Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

Unfortunately, I’d soon learned that only skinny girls take aerobics at New York College, and that larger young ladies like myself—if the waifish young things were to be able to see the instructor around me—had to stand in the back, where we, in turn, couldn’t see anything, except tiny arms flailing around.

I quit after the first class. They wouldn’t give me my twenty-five dollars back, either.

Still, the lesson at least familiarized me with the sports center, so that during halftime I’m able to find a ladies’ room deep in the bowels of the building, where there isn’t a mile-long line to use a stall. I’m washing my hands afterward, gazing at my reflection in the mirror above the sinks and wondering if I should just let nature take its course and go brunette, when a toilet flushes and Kimberly Watkins, in her gold sweater and pleated skirt, comes out of a nearby stall. Her red-rimmed eyes—yes, definitely red-rimmed, and from crying, I’m pretty sure—widen when she sees me.

“Oh,” she says, freezing in her tracks. “You.”

“Hi, Kimberly,” I say. I’m pretty surprised to see her, too. I’d have thought the cheerleaders got some kind of special VIP bathroom to use.

But maybe they do, and Kimberly chose to use this one because in here, she could cry in private.

She seems to recover herself pretty quickly, though, and starts washing her hands at the sink next to mine.

“Enjoying the game?” she wants to know. She apparently thinks I can’t see that her mascara is smudged where she’s wiped away her tears.

“Sure,” I say.

“I didn’t know you were a fan,” she says.

“I’m not, really,” I admit. “They’re making us attend. To show everyone that Fischer Hall isn’t really a Death Dorm.”

“Oh,” Kimberly says. She turns off the water and reaches for the paper towels at the same time I do.

“Go ahead,” she says to me.

I do.

“Listen, Kimberly,” I say, as I dry. “I paid a little call on Doug Winer today.”

Kimberly’s eyes go very wide. She seems to forget her hands are dripping wet. “You did?”

“I did.”

“Why?” Kimberly’s voice breaks. “I told you, it was her freaky roommate who killed her. Her roommate, not Doug.”

“Yeah,” I say, tossing the wadded-up paper towels I’d used into the trash. “You said that. But it just doesn’t make sense. Ann’s no killer. Why would you say she was? Except maybe to throw the police off the scent of the person who really did it.”

This gets to her. She averts her gaze, and seems to remember her hands. She pulls out a wad of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. “So you’re saying you didn’t know Doug deals?”

Kimberly purses her perfectly made-up lips and stares at her reflection. “I guess. I mean, I know he’s always got coke, I guess. And E.”

“Oh,” I say sarcastically. “Is that all? Why didn’t you say something about this before, Kimberly? Why were you trying to make me think Ann was the guilty party, when you knew all this about Doug?”

“Geez,” Kimberly cries, tearing her gaze away from her reflection and glaring at me. “Just ’cause a guy deals drugs doesn’t mean he’s a murderer! I mean, heck, a lot of people deal. A lot of people.”

“Distribution of controlled substances is illegal, you know, Kimberly,” I say. “So’s possession. He could go to jail. He could get expelled.”

Kimberly’s laugh is like a hiccup, it’s so brief. “But Doug Winer’ll never go to jail or get expelled.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“He’s a Winer,” Kimberly says, as if I were supremely stupid.

I ignore that. “Did Lindsay do drugs, Kimberly?”

She rolls her eyes. “Geez. What’s wrong with you? Why do you care so much? I mean, I realize you’re, like, a frustrated ex-rock star or something. But nobody listens to your music anymore. Now you’re just a desk jockey at a Division III school. I mean, a monkey could do your job. Why are you trying so hard?”

“Did Lindsay do drugs?” My voice is so loud and so cold that Kimberly jumps, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” she shouts back at me. “Lindsay did a lot of things…and a lot of people.”

“What do you mean?” I narrow my eyes at her. “What do you mean, a lot of people?”

Kimberly gives me a very sarcastic look. “What do you think? Everyone’s trying to make out like Lindsay was some kind of saint. Cheryl and those guys, with that stupid sweater thing. She wasn’t, you know. A saint, I mean. She was just…Lindsay.”

“What people was she doing, Kimberly?” I demand. “Mark and Doug and…who else?”

Kimberly turns back to her reflection with a shrug and dabs at her lip gloss. “Ask Coach Andrews,” she says, “if you want to know so badly.”

I stare at her reflection. “Coach Andrews? How would he know?”

Kimberly just smirks.

And my mouth falls open.

I can’t believe it. “No, come on,” I say. Lindsay and Coach Andrews? “Are you serious?”

It’s right then that the ladies’ room door opens and Megan McGarretty pokes her head in.

“Gawd,” she says to Kimberly. “There you are. We’ve been looking all over. Come on, it’s time to do Lindsay’s sweater.”

Kimberly flashes me a knowing glance, then turns and heads for the door, her pleated skirt swishing behind her.

“Kimberly, wait,” I say. I want to ask her what she means about Lindsay and Coach Andrews. She can’t possibly mean what I think she means. Can she? I mean, Coach Andrews? He seems like such a…well…putz.

But Kimberly just sashays out of the room. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t even say goodbye.

I stand there, staring at the door the girls have just disappeared through. Lindsay and Coach Andrews?

But even if it were true, and he’s a potential suspect, I can’t think of a reason why Coach Andrews might kill Lindsay. Lindsay’s over eighteen. Yeah, okay, the college disapproves of faculty sleeping with their students. But it isn’t like Coach Andrews would ever get fired over it. He’s Phillip Allington’s golden boy, the man who is going to lead New York College back to Division I glory…somehow. Or something. Coach Andrews could sleep his way through the entire Women’s Studies Department and the trustees wouldn’t blink an eye, so long as the Pansies keep winning games.