Meg Cabot - Size 12 Is Not Fat Страница 17

“Oh my God” Lakeisha suddenly interrupts, with actual excitement in her voice. “It had to be Todd!”

“Who’s Todd?”

“Todd is the man. Bobby’s man. The new man. Bobby never had a man before.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat taken aback by this information. “She was… um—”

“A virgin, yeah,” Lakeisha says, distractedly. She’s still trying to digest the information I’ve given her. “They must have—they must have done the deed after I left. He must have come over! She musta been so excited.”

Then Lakeisha’s excitement dies and she shakes her head again. “Then she had to go and do something so stupid—”

Okay. Now we were getting somewhere.

I slow down my pace, and Lakeisha slows hers as well, unconsciously. We are within two blocks of the counseling center.

“So elevator surfing wasn’t something your roommate did regularly?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Bobby?” Lakeisha’s voice breaks. “Elevator surf? No! Never. Why would she go and do something so stupid? She’s a smart girl—was a smart girl,” she corrects herself. “Too smart for that, anyway. Besides,” she adds. “Bobby was afraid of heights. She never even wanted to look out the window, she thought we were up too high as it was.”

I knew it. I knew it. Someone had pushed her. It’s the only explanation.

“So this Todd guy,” I say, trying not to let my eagerness show. Also the fact that my heart had begun slamming a mile a minute inside my chest. “When did Roberta meet him?”

“Oh, last week, at the dance.”

“Dance?”

“The dance in the cafeteria.”

We’d ended up not canceling the dance that had been planned for the night of Elizabeth’s death. Sarah hadn’t been the only one to throw a fit at the suggestion—the student government had rebelled as well, and Rachel had caved. The dance ended up being very well attended and there’d only been a single moment of unpleasantness, and that was when some Jordan Cartwright fans got all riled up over the music selection, and nearly came to blows with some residents who preferred Justin Timberlake.

“Todd was there,” Lakeisha says. “He and Bobby started hanging out together that night.”

“This Todd,” I say. “Do you know his last name?”

“No.” Lakeisha looks momentarily troubled. Then her face brightens. “He lives in the building, though.”

“He does? How do you know?”

“ ’Cause Bobby never had to sign him in.”

“And this Todd guy—” I’m practically holding my breath. “You met him?”

“Not met him, but Bobby pointed him out to me at the dance. He was kinda of far away, though.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Tall.”

When Lakeisha doesn’t go on, I prompt, “That’s it? He was tall?”

Lakeisha shrugs.

“He was white,” she says, apologetically. “White guys… they all. You know.”

Right. Everyone knows all white guys look the same.

“Do you think this Todd guy”—now Lakeisha is calling him “this Todd guy,” too—“had something to do with… what happened to Bobby?”

“I don’t know,” I say. And as I say it, I realize we’re at the building that houses the campus counseling services. So fast! I’m disappointed. “Oh. Well, Lakeisha, this is it.”

Lakeisha looks up at the double doors without seeming really to see them. Then she says to me, “You don’t think—you don’t think this Todd guy… pushed her, or anything, do you?”

My heart slows, then seems to stop altogether.

“I don’t know,” I say carefully. “Why? Do you? Did Roberta mention that he was… abusive?”

“No.” Lakeisha shakes her head. The beads click and rattle. “That’s just it. She was so happy. Why would she do something so dumb?” Lakeisha’s eyes fill with tears. “Why would she do a thing like that, if she’d found the guy of her dreams?”

My feelings, exactly.

11

Ooh La La La

Ooh La La La La

I said

Ooh La La La

Ooh La La La La

That’s what I say

Every time

He looks my way

I say

Gimme some of that

Ooh La La La La

“Ooh La La La”

Performed by Heather Wells

Composed by Valdez/Caputo

From the album Rocket Pop

Cartwright Records

I fill Magda and Pete in on the whole thing during our lunch break. I tell them what’s going on, including the part about Cooper—

But not that I’m madly in love with him or anything. Which of course makes the story much shorter and far less interesting.

Pete’s only response is to scoop up a forkful of chili and eye it dubiously.

“Are there carrots in this? You know I hate carrots.”

“Pete, didn’t you hear me? I said I think—”

“I heard you,” Pete interrupts.

“Oh. Well, don’t you think—”

“No.”

“But you didn’t even—”

“Heather,” Pete says, carefully placing the offending carrot on the side of his plate. “I think you been watching way too much Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. ”

“I love you, honey” is what Magda has to say about it. “But let’s face it. Everyone knows you’re a little bit”—she twirls a finger around one side of her head—“cuckoo. You know what I mean?”

I cannot believe a woman who would spend five hours having the Statue of Liberty air-brushed on her fingernails is calling me cuckoo.

“C’mon.” I glare at them. “Two girls with no history of an interest in elevator surfing dying from it in two weeks?”

“It happens.” Pete shrugs. “You want your pickle?”

“You guys, I’m serious. I really do think someone is pushing these girls down the shafts. I mean, there’s a pattern. Both of these girls were late bloomers. They never had boyfriends before. Then, suddenly, a week before they died, they both got boyfriends—”

“Maybe,” Magda suggests, “they did it because after saving themselves for the right man for all those years, they found out sex wasn’t so great after all.”

All conversation ceases after that, because Pete’s choking on his Snapple.

The rest of the day is a blur. Because the two deaths occur so close together in the semester, we’re bombarded by the press, mostly the Post and the News, but a Times reporter calls as well.

Then there’s the memo Rachel insists on sending to all the residents, letting them know that a counselor will be on hand twenty-four hours a day this weekend to help them all through their grief. This means I have to make seven hundred photocopies, then talk the student worker into stuffing the memos into three hundred mailboxes, two for each double room, and three for the triples.

At first Tina, the desk worker, outright refuses. Justine, it seems, had always simply made one copy per floor, then hung them next to each set of elevators.

But Rachel wants each resident to receive his or her own copy. I have to tell Tina that I don’t care how Justine had done things, that this is how I want things done. To which Tina actually replies, dramatically, “Nobody cares about what happened to Justine! She was the best boss in the world, and they fired her for no good reason! I saw her crying the day she found out! I know! New York College is so unfair!”

I want to point out that Justine was probably crying tears of relief that she’d only been fired and not prosecuted for what she’d done.

But I’m not supposed to mention the fact that Justine had been fired for theft in front of the students—kind of for the same reason we’re not supposed to call the place we work a dorm. Because it doesn’t foster a real feeling of security.

Instead, I promise to pay Tina time and a half to get the memos distributed. This cheers her right up.

By the time I get home—with milk—it’s nearly six. There’s no sign of Cooper—he’s probably on a stakeout, or whatever it is private eyes do all day. Which is fine, because I have plenty to keep myself occupied. I’ve smuggled home a building roster, and I’m going through it, circling every resident named Mark or Todd. Later, I’m going to call each one, using the building phone book, and ask them if they knew Elizabeth or Roberta.

I’m not really sure what I’m going to say if any of them say yes. I guess I can’t come right out and be all “So… did you shove her down the elevator shaft?” But I figure I will deal with that when the time comes.

I am just settling down in front of the roster with a glass of wine and some biscotti I found in the cupboard when the doorbell rings.

And I remember, with an almost physical jolt, that I volunteered to babysit for Patty’s kid tonight.

Patty takes one look at me after I open the door and knows. She goes, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I assure her, taking Indy from her arms. “Well, I mean, something, but nothing happened to me. Another girl died today. That’s all.”

“Another one?” Frank, Patty’s husband, looks delighted. There’s something about violent death that makes some people very excited. Frank is evidently one of them. “How’d she do it? OD?”

“She fell off the top of one of the elevators,” I say, as Patty elbows Frank, hard enough to make him gounngh. “Or at least, that’s as close as we can figure out. And it’s okay. Really. I’m all right.”

“You be nice to her,” Patty says to her husband. “She’s had a bad day.”

Patty has a tendency to get fussy when she’s going out. She isn’t comfortable in evening clothes—maybe because she still hasn’t lost all of the baby weight yet. For a while, Patty and I tried going power walking through SoHo in the evenings, as part of our efforts to do our government-suggested sixty minutes of exercise per day.

But Patty couldn’t seem to pass by a shop window without stopping, then asking, “Do you think those shoes would look good on me?” then going inside and buying them.

And I couldn’t pass a bakery without going in and buying a baguette.

So we had to stop walking, because Patty’s closets are full enough as it is, and who needs that much bread?

Besides, Patty has nowhere to wear all her new stuff. She’s basically a homebody at heart, which, for a rock star’s wife, is not a good thing.

And Frank Robillard is a rock star with a capital S. He makes Jordan look like Yanni. Patty met him when they were both doing Letterman—he was singing, she was one of those showgirls who stands around holding the cold cuts party platter—and it was love at first sight. You know, the kind you read about, but that never happens to you. That kind.

“Cut it out, Frank,” Patty says to her one true love. “We’re going to be late.”

But Frank is prowling around the office, looking at Cooper’s stuff.

“He shot anybody yet?” he asks, meaning Cooper.

“If he had, he wouldn’t tell me,” I say.

Since I’ve moved in with Cooper, my stock has gone way up with Frank. He never liked Jordan, but Cooper is his hero. He’d even gone out and bought a leather jacket just like Cooper’s—used, so it’s already broken in. Frank doesn’t understand that being a private investigator in real life isn’t like how it is on TV. I mean, Cooper doesn’t even own a gun. All you need to do Cooper’s job is a camera and an ability to blend with your environment.