The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

I’m in the Fischer Hall cafeteria the next morning preparing my traditional a.m. pick-me-up of hot chocolate mixed with coffee and a generous dollop of whipped cream when Magda approaches me.

“Heather,” she says. “Amiga. I heard. The dead girl. Your mother. You are not having a very good week, are you?”

“It could be worse,” I say. “At least I still have my ravishing good looks.”

Magda grins and gives me a mock punch in the arm. “You’ll always have those.”

Magda’s wearing the dining system’s mandatory new uniform, a light green lab coat with the words “Made Fresh Daily!” stitched over the left breast. The uniforms used to be pink, which flattered Magda’s bleached-blond hair and dark eyebrows. The green isn’t doing anyone on the dining staff any favors, but it goes with the health and wellness program the food service company is trying to convince the students it’s offering—though to be honest, the food hasn’t really changed, only the presentation.

Fortunately Magda’s boss, Gerald, can’t dictate what she does with the rest of her appearance, so Magda’s pinned a towering cascade of artificial blond ringlets to the top of her head, painted her long nails metallic gold (encrusted with glitter), and thrust her feet into a pair of matching metallic-gold kitten heels.

“Come,” she says, opening her arms. “Time for a hug.”

I set down my morning pick-me-up and let Magda hug me, even though I’m not really a hugger, unless of course the hug is from Cooper.

Magda’s hugs are pretty special, though. She’s soft, like butter, and smells of something exotically fruity. I was reading a magazine once while getting a pedicure and happened upon an ad featuring a sample of a celebrity fragrance, and realized I was smelling Magda. Magda smells exactly like Beyoncé.

“Thanks, Magda,” I say as she squeezes me tight. “But everything’s going to be all right.”

“I know it is,” Magda says, releasing me. “I wanted to make sure you know it is too. Jimmy!” She screams the name of one of the guys behind the hot serving line, startling him. It’s virtually empty in the dining hall before ten during orientation week. “Heather’s here. Where is that bagel I asked you to save her?”

“Oh, Magda,” I say, embarrassed. “I can get one myself.”

“No, you can’t,” she says, patting my shoulder. “There was a rush on bagels earlier, see?” She points at the bagel basket over by the breakfast buffet, next to the cutting board where the butter, jams, and cream cheeses are kept on ice. “Some group of orientation kids, going to the Cloisters for the day. But I made sure Jimmy saved you one. He’s got it. Jimmy!”

Jimmy, who was in the middle of a text conversation on his cell phone, puts the device away and snaps to it, slicing a bagel he’s been hiding for me and putting it into the conveyer-belt toaster. Magda is only in charge of the ID scanner at the door, but she’s ruled the dining hall like a queen for years.

“Thanks, Mags,” I say to her, truly thankful as I eye what had formerly been the waffle bar but is now the Fischer Hall “fresh fruit spa water bar” (today’s options are watermelon or orange). “But hold the bacon, will you, Jimmy? I’ve got my final dress fitting on Friday,” I explain apologetically. “I’m trying to stay relatively the same size I was when they measured me for it. If I burst the seams due to all the stress eating I’ve been doing lately, they’ll have to start over, and they’ll never finish by next month.”

“Hold the bacon, Jimmy,” Magda yells at Jimmy, who shoots her an annoyed look because he heard me the first time and has already gone back to his texting.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” I say, watching as my bagel is carried along the toaster’s fiery red bars. “Maybe I’ll have something healthy along with my carbs,” I say to Magda. “Some grapes or something.”

Magda raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Grapes are nice, I guess.”

We stroll toward the salad bar, which, in the updated cafeteria, is featured front and center. The menu now offers more vegan and gluten-free options, which is lovely for those students who enjoy eating vegan and gluten-free, but horrible for people like me, who enjoy meat and gluten, preferably together in sandwich form with mayonnaise.

“I heard the girl died from asthma,” Magda says.

“That’s what the medical investigator thinks it could have been,” I say. “She won’t know until after she gets the tox screens.”

“Poor little movie star,” Magda says, shaking her head.

Magda refers to all Fischer Hall residents as movie stars, because once, long before I started working there, a scene from one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movies was shot in the building’s penthouse, and many of the residents were cast as extras, gazing up from Washington Square Park in amazement as either Donatello or Raphael performed amazing feats of turtle daring high above their heads.

Magda was a teenager herself at the time, newly emigrated from the Dominican Republic, but it left an indelible impression on her . . . that in America, anything can happen. A scene from a movie could even be shot at your place of work, and you could become a movie star . . . or at least a tiny blob in a crowd scene in a movie about teenage mutant turtles who are also ninjas.

Maybe that’s why every day since she’s dressed for work as if a film director might come walking in and cast her in his next picture. You just never knew.

“How’d you hear about my mom?” I ask Magda as I steal a couple of grapes from the artfully arranged bunches by the “Fruitopia.”

“Patty texted me last night,” Magda says, fishing her smartphone from the pocket of her uniform and waving it at me. Her phone, like the rest of her, is covered in metallic-gold spangles. “She texted all the bridesmaids. She was so angry with that little sister of Cooper’s—Nicole—for what she did, inviting your mother like that. I told her when I found out she was doing it, sending those extra invitations, I said, ‘Don’t do it. Heather won’t like it.’ But she kept saying, ‘Oh, no, she will. Heather has so few people coming to the wedding, and my brother has so many. It will be a nice surprise. My dad will pay for it.’ I thought, well, maybe she will like it. But inviting your mother like that? I couldn’t imagine that would be a nice surprise.”