Size 12 Is Not Fat

She’s on her feet before I am, and coming toward me at full charge. Through it all, she’s managed to hang on to the Thunder Gun.

But I still clutch the pepper spray, hidden in my fist. When she bends over me, her dark hair already becoming plastered to her face by the rain, her lips are curled back in a snarl not unlike Lucy’s when she’s riled by a tennis ball or a Victoria’s Secret catalog.

“You’re so weak,” Rachel sneers at me, and she waves the stun gun under my nose. “How can you tell a brunette?”

I try to maneuver myself into a position from which I can spray her directly in the face. I don’t want the wind whipping the stuff back at me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I wheeze, still breathless from the impact of my fall. God. I can’t believe I once bought this woman flowers.

And okay, they were only from the deli. But still.

“You know how you can tell a brunette?” Rachel grins, her face just inches from mine. “Turn a blond upside down!”

As she lunges to blast 120,000 volts into my right hip, I lift my hand and launch a stream of pepper spray into her face. Rachel shrieks and backs up, throwing an arm up to protect her face…

Only the nozzle won’t push all the way down. So instead of a jet of chemical poison hitting her in the eye, the stuff just foams down the side of the canister, soaking into my stitches and burning me badly enough to make me go, “Ow!”

Rachel, realizing she hasn’t been hit after all, starts to laugh.

“Oh God,” she brays. “Could you be more pathetic, Heather?”

But this time, when she lunges at me, I’ve rolled to my feet, and I’m ready for her.

“Rachel,” I say, as she comes at me. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time. Size twelve”—wrapping my stinging fingers around the hard canister, I slam my fist as hard as I can into Rachel’s face—“is not fat.”

My knuckles explode in pain. Rachel screams and staggers back, both her hands going to her nose, from which an astonishing amount of blood is spurting.

“My nose!” she shrieks. “You broke my nose! You fucking bitch!”

I’m barely able to stand, my shoulder is throbbing so badly, my hands feeling as if they’re on fire from the pepper spray. I have shards of glass stuck to my back, the knuckles on my right hand are numb, and blood is coming from a cut somewhere in the vicinity of my forehead: I’m blinking both rainwater and my own blood from my eyes. All I want to do is go inside and lie down for a while and maybe watch the Food Network, or something.

But I can’t. Because I have my psycho boss to deal with.

She’s standing there, holding her nose with one hand, and the stun gun in the other, when I tackle her, flinging my arms around her narrow waist and bringing her down like a hundred and twenty pounds of Manolo Blahniks. She falls, writhing in my grasp, while I desperately try to snatch the stun gun from her hands.

And all the time, she’s sobbing. Not with fear, like she should have been—because, make no mistake about it, I have every intention of killing her—but with anger, her dark eyes glittering with such intense hatred of me that I wonder how I missed seeing it there before.

“Nice girls finish last, huh?” I say, as I kick her as hard as I can in the knee. “How’s this, then? Is this nice enough for you?”

Except that it’s like I’m kicking one of those crash test dummies. Rachel seems impervious to pain…unless it’s something to do with her face. Her precious nose, for example.

And she’s strong—so much stronger than I am, despite my killing rage, and my advantage in height and weight. I can’t budge the gun from her hands. I’ve read about people who, in moments of desperation, develop the strength of someone twice their size—mothers who lift cars off their injured infants, mounted cops who pull their beloved horses out of sinkholes, that kind of thing. Rachel has the strength of a man…a man who sees his life disintegrating before him.

And she’s not going to give up until someone’s dead.

And I’m starting to get a very bad feeling that that someone is going to be me.

It’s all I can do to keep my hands fastened over hers on the grip of the stun gun. My fingers are slick with rain and blood, and sore from the stitches and the pepper foam. It’s hard to hold on. Rachel has managed to climb to her feet in spite of my attempt to kick her legs out from under her, and now the two of us struggle in the pouring rain for mastery of the weapon. The force of our struggle has sent us staggering dangerously close to the terrace wall.

Somehow, Rachel manages to twist herself so that it’s my back that’s pressed up against a overflowing geranium planter not unlike the one that nearly killed Jordan. My face toward the sky, I can’t see with all the rain streaming down. I close my eyes and concentrate on the nearly impossible task of keeping Rachel’s arms high above me, not letting those buzzing prongs anywhere near my body. I feel the planter wobble, and then I feel it give, and though I don’t open my eyes, I hear the enormous crash it makes seconds later as it hits the sidewalk below.

The most frightening part, however, is the length of time that elapses between the moment the planter careens off the terrace and the sound of the impact as it strikes the earth. I count to nearly ten.

Ten seconds of freefall. Ten seconds to contemplate death.

My arms are weakening. I know I’m crying, because the salt from my tears stings the cuts on my face.

And above me, Rachel laughs, sensing my weakening.

“See,” she’s saying. “I told you, Heather. You’re too nice to win. Too weak. Not in good enough shape. Because size twelve is fat. Oh, I know what you’re going to say. It’s the size of the average American woman. But guess what? The average American woman is fat, Heather.”

“Oh my God.” I spit rainwater and blood from my mouth. “Rachel, you’re sick. There’s something really wrong with you! Let me get you some help—”

“What have you got to live for, anyway?” Rachel asks, as if she hasn’t heard me. Because she probably hasn’t. “Your music career’s in the toilet. Your boyfriend dumped you. Your own mother stabbed you in the back. You should have died yesterday, in the elevator. And you should have died the day before, only my aim was off. Just give it up, Heather. Nice girls never win—”