Size 12 and Ready to Rock

“It would seem,” Tom says, with a glance at Steven, “that you’re still part of the Cartwright family freak show.”

I’m distracted, texting Cooper back. “What do you mean? Because of this Tania Trace thing?”

“Because you’re so obviously with Cooper now, you dumb slut,” Tom says. “Dumb slut” is a term of endearment to Tom, the way Magda, in the cafeteria, calls the students her movie stars. “Did you think we were never going to notice? You can try to pretend you two are just friends, but—”

“Your eyes do kind of light up when you mention him,” Steven says, “and it’s obvious from the way he looks at you that he’s in love with you.”

“Is it?” I ask, delighted in spite of the fact that we were trying to keep our relationship a secret and I already know Cooper is in love with me since he’s said so himself, multiple times.

“Not to mention you two have been attached at the hip all summer,” Tom complains. “When we asked you to come see the latest Reese Witherspoon rom-com with us and you dragged the poor man along—”

“He likes comedies,” I say in Cooper’s defense. Golden Girls is one of his favorite TV shows . . . although in some ways I think he watches it more as cheap therapy than as a comedy.

“I get why you’re keeping it on the down low,” Tom says, as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’d be awkward in any circumstances, dating your ex’s big brother, but it’s got to be especially bad in this case, given the Cartwright family freak-show factor. Still, you’re all grown-ups. I expect everyone should be able to handle it.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say, thinking back to the way Jordan had reacted at the Allingtons’ when a relationship between his brother and me had been suggested. Not good.

I still haven’t been able to shake the image of Tania the last time I saw her, huddled on President Allington’s couch, looking so lost and alone . . . all except for her dog, which she’d been clutching as if it were the only creature in the world she could trust. Shouldn’t that have been Jordan? Something seems a little off in that relationship.

Well, I’m sure when the baby comes, Jordan and Tania will be so caught up in their blissful happiness, they won’t even notice anything else going on around them. Cooper and I will be able to run off and get married, and it will all be water under the bridge . . . until, of course, everyone starts asking when we’re going to have kids.

“Have you told Cooper the news yet?” Steve asks.

“About my endometriosis?” I widen my eyes at him. “God no.” How did Steven even know about that? I haven’t told a soul.

Then I realize, even before Tom reacts, that of course Steven wasn’t referring to that. “I mean—”

“I think Steve meant about Cooper’s brother’s show being shot at your place of work,” Tom says, his eyebrows raised. “But if you’d prefer to give us an update on the status of your vagina, by all means, go ahead.”

Steven puts his beer glass down with a thump, causing its contents to slosh over the sides. “Really?” he says to his boyfriend.

Tom looks innocent. “She brought it up, not me,” he says. “So, Heather, is there something you want to tell us about your vagina?”

“I think you mean her uterus,” Steven says.

“No,” I say firmly, feeling my cheeks begin to heat up. “There’s nothing I want to tell you about my uterus. I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else. I’ve had some things on my mind lately . . .” I shake my head. “Never mind. I clearly need more female friends.”

“It must be difficult,” Steven sympathizes, “with Magda transferred to the Pansy, and Patty gone.”

My best friend Patty is married to a well-known musician, Frank Robillard. Though we speak and e-mail often, I don’t want to burden her with my problems, which seem petty compared to hers, given that she’s traveling on a multi-nation world tour with her husband, their small child, the baby they have on the way, and her husband’s band, a bunch of musicians who not only act like children but often need supervision. I mainly forward Patty videos of funny things I’ve seen on the Internet so she can have a gentle laugh at the end of a long day.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be swimming in estrogen in a couple of days, once Lisa moves in, not to mention the girls from Tania’s camp—”

Lisa Wu had said her family, who live in Staten Island, would be helping her and her fiancé, Cory, who works for an investment company, move in over the weekend. The residence hall director position, unlike my own, is live-in, so that the director can be on hand for any emergency that occurs after hours. The director’s apartment in Fischer Hall is a stunning corner suite on the sixteenth floor, with views of the Hudson River, the West Village, and SoHo. Not knowing when it would next be occupied or by whom after the loss of our last director, the building facilities staff has worked at keeping it move-in ready at all times. Julio and his nephew Manuel restored the parquet floor until it shone a rich mahogany brown, and Carl, the building engineer, painted the walls in the living room a feminine powder blue and the bedroom, kitchen, and bath a soft eggshell white.

Their efforts had paid off: the second Lisa stepped into the apartment she gasped with delight.

“Cory’s going to shit his pants,” she said, to my surprise and, by the look on his face, Dr. Jessup’s.

“Are you sure Cory’s a guy?” Tom asks when I relate this story at the bar. “Maybe it’s a lesbian wedding. That would be awesome. We need more lesbians on staff. Too bad Sarah’s not a—”

“Tom,” Steven says in a warning tone.

“I’m just saying,” Tom says. “She could do so much better than Sebastian.”

Steven nods in agreement. It takes a lot to get him to say anything bad about anyone. “He’s a bit of a—”

“Dick?” Cooper slides into our booth.

“Cooper.” I’m shocked. I hadn’t noticed him walk in, which is unusual. Normally when he enters any room, my gaze is drawn to him first thing. I don’t think it’s because I’m in love with him. He simply exudes something. Not masculinity exactly, because he isn’t a bodybuilder or anything like that, and he isn’t always the tallest or fittest man in the room. My Psych 101 professor would probably call it pheromones.