Size 12 Is Not Fat (Heather Wells 1)

The Fischer Hall residents, student government, and staff came up with what we consider a fitting tribute to Elizabeth Kellogg and Roberta Pace: We planted two trees—twin dogwoods—in a pretty section of the park, with a plaque under them that reads In Memory Of and lists their names, the dates of their births and deaths, and the words They Will Be Missed. Millions of people will see it—both the plaque and the trees, which the guys from the horticulture department tell me will flower in the spring—just as hundreds of students will benefit from the scholarship, also started by us, in Beth’s and Bobby’s names.

I’m excited to see the trees in full bloom. It’s about the only thing I have to look forward to these days, since I already found out—at last—what Cooper thinks about me.

Not that he knows I know. He probably has no idea I remember. It was when he came bursting out onto the penthouse terrace, just seconds after Mrs. Allington knocked Rachel senseless with her Absolut bottle. He’d gotten the message I’d left on his cell, and had come rushing over to the hall with Detective Canavan, only to learn from Pete—who’d seen Rachel and me going into the penthouse on his monitor—that not only was Rachel alive, but that the two of us had apparently gone upstairs to pay a call on Mrs. Allington (the film quality on the security monitor wasn’t fine enough for Pete to see that Rachel was actually holding a stun gun to my throat at the time, something we’re working on correcting, campus-wide).

While Detective Canavan dealt with the unconscious Rachel and wobbly Mrs. Allington, Cooper knelt beside me in the rain, asking if I was all right.

I remember blinking up at him, wondering if what I was seeing was just some weird hallucination, like the one of Rachel getting her head bashed in. I’d been pretty sure, at the time, that I was dying, on account of the sting of the pepper spray in my stitches, and the glass shards piercing my back, and my sore shoulder and stuff.

Which might be why I kept saying—the way I remember it—over and over, “Promise you’ll take care of Lucy. When I’m dead, promise you’ll take care of Lucy.”

Cooper had taken his leather jacket off—the one with my bloodstains all over it—and draped it over me. It was still warm from his body. I remember that. And that it smelled like him.

“Of course I will,” Cooper had said to me. “But you’re not going to die. Look, I know you’re hurting. But the paramedics are their way. You’re going to be fine, I promise.”

“No, I’m not,” I’d said. Because I’d been sure I was going to die. Later, the paramedic told me I was in shock, on account of the pain and the cold and the rain and all.

But I’d had no way of knowing that at the time.

“I’m going to be dead at twenty-eight,” I’d informed what I’d taken to be a hallucination of Cooper. “A one-hit wonder. That’s all I am. Make sure that’s what they put on my headstone. Here lies a one-hit wonder.”

“Heather,” Cooper had said. He’d been smiling. I’m sure of that. That he’d been smiling. “You’re not going to die. And you’re not a one-hit wonder.”

“Oh, right.” I’d started laughing. Then I’d started to cry. And I hadn’t been able to stop.

It turns out this is a pretty common symptom of shock, too. But again, I hadn’t known that at the time.

“Rachel was right,” I remember saying, bitterly. “She’s right! I had it all, and I blew it. I’m the biggest loser in the world.”

That’s when Cooper forced me to sit up, took me into his arms, and said, very firmly, “Heather, you’re not a loser. You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. Anyone else, if they’d been through what you have, what with your mother and my brother and your career and all of that, they’d have given up. But you kept going. You started over. I’ve always admired the way, no matter what happens, you just keep going.”

I’m sorry to say that at this point, I responded, “You mean like that little pink rabbit with the drum?”

I like to think that was the shock, too.

Cooper played along. He’d said, “Exactly like that little pink rabbit with the drum. Heather, you’re not a loser. And you’re not going to die. You’re a nice girl, and you’re going to be just fine.”

“But…” To my shock-clouded brain, this assertion sounded troubling, given my earlier conversation with the woman who’d been trying to kill me. “Nice girls finish last.”

“I happen to like nice girls,” Cooper had said.

And then he kissed me.

Just once. And on the forehead. The way, you know, your ex-boyfriend’s big brother would kiss you if, say, you’d been attacked by a homicidal maniac and were suffering from shock and he didn’t think you’d remember it anyway.

But I did. And I do.

He thinks I’m brave. No, wait: He thinks I’m one of the bravest people he’s ever met.

And he likes me. Because he happens to like nice girls.

Look, I know it’s not much. But you know what?

It’s enough. For now.

Oh, and one last thing:

I never did go back to that store and buy those size 8 jeans. There’s nothing wrong with being a size 12, for one thing. And for another, I’ve been too busy. I passed my six months’ probation. I start my freshman year at New York College in January. My first class?

Intro to criminal justice.

Well, you have to start somewhere, right?