so thrilled to win that she cried.”

“Wow,” I say, without the slightest enthusiasm. “Neat.”

“I came looking for you two,” Rachel says, “because I thought you might want to join me for a drink in my place… ”

Jordan and I exchange glances. There is a desperate glint in his. I don’t know what he sees in mine. Probably confusion. Rachel had invited me up to her place only once before, for a glass of wine after the first freshmen check-in of the semester, and I’d been totally uncomfortable not only because, well, she’s my boss, and I was desperate to do whatever I had to do to make sure I passed my six months’ probation, but also because…

Well, Rachel’s apartment is really clean. Not that I’m messy, or anything, but…

Okay, I’m a little messy. I will admit there’s a lot of stuff jammed in my closets and under my bed and sort of, well, all over the place.

But at Rachel’s, everything had been put neatly away. There were no stray copies of Us Weekly next to the toilet, like at my place, or bras hanging off any doorknobs, or wadded-up Ho Ho wrappers on the nightstand. It was like she’d been expecting company.

Either that, or she keeps her place that clean all the time…

But no. That can’t possibly be true. That just isn’t even human.

Plus, I’d noticed that the few CDs she did have—neatly stacked, in alphabetical order—were by artists such as Phil Collins and Faith Hill.

PHIL COLLINS. AND FAITH HILL.

Not that there’s anything wrong them. They’re actually very talented artists. I totally loved that “Circle of Life” song the first fifty times I heard it…

“Actually, Rachel,” I say carefully, “I’m kinda tired.”

“Me, too,” Jordan chimes in quickly. “It’s been a really long day.”

“Oh,” Rachel says, looking distinctly disappointed. “Maybe another time, then.”

“Sure,” I say, not looking at Jordan—because really, this whole thing is all his fault. Rachel would never have invited me up for drinks if it hadn’t been for Jordan. She had pretended not to recognize him, but I’d overheard one of the RAs tipping her off. Tomorrow she’ll probably be all over me with questions about his eligibility.

Because he’s worth WAY more than a hundred grand.

“Well,” I say. “See you in the morning.”

“Right. Good night!” Rachel smiles. To Jordan, she says, “Nice meeting you, Jordan!”

“Likewise,” says Jordan, almost as if he means it.

Then, taking Jordan’s arm, I steer him back toward Waverly Place, before the conversation can get any more awkward, and he can embarrass me any more in front of the people I work with.

“Oh my God,” I say to him, as we walk. “What do you think I should do? About Amber, I mean? What if she turns out to be his next victim? I’ll never forgive myself… al though I totally busted him in front of her, with the whole ‘Dave’ thing. Don’t you think I busted him? Don’t you think she’ll be a little wary of him now? Oh God. Do you think I should go to the police? I don’t have any proof it’s him, though. Except… except Cooper probably still has the condom! I could use it as some kind of leverage—like, ‘Confess or I’ll take it to the cops.’ Or something.”

Jordan, beside me, sounds horrified.

“Condom?Heather, what are you—”

“I told you,” I say, stomping a foot. “I’m trying to catch a killer. Or at least I think he’s a killer. I can’t be sure. Your brother thinks I’ve got an overactive imagination. But you think it’s weird, don’t you, Jordan? Two girls dead in as many weeks, neither of them with a reputation for elevator surfing, and both of them just having a boyfriend for the first time? I mean, doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”

We turn the corner onto Waverly Place, and one of the Rastafarians approaches, hoping, I guess, that I’d change my mind at last and would take him up on his offer of “Smoke? Smoke?”

Instead of ignoring him and answering my question, Jordan snarls, “Back off!” at the drug dealer, who really isn’t a very threatening presence. I mean, I’m way taller and probably twenty pounds heavier than he is. No wonder the poor guy looks so surprised at Jordan’s outburst.

Which is when I realize who’s really standing in front of me. Not a friend. Not even an acquaintance. But my ex-boyfriend.

“Oh, just forget it,” I say, and drop his arm before heading home.

The only problem is, Jordan follows me.

“What’d I do?” he wants to know. “Heather, just tell me. I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t know how you expect me to react. Dead girls and condoms and drug dealers. And you smoke now. What kind of life is this, Heather? What kind of life?”