Size 12 Is Not Fat (Heather Wells 1)

Doesn’t it?

I find a ladies’ room and go inside. Peering at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I’m relieved to find that I do not in the least resemble Jessica Simpson.

But nor do I resemble a human being. Much. My jeans are torn and covered with grease and my own blood. I’m clutching Cooper’s leather jacket as well as a bright orange blanket around my shoulders. There’s blood and dirt all over my face, and my hair hangs in greasy tangles. There isn’t a trace of lipstick anywhere in the vicinity of my mouth.

In short, I look hideous.

I try to rectify the situation as best I can. Still, the results aren’t anything to write home about.

But it’s a good thing I’d elected to freshen up a little, because when I wander out into the waiting room, my hospital bill—all seventeen hundred dollars of it, to be paid by New York College—in my back pocket, I’m almost blinded by the number of flashbulbs that go off. More than a dozen people I don’t know are calling out, “Miss Wells! Miss Wells, over here! Just one question, Miss Wells—” and the hospital security guard is trying desperately to keep more reporters from spilling into the lobby from the street.

“Heather!” A familiar voice sounds from somewhere in the throng, but not before a woman with a lot of pancake makeup and very big hair shoves a microphone in my face and demands, “Miss Wells, is it true that you and former flame ex–Easy Street member Jordan Cartwright are back together?”

Before I can open my mouth to reply, another reporter pounces.

“Miss Wells, is it true that this is the second time in two days that someone has tried to kill you?”

“Miss Wells,” a third reporter asks. “Is there any truth to the rumor that this bomb was part of an elaborate terrorist plot to eradicate America’s most beloved former teen pop sensations?”

“Heather!”

Above the microphone props and shoulder-held cameras towers Cooper. He gestures to me, indicating a side door that says Hospital Personnel Only on it.

But before I can duck toward it, someone grabs me by my sore shoulder and shouts, “Heather, is it true that you’ll be making your singing comeback representing Calvin Klein’s new fragrance for his fashion company’s fall line?”

Thankfully, a cop shows up, breaking through the wall of reporters and taking hold of my good arm. He physically propels me from the middle of the throng, using his nightstick as a prod to hasten our progress.

“All right, all right,” he says over and over again, in the flat Brooklyn accent I’ve come to know and trust since moving to New York City. “Let the lady through now. Show a little compassion for the patient, folks, and get out of her way.”

The anonymous officer steers me through the Hospital Personnel Only door, then posts himself in front of it like a Marvel comic book superhero, guarding Fort Knox.

Once inside what turns out to be the very same hallway where I’d left Cooper and Detective Canavan when I’d gone to get X-rayed, I see that they’d been joined by a number of people, including Patty and Frank, Magda and Pete, and, for some reason, Dr. Jessup.

Both Patty and Magda let out wails of dismay when they see me. I don’t know why. I thought I’d cleaned myself up pretty good.

Nevertheless, Patty springs out of her plastic chair and grabs me in a hug I’m sure she means to be friendly, but which actually hurts quite a bit. She’s crying and saying things like, “I told you to find a different job! This job is no good for you, it’s too dangerous!”

Meanwhile, Magda’s staring at my hands, her jaw moving in a weird way. I’ve never seen her eyes so big.

“Oh my God,” she keeps saying, throwing accusing looks in Pete’s direction. “You said it was bad, but you didn’t say how bad.”

“I’m okay,” I insist, trying to extricate myself from Patty’s impossibly long arms. “Really, Patty, I’m okay—”

“Jesus, Pats, you’re hurting her.” Frank tries to pry his wife off me. He peers down at me anxiously as he untangles Patty’s arms from mine. “You really okay, kid? You look like hell.”

“I’m okay,” I lie. I’m still shaken up, not so much from my ordeal in the elevator shaft as from my ordeal at the hands of those reporters. Where had they come from? And how had they found out about the bomb so fast? New York College appeared in the press rarely, and positively, if at all. How was this going to reflect upon my six months’ performance review? Would it be held against me?

Then Dr. Jessup coughs, and everyone looks at him. In his arms is an enormous bouquet of sunflowers. For me. Dr. Jessup has brought me flowers.

“Wells,” he says, in his gravelly voice. “Always hafta be in the spotlight, dontcha?”

I smile, moved beyond speech. After all, Dr. Jessup is very busy, being assistant vice president and all. I couldn’t believe he’d taken time out to come down to the hospital to give me flowers.

But Dr. Jessup isn’t done. He leans down and kisses my cheek, saying, “Glad you’re all in one piece, Wells. These are from the department.” He thrusts the flowers at me, and when I helplessly raise my bandaged hands, Magda steps in, taking the bouquet for me. Dr. Jessup doesn’t see her scowl, or if he does, he ignores it. He also doesn’t hear her mutter, “He gives her flowers, when what he should be giving her is a big fat raise…”

“Rachel said to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t come, but somebody has to hold down the fort.” Dr. Jessup grins, showing all of his teeth. “ ’Course, she didn’t know about all the paparazzi. Bet she’ll be sorry she missed that when she hears about it. So, who you gonna sell the story to, Entertainment Tonight or Access Hollywood?”

“The Post’ll offer you top dollar,” Magda informs me, not aware that Dr. Jessup is kidding. “Or the Enquirer.”

“Don’t worry,” I say with a smile. “I won’t be talking to the press.”

Dr. Jessup doesn’t look convinced. His expression has gone from one of friendly concern to one of worried suspicion. I realize suddenly that the only reason he even showed up at the hospital was to see if I intended to go public with my story.

I should have known, I guess. I mean that Dr. Jessup wasn’t there out of concern for me. Dr. Jessup was there for one reason, and one reason only: