Size 12 and Ready to Rock

“It isn’t a bother at all,” Cooper says. “Is it, Heather?”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Oh no,” I say. “Cooper was happy to surrender his room to me. He likes sleeping on the couch.”

Upstairs I find Tania huddled in the middle of my bed, piled beneath so many down comforters that only her head is peeping out. In her hand is the remote to my television. She’s bathed in the rosy glow of my bedside lamp and the bright colors of Freaky Eaters.

“You really like this show, don’t you?” Tania asks as I come in holding a steaming mug of tea. “You have nine episodes of it recorded, both new ones and repeats.”

“Well,” I say, “you certainly know your way around a digital video recorder, don’t you?”

“You watch a lot of Intervention too,” Tania remarks. “I think that show is sad.”

“Not really,” I say, setting the mug down on the nightstand. “The people on it usually beat their addictions and go on to live productive lives.” Although considering what Jared told me about how docu-reality series manipulate the truth—and what I’ve seen Stephanie doing around Fischer Hall—I’m beginning to wonder if there is any honesty at all reflected in the shows I like to watch. “Here’s some chamomile tea. Jordan said you wanted some. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Tania says. “I like it here. It’s snug, like my grandma’s house.”

I’m sure Tania means this as a compliment, but I’m not 100 percent positive I want my home being compared to someone’s grandma’s house.

“And look,” she says, pointing to the floor, “our dogs are in love.”

I glance down and see that her dog, Baby, is curled up in Lucy’s bed, fast asleep. Lucy is sitting a few feet away, looking distressed. She blinks from her bed to me as if to say, Help! I’m not certain how Tania can interpret this as two dogs being in love.

“Yeah,” I say. “Sweet. So, is there anything else you need?”

Tania reaches for the tea I’ve brought her, then looks at the built-ins above our heads. “What’s going on with all those dolls?”

Crap.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, that’s my collection of dolls from many nations. My mom got me one from each country I toured in.”

“Aw,” Tania says, taking a sip of the tea and looking positively delighted. “That’s so cute.”

“Not really,” I say. “I should have taken the time to visit the sights in the countries, not let my mom grab a doll from the airport in each one. When will I ever be able to afford to go to South Africa again? Or Brazil? Or Japan? Never. But, you know.” I shrug. “I love them. They’re sort of talismans, or whatever.”

“You’re lucky,” Tania says. “My mom never gave me anything like that. She worked really hard, but she didn’t have money to spend on presents. That’s really special, to have a doll collection, or anything you can pass on to your own daughter.”

I glance back at the dolls. “Yeah,” I say thoughtfully. It seems as if neither Tania nor I lucked out in the mom department. Hers was working too hard to notice what was happening to her, and mine was working me too hard to care what was happening to me. “I guess it is . . . if you have a daughter of your own.”

“The pink one is especially beautiful,” Tania says admiringly.

“That’s Miss Mexico,” I say.

“She’s so elegant. I love her dress. And her fan.”

“Here,” I say, and reach up to take Miss Mexico down from the shelf. “You can have her.”

Tania gasps. “Oh no. I couldn’t!”

“Yes,” I say. “You can. You can give it to your daughter. Miss Mexico can be the first in her collection.”

Tania puts down her mug and takes Miss Mexico gingerly in her hands, as if she’s afraid the doll will fall apart at her touch. But she won’t. Miss Mexico is beautiful, but tough underneath—a lot like Tania.

“Thank you,” Tania says. “She’s so gorgeous. I . . . I don’t deserve her. That thing today . . . that girl’s mom must hate me,” Tania says.

I don’t ask what girl she means.

“No one hates you,” I say. “You didn’t do anything to Bridget. Gary did. And Bridget is going to be all right. Her family is driving up to get her, and I’m sure Cartwright Records Television is going to give her a nice scholarship to wherever she wants to go to college.” I was betting New York College was going to offer her one too, but I had my doubts she’d want to attend. “She’s going to need a lot of counseling . . . which, if you don’t mind my saying, Tania, is something you could probably—”

“It is my fault,” Tania interrupts firmly. “If I had told people sooner—”

“It’s only one person’s fault,” I say. “And that’s Gary’s.” And Simon Hague’s. But I suppose a residence hall director can’t personally meet every person who checks into his building. Still, I couldn’t wait to hear what the fallout was going to be when it’s discovered that Simon has been taking extra-long weekends in the Hamptons with his assistant.

“Will you tell the girl,” Tania asks in a tiny voice, “that I’m so, so sorry about what happened to her? And the security guard too?”

“No,” I say. “You’re going to tell them yourself.”

She stares at me. Then her face crumples, and she’s crying. “I know I have to,” she says, “but I don’t think I can. I don’t think I can leave this room.”

“You can stay here for a while,” I say. “But eventually you’re going to have to leave.”

“But not right away,” she says, holding Miss Mexico close—which can’t be comfortable, considering her pointy Spanish comb and fan.

“No,” I say. “Not right away.”

I leave Tania not long afterward, since either the chamomile or the stress of the day appears to have knocked her out. She falls asleep clutching Miss Mexico to her, like a little girl with a new birthday present.

I turn off the television and walk out of my room, holding the mug of tea. The last thing I expect is to bump into Jordan on my way downstairs to the main kitchen—I’ve forgotten he’s in the house—but I do.