Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“I think you’d be better off on the banana farm, Reggie,” I say. “For what it’s worth. It’d be a lot less dangerous.”

Reggie seems to consider this. “Except during hurricane season,” he finally concedes. “But if I were back there, I would miss seeing your happy face every morning, Heather.”

“I could come visit,” I say. “I’ve never been to a banana farm.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” Reggie says, with a grin that shows all his gold teeth. “We get up very early there, before light. Because of the roosters.”

“God,” I say, horrified. “That sounds awful. No wonder you prefer it in New York.”

“Plus, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere,” Reggie says, with a shrug.

“Totally,” I say. “Hey, did you hear anything about that Doug Winer guy I asked you about?”

Reggie’s smile fades. “I did not,” he says. “Although I did hear there was a bit of a ruckus in one of the fraternities last night.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? Wow. What kind of ruckus?”

“One that apparently involved your ex, Jordan Cartwright,” Reggie says. “But that must be just a rumor, because what would the famous Jordan Cartwright be doing at a fraternity party two nights before his wedding?”

“You’re right,” I say. “That must be just a rumor. Well, I better go. Don’t want to be late!”

“No,” Reggie agrees gravely. “Not you.”

“See you later! Stay warm!” I wave cheerfully, then duck around the corner onto Washington Square West. Phew! That was close. I can’t believe word about what happened last night has already reached the drug dealers. I wonder if it will make Page Six. Thank God the Greeks don’t have a sign-in policy. I’d be in so much trouble at work if it got out I’d been there….

When I walk through the front door of Fischer Hall at twenty of nine, Pete, who is at the security desk, nearly chokes on his bagel.

“What happened?” he asks, with mock worry. “Is it the end of times?”

“Very funny,” I say to him. “I’ve been here on time before, you know.”

“Yeah,” Pete says. “But never early.”

“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf,” I say.

“And maybe I’ll get a raise this year,” Pete says. Then laughs heartily at his own joke.

I make a face at him, check in with the student front desk worker to collect the briefing forms from the night before, and head to my office. I see, to my relief, that the outer door is closed and locked. Yes! I’m the first one in! Won’t Tom be surprised when he sees me!

I strip off my coat and hat, then head to the caf for coffee and a bagel. Magda, I’m happy to see, is back at her regular post. She looks better than she has all week. Her eye shadow is fluorescent pink, her hair standing its normal six inches off her forehead, and her eyeliner is unsmudged and black as coal. She smiles at me when I come in.

“There she is,” she cries. “My little pop star. Did you miss your Magda?”

“Yes, I did,” I say. “Have a good day off?”

“I did,” Magda says, growing sober. “I needed it. You know what I mean? It was nice not to think about this place—and what happened here—for a change.” She heaves a shudder, then, as two students come up behind me, cries, in a completely different voice, “Oh, look. Here come two of my movie stars. Good morning, little movie stars!”

The students eye her uneasily as she runs their meal cards—which double as their IDs—through her scanner. When she’s handed them back and the kids are gone, Magda says, in her normal voice, “I heard you went to visit Manuel. How is he?”

“Um, when I was there yesterday, not so good,” I say. “But when I left last night, I heard he’d been moved out of the ICU and was being listed as stable.”

“Good,” Magda says. “And the police still haven’t caught the people who did it to him?”

“No,” I say. I’m tempted to tell Magda I have a pretty good idea who they were. But I need to see how Tom’s date went first. “But I’m sure they’re working on it.”

Magda scowls. “They aren’t working to find who killed little Lindsay,” she says. “Three days it’s been, and no arrest. It’s because she’s a girl,” she adds, glumly resting her chin in her hands. “If it were a man’s head they found in there, they’d have someone under arrest already. The police don’t care what happens to girls. Especially girls like Lindsay.”

“Magda, that’s not true,” I assure her. “They’re working as hard as they can. I’m sure they’ll be making an arrest soon. I mean, they got snowed in yesterday, just like you did.”

But Magda just looks skeptical. I realize it’s futile to try to change her mind when she’s so convinced she’s right. So I get my bagel—with cream cheese and bacon, of course—and cocoa-coffee and return to my desk.

I’m sitting there wondering who Tad Tocco is and why he wants me to call him—he has a New York College office extension—when Tom stumbles sleepily into the office, looking surprised to see me.

“Whoa,” he says. “Is this an illusion?”

“No,” I say. “It’s really me. I’m here on time.”

“You’re here early.” Tom shakes his head. “Will miracles never cease?”

“So.” I’m watching him carefully. “How’d it go? With Coach Andrews, I mean.”

He’s pulling out his keys to unlock his office door, but I see the swift, secret smile before he can hide it.

“Fine,” he says tonelessly.

“Oh, right,” I say. “Come on. Spill.”

“I don’t want to jinx it,” Tom says. “Seriously, Heather, I have a tendency to rush into things. And I’m not doing that this time. I’m just not.”

“So…” I study him. “If you’re going to take things slow with him, that means things must have gone pretty well.”

“They went great,” Tom says. He can’t hide his smile anymore. “Steve’s just…well, he’s amazing. But like I said, we’re taking things slow.”