Size 12 Is Not Fat (Heather Wells 1)

“But I thought—” Marnie is really staring at me now, trying to remember where she’s seen me before. “I thought you were an actress. I’ve seen you somewhere before—”

“At check-in, I’m sure,” I say hastily.

“Your roommate,” Cooper says, looking up from a survey he seems to be making of the small kitchen area, in which Marnie has stowed a microwave, hot plate, food processor, coffee maker, and one of those scales people on diets use to measure the weight of their chicken breasts. “Where was she from?”

“Well,” Marnie says. “Mystic. You know, Connecticut.”

Cooper is opening cupboards now, but Marnie is so confused, she doesn’t even protest.

“Hey, I know. You were on Saved by the Bell, weren’t you?” she asks me.

“No,” I say. “You said Eliz—I mean, Beth—hated it here?”

“Well, no, not really,” Marnie says. “Beth just didn’t fit in, you know? I mean, she wanted to be a nurse.”

Cooper looks at her. I can tell he doesn’t hang around New York College students much, because he asks her, “What’s wrong with nurses?”

“Why would anybody come to New York College to study to be a nurse?” Marnie’s tone is scornful. “Why pay all that money to study here when you can go some place, you know, cheap to study to be a nurse?”

“What’s your major?” Cooper asks.

“Me?” Marnie looks as if she wants to say the word Duh, but doesn’t want to be rude. To Cooper. Instead, she grounds out her cigarette in an ashtray shaped like a human hand and says, “Acting.” Then she sits down on her new king-sized bed and stares at me. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

I pick up the hand ashtray to distract her—both from trying to place me and from noticing what Cooper is doing, which is some major snoopage.

“Is this yours or Elizabeth’s?” I ask her, even though I already know the answer.

“Mine,” Marnie says. “Of course. They took all of Beth’s stuff away. Besides, Beth didn’t smoke. Beth didn’t do anything.”

“What do you mean, she didn’t do anything?”

“What I said. She didn’t do anything. She didn’t go out. She didn’t have friends over. And her mother—what a trip! You hear what she did at the memorial service? The mother?”

Cooper is scouting out the bathroom. His voice, as he calls out from there, is muffled.

“What did she do?” he asks.

Marnie starts fishing around in this black leather backpack on the bed.

“Spent the whole thing saying she was going to sue New York College for not making the elevators more surf proof. And what are you doing in my bathroom?”

“I understand Elizabeth’s mother wanted her daughter’s guest privileges to extend only to females,” I say, ignoring her question about Cooper’s presence in her bathroom.

“Beth never said anything to me about that.” Marnie finds her cigarette pack. It is, thankfully, empty. She tosses it on the floor and looks annoyed. “But I wouldn’t be surprised. That girl was like from another century, practically. I don’t think Beth’d ever even kissed a guy until a week or two before she died.”

Cooper appears in the bathroom doorway. He looks way too big to fit through it, but he manages, somehow.

“Who?” I ask, before he has the chance to butt in. “What guy?”

“I don’t know.” Marnie shrugs, bereft without her cigarettes. They made nice props, since she was playing the grieving roommate, and all.

“There was this guy she was going on about, right before she…you know.” Marnie makes a whistling sound and points at the floor. “Anyway, they’d just met. But when she talked about him, her whole face kinda…I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Did you ever see this guy?” I ask. “Do you know his name? Did he go to the memorial service? Was he the one who talked Elizabeth into elevator surfing?”

Marnie balks. “Jesus, you ask a lot of questions!”

Cooper comes to the rescue. As always.

“Marnie, this is really important. Do you have any idea who this guy was?”

For me, she balks. For Cooper, she is more than willing to try.

“Let’s see.” Marnie screws up her face. She isn’t pretty, but she has an interesting face. Maybe good for character roles. The chubby best friend.

Why is the best friend always chubby? Why isn’t the heroine ever chubby? Or, you know, not chubby, but a size 12? Or maybe even a 14? Why does the heroine always wear a size 2?

“Yeah, she said his name was like Mark, or something,” Marnie says, breaking in on my thoughts on sizeism in the entertainment industry. “But I never saw him. I mean, they started going out just a week or so before she died. He took her to the movies. Some foreign film at the Angelika. That’s why I thought it was so strange—”

“What?” I shake my head. “That what was so strange?”

“Well, I mean, that a guy who liked, you know, foreign films would be into elevator surfing. That’s so…juvenile. The freshmen guys are into it. You know, the ones with the baggy pants, who look about twelve years old? But this guy was older. You know. Sophisticated. According to Beth. So what was he doing, encouraging her to jump around on top of an elevator?”

I sit down next to Marnie on the enormous bed.

“Did she tell you that?” I ask. “Did she tell you he wanted her to go elevator surfing with him?”

“No,” Marnie says. “But he had to have, right? I mean, she’d never have gone alone. I doubt she even knew what it was.”

“Maybe she went with some of those freshmen guys you mentioned,” Cooper suggests.

Marnie makes a face. “No way,” she says. “Those guys’d never have invited her along with them. They’re too cool—or think they are—to be interested in someone like her. Besides, if she’d been with them, she wouldn’t have fallen. Those guys wouldn’t have let her. They’re good at it.”

“You weren’t here, were you, the night she died?” I ask.

“Me? No, I had an audition. We aren’t supposed to audition as freshmen, you know”—she looks sly—“but I figured I had a good shot. I mean, come on. It’s Broadway. If I got into a Broadway show, I’d quit this place in a New York minute.”