Size 12 Is Not Fat

“Not if they weren’t looking for it. And if they were really convinced her death was accidental, like this last one, they wouldn’t have even looked.”

I chew my lower lip. “Nobody’s moved into Elizabeth’s space. Her roommate has the place to herself now. We could go take a look at it.”

Cooper looks dubious.

“I will admit it’s weird about this kid dying the way she did, Heather,” he says. “Especially in light of the condom and the key thing. But what you’re implying—”

“You implied it first,” I remind him. “Besides, we can look, can’t we? Who’s it going to hurt?”

“Even if we did, it’s been a week since she died,” he points out. “I doubt we’re going to find anything.”

“We won’t know unless we try,” I say, starting for the door. “Come on.”

Cooper just looks at me.

“Why is proving that these girls didn’t cause their own deaths so important to you?” he demands.

I blink at him. “What?”

“You heard me. Why are you so determined to prove these girls’ deaths weren’t accidental?”

I can’t tell him, of course. Because I don’t want to sound like what Sarah would be bound to brand me if she knew—a psychopath. Which is how I know I would sound, if I told him what I feel…which is that I owe it to the building—to Fischer Hall itself—to figure out what’s really going on in it. Because Fischer Hall has—like Cooper—saved my life, in a way.

Well, okay, all they’ve saved me from is waitressing for the rest of my life at a Senor Swanky’s.

But isn’t that enough? I know it doesn’t make any sense—that Sarah would accuse me of transferring my affection for my parents or my ex onto a pile of bricks built in 1850—but I really do feel that I have a responsibility to prove what’s happening isn’t Fischer Hall’s fault—the staff, for not noticing these girls were on a downward spiral, or whatever—or the girls, who seem too sensible to do something so stupid—or even the building itself, for not being homey enough, or whatever. The school newspaper had already run one “in-depth” report on the dangers of elevator surfing. Who knows what it was going to print tomorrow?

See. I said it’s stupid.

Still, it’s how I feel.

But I can’t explain it to Cooper. I know there’s no point in my even trying.

“Because girls don’t elevator surf” is all I can come up with.

At first I think he’s going to walk out, the way Detective Canavan did, without another word, furious at me for wasting his time.

But instead all he does is sigh and say, “Fine. I guess we’ve got another room to check.”

9

Shake Your Pom-Pom

Shake Your Pom-Pom

Shake it, baby

All night long

“Shake It”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by O’Brien/Henke
From the album Rocket Pop
Cartwright Records

Elizabeth Kellogg’s roommate opens the door to 1412 at my first knock. She’s wearing a big white T-shirt and black leggings and she’s holding a portable phone in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other.

I plaster a smile on my face and go, “Hi, I’m Heather. This is—”

“Hi,” the roommate interrupts me to say, her eyes growing wide as she notices Cooper for the first time.

Well, and why not? She’s a healthy red-blooded American girl, after all. And Cooper does bear more than a slight resemblance to one of America’s most popular male heartthrobs.

“Cooper Cartwright,” Cooper says, flashing the roommate a grin that, if I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn he’d practiced in the mirror and reserved only for extreme cases like this one.

Except Cooper is not a practicing-smiles-in-the-mirror type of guy.

“Marnie Villa Delgado,” the roommate says. Marnie’s a big girl like me, only larger in the chest than in the tush, with a lot of very dark, very curly long hair. I can tell she’s sizing me up, the way some women will, wondering if I’m “with” Cooper, or if he’s fair game.

“We were wondering, Marnie, if we could have a word or two with you about your former roommate, Elizabeth,” Cooper says, revealing so many teeth with his grin, he nearly blinds me.

But not Marnie, since, apparently deciding Cooper and I are not an item (how could she tell? Really? How come other girls—like Marnie and Rachel and Sarah—know how to do this, but I don’t?), she says, into the phone, “I gotta go,” and hangs up.

Then, her gaze fastened hypnotically on Cooper, she says, “Come on in.”

I slip past her, Cooper following me. Marnie, I see at once, has done a pretty fast job of redecorating after Elizabeth’s death. The twin beds have been shoved together to form one king-sized bed, covered by a giant tiger-striped bedspread. The two chests of drawers have been stacked one on top of the other so Marnie now has eight drawers all to herself, instead of four, and Elizabeth’s desk is currently being employed as an entertainment unit, with a TV, DVD player, and CD player all within arm’s reach of the bed.

“I already talked to the police about her.” Marnie flicks ashes onto the tiger-striped throw rug beneath her bare feet and turns her attention momentarily from Cooper to me. “Beth, I mean. Hey. Wait a minute. Don’t I know you? Aren’t you an actress or something?”

“Me? No,” I answer truthfully.

“But you’re in the entertainment industry.” Marnie’s tone is confident. “Hey, are you guys making a movie of Beth’s life?”

Before Cooper can utter a sound, I ask, “Why? You think, uh, Beth’s life has cinematic potential?”

Marnie’s trying to play it cool, but I hear her cough as she takes a drag from her cigarette. She’s definitely a for-dramatic-effect-only smoker.

“Oh yeah. I mean, I can see the angle you’d want to work from. Small-town girl comes to the big city, can’t take it, gets herself killed on a stupid dare. Can I play myself? I totally have the experience…”

Cooper blows our cover, though, by going, “We’re not with the entertainment industry. Heather’s the assistant director of this building, and I’m a friend of hers.”