Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“Really.” I plunk down onto my desktop. “What frat?”

Mark looks blank. “I don’t know.”

“Well.” It’s hot in my office. I begin peeling off my coat. “Did you tell Detective Canavan about this?”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Mark.” Gillian Kilgore’s voice has gotten almost as cold as it is outside. “Why don’t you step in here and we’ll—”

“Detective Canavan didn’t ask if you and your girlfriend were exclusive?” I demand incredulously. “And you didn’t mention that you weren’t?”

“No.” Mark shrugs again. He’s big with the shrugging, I see. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“Mark.” Dr. Kilgore’s voice is sharp now. “Come with me, please.”

Mark, looking startled, follows Dr. Kilgore into Tom’s office. She practically slams the door behind them—but not before giving me a withering stare. Then, through the grate, we hear her say, “Now, Mark. Tell me. How are you feeling about all this?”

Has she not noticed the grate? Does she really think we can’t hear her?

Tom looks at me, his expression noticeably miserable. “Heather,” he says. We don’t have to worry about Dr. Kilgore overhearing us, because she’s chattering away so loud behind the grate. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I say. I get up from my desk and hang up my coat on the peg next to the one where Dr. Kilgore has hung hers. “Is it hot in here? Or is it just me?”

“It’s hot,” Tom says. “I turned the radiator off, but it’s still…radiating. Seriously, though. What was all that about?”

“Nothing,” I say, with a shrug. It’s catching, I guess. “I was just curious. Have they reopened the caf?”

“Yes. For breakfast. Heather, are you—”

“Great. Have you had coffee yet?”

Tom sends a scowl in the direction of his office door. “No. I came in and she was already here….”

“How’d she get in?” I ask in surprise.

“Pete let her in, with the master.” Tom sighs. “Would you really bring me back a cup of coffee? With milk and sugar?”

“You got it,” I say, with a smile.

“Have I told you today that you’re my favorite assistant dorm director? Seriously?”

“Tom, Tom, Tom,” I say. “Don’t you mean I’m your favorite assistant RESIDENCE HALL director?”

Not surprisingly, when I get to the caf, it’s practically empty. I guess the discovery of a severed head in the kitchen has a way of putting off your pickier eaters. Except for a few lone diners, I’m the only person in there. I stop by the register to say hi to Magda on my way in. She does not look good. Her eyeliner has already faded, and her lip liner is on crooked.

“Hey,” I say to her, in my warmest voice. “How are you, Mags?”

She doesn’t even crack a smile. “None of my little movie stars will come in,” she says mournfully. “They’re all eating at Wasser Hall.” She says the words like they contain poison.

Wasser Hall, a residence hall across the park that was recently renovated to include its own pool in the basement, is our bitterest rival. After the press—and students—started calling Fischer Hall Death Dorm, I got a lot of calls from parents demanding their kids be moved to Wasser Hall. Can I just say that the assistant hall director there thinks she’s all that because of it?

I got her back, though, during a trust exercise we were all required to do at in-staff training over Winter Break, when we each had to fall back into each other’s arms and I accidentally-on-purpose dropped her.

“Well,” I say soothingly, “it’s only natural. They’re scared. They’ll come back after the police figure out who the killer is.”

“If the police figure out who the killer is,” Magda says gloomily.

“They will,” I assure her. Then, to cheer her up, I add, “Guess who I had dinner with last night.”

Magda brightens. “Cooper? He finally asked you for a date?”

It’s my turn to look gloomy. “Um, no. My dad. He got out of jail. He’s here, in the city.”

“Your dad’s out of the pen?” Pete is walking by, an empty coffee mug in his hand. He’s on his way in for a refill. “No kidding?”

“No kidding,” I say.

“So.” Pete has forgotten about his coffee. He looks intrigued. “What’d you two talk about?”

I shrug. Damn that Mark and his contagious shrugging. “I don’t know,” I say. “Him. Me. Mom. A little of everything.”

Magda is equally fascinated. She leans forward and says, “I read a book once where the man, he goes to prison, and when he gets out, he’s…you know. Like your boss, Tom. On account of not having been with a woman in so long.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure my dad’s not gay now, Magda,” I say. “If that’s what you mean.”

Magda looks disappointed and leans back into her seat. “Oh.”

“What’s he want?” Pete asks.

“Want?” I stare at him. “He doesn’t want anything.”

“The man comes to see you first thing out of jail,” Pete says, looking incredulous. “Says that he doesn’t want anything from you…and you believe him? What’s wrong with you?”

“Well,” I say hesitantly. “He did say he just needed a place to stay for a few days while he gets on his feet.”

Pete lets out a bark of I told you so laughter.

“What?” I cry. “He’s my father. He raised me for my first ten years or so.”

“Right,” Pete says cynically. “And now he wants to mooch off your fame and fortune.”

“What fortune?” I demand. “He knows perfectly well his ex-wife stole all my money.”

Pete, chuckling, heads for the coffee machine.

“Why can’t he just want to rebuild his relationship with the daughter he barely knows?” I shout after him. Which just makes him laugh harder.

“That’s all right, honey,” Magda says, patting my hand. “Ignore him. I think it’s nice your daddy came back.”