Size 14 Is Not Fat Either Part 14

After chugging half a gla.s.s of water, the president says, "Whatever. Do whatever you want." He's been beaten, by five cheerleaders and a lump of flour.

Cheryl Haebig immediately stops crying. "Rilly?" she asks brightly. "Rilly, Mr. President? You mean it?"

"I mean it."

Then, as Cheryl and her friends scream-shrilly enough to cause Dr. Kilgore to put her hands over her ears reflexively-Coach Andrews, raising his voice to be heard above the ruckus, says, "They won't broadcast the halftime show, anyway."

President Allington looks relieved. "Well," he says. And brings a forkful of turkey to his mouth. Then, relief turning quickly to disgust, he says, "Well," in a different tone of voice.

And reaches hastily for his water gla.s.s again, signifying to all that this will probably be the last meal the president will choose to enjoy in the Fischer Hall cafeteria.

13.

The "cad" in "decadence"

The "ow" in "follow through"

The "a.s.s" in "embarra.s.s"

Together these spell "YOU."

"Rejection Song"

Written by Heather Wells

Okay, so I'll admit it. I've never been to a basketball game before. Not a professional one (although Jordan used to beg me to accompany him to Knicks games all the time. Fortunately, I was usually able to come up with a good excuse...such as needing to wash my hair), not a high school game (I dropped out of high school after my first alb.u.m took off), and certainly not a college game (I have generally been able to find other ways to occupy my time).

I can't really say what I'd been expecting, except...not what greeted me as I came through the gymnasium doors, which was hundreds of fans-because Division III games evidently do not attract thousands of fans, even if they are being held in the busiest metropolis in the world-with their faces painted the colors of their team-or, in some cases, wearing basketb.a.l.l.s split in half, with little slits cut out for eye holes, as masks-stomping their feet against the bleachers, impatient for the game to begin.

Magda, however, a hardened veteran of the sport-all three of her brothers played in high school-takes it all in stride, steering me, followed by Tom ("Don't leave me alone"), Sarah ("Basketball is so s.e.xist"), and Pete ("I told you. Don't put your brother's hamster in there"), toward some bare spots on the bleachers that aren't too high up, because we don't want to have to walk too far to get to the bathroom, according to Magda, and not too low, either, because we don't want to be hit by any b.a.l.l.s.

The rest of the representatives from Fischer Hall-including President Allington, who goes to a section reserved just for him, Drs. Kilgore and Jessup, and the trustees, looking relieved to finally be brus.h.i.+ng off the residue from Death Dorm-stream into the bleachers, and, since the impulse is contagious, begin stomping their feet as well, until the steel rafters a hundred feet overhead seem to reverberate.

It's only after the band starts the first few notes of "The Star Spangled Banner" that the crowd quiets down, then sings happily along with a pretty blond musical theater major who seems to give the tune her all. Probably she thinks there's a representative from a major record label in the audience, who's going to sign her then and there to a contract. Or maybe a Broadway producer who is going to come up to her when she's done singing and be all, "You were brilliant! Won't you star in the revival of South Pacific that I'm planning?"

Yeah. Good luck with that, honey.

Then, when the last echo of "brave...brave...brave..." dies away, the band rips into the school song, and Cheryl and her sister cheerleaders appear, flipping and cartwheeling their way across the court. They really are very impressive. I've never seen such flexibility-outside of a Tania Trace video, I mean.

The cheerleaders are followed by the gangly-legged Pansies team, in their gold and white jerseys. I hardly recognize Jeff and Mark and the other residents of Fischer Hall. On the court, in their uniforms, they look less like hapless soph.o.m.ores and juniors, and more like...well, athletes. I guess because that's what they are, really. They high-five each of the New Jersey East Devils, in their red and gold jerseys, as they stream by. I'm impressed by this good sportsmans.h.i.+p, even though I know they've been told they have to do it. The television cameras swirl around Coach Andrews as he and several other men-a.s.sistant coaches, no doubt-walk to their seats on the sideline, and shake hands with the opposing team's coach before something happens that Magda explains is called the tip-off.

Despite the subzero temperatures outside, it's overly warm in the gym, what with all the people and their winter coats and the screaming and all. Tempers are short. Sarah, in particular, seems to feel the need to complain. She expresses strong opinions on multiple subjects, including but not limited to the fact that the money spent on athletics at New York College would be better spent helping to fund the psychology labs, and that the popcorn tastes stale. Beside her, Tom placidly sips from his flask, which he informs Sarah he needs for medicinal purposes.

"Yeah," Sarah replies sarcastically. "Right."

"I could use some of that medicine," Pete observes, after finally hanging up his cell phone. The hamster crisis has been averted.

"Be my guest," Tom says, and pa.s.ses the flask to Pete. Pete takes a sip, makes a face, and pa.s.ses it back.

"It tastes like toothpaste," he rasps.

"I told you it's medicinal," Tom says happily, and swills some more.

Meanwhile, Sarah has started paying attention to the game.

"Now, why'd that kid get a foul?" she wants to know.

"Because that boy was charging," Magda explains patiently. "When you have the ball, you can't knock people out of the way if they've established defensive position-"

"Oh!" Sarah cries, seizing Magda's wrist with enough force to cause her to slosh some of her soda. "Look! Coach Andrews is yelling at one of the umpires! Why's he doing that?"

"Ref," Magda mutters. She dabs at her white pants with a napkin. "They're referees, not umpires."

"Oh, what's that man saying?" Sarah bounces up and down excitedly on the bleacher bench. "Why's he look so mad?"

"I don't know," Magda says, flas.h.i.+ng her a look of annoyance. Her endless patience isn't so endless, it turns out. "How should I know? Would you stop that bouncing? You made me spill my soda."

"Why is that boy getting a free throw? Why does he get to do that?"

"Because Coach Andrews called the ref a blind son of a-" Magda breaks off, her eyes getting wide. "Holy Mary, mother of G.o.d."

"What?" Sarah frantically scans the court. "What, what is it? A steal?"

"No. Heather, is that Cooper?"

I feel my insides seize up at the sound of the word. "Cooper? It can't be. What would he be doing here?"

"I don't know," Magda says. "But I could swear that's him down there, with some older man...."

At the words some older man, my heart grows cold. Because there's only one older man Cooper could be with-with the exception of Detective Canavan, of course.

Then I spot them both, down by the Pansies bench. Cooper is scanning the crowd, obviously looking for me, while Dad is...well, Dad seems to be enjoying the game.

"Oh, my G.o.d," I say, dropping my head to my knees.

"What?" Magda lays a hand on my back. "Honey, who is it?"

"My father," I say to my knees.

"Your what?"

"My father." I lift up my head.

It didn't work. He's still there. I'd been hoping, by closing my eyes, I'd make him disappear. No such luck, apparently.

"That's your dad?" Pete is craning his neck to see. "The jailbird?"

"Your dad was in jail?" Tom wasn't out of the closet back when I was a household name, and so knows nothing about my past life. He wasn't even a secret Heather Wells fan back then, which is odd, because most of my most diehard supporters were gay boys. "What for?"

"Would you guys lean back?" Sarah complains irritably. "I can't see the game."

"I'll be right back," I say, because Cooper has finally spotted me in the crowd and is making his way determinedly toward me, my dad following, but slowly, his gaze on the game. The last thing I need is my friends witnessing what I'm sure is going to be a fairly unpleasant scene.

My heart pounding, I hurry to meet Cooper before he can join us in our room. His expression is inscrutable. But I can see that he's taken the time to shave. So maybe the news isn't all bad....

"Heather," he says coolly.

Well, okay. It's pretty much all bad.

"Look who I found ringing our doorbell a little while ago," he goes on. And although my heart thrills at his use of the word our, I know he doesn't mean it in the domestic bliss kind of way I'd like to hear it. "When were you going to tell me your dad was in town?"

"Oh," I say, glancing behind me to see if anyone from my gang is eavesdropping. Not surprisingly, they all are...with the exception of Sarah, who seems to have been hypnotized by the game.

"I was just waiting for the right moment," I say, realizing even as the words are coming out of my mouth how lame they sound. "I mean...what I meant to say was...."

"Never mind," Cooper says. He seems to be as hyper-aware as I am that everyone is listening to our conversation-well, what they can hear of it above the screaming and the band. "We'll talk about it at home."

Hideously relieved, I say, "Fine. Just leave him here with me. I'll look after him."

"He's not bad company, actually," Cooper says, gazing down at my dad, who is standing stock-still in the middle of the bleachers-unconscious that all the people behind him are trying to see around him-staring at the game. I guess it's been a while since he's been at a live sporting event. And the game is pretty exciting, I guess, if you're into that kind of thing. We're tied at twenty-one. "Hey. Is that popcorn?"

Sarah surprises everyone-well, okay, me, anyway-by showing she was paying attention to us all along when she shakes her head and says, not taking her gaze from the court, "It's almost gone. Make Heather go get more."

"Get me a soda," Pete says.

"I could use some nachos," Tom adds.

"No!" Magda shrieks, apparently at a call down below. "He really is blind!"

Cooper says, "What?" and slides down into the seat I've vacated. "What was the call?"

"Offensive foul," Magda spits. "But he barely touched the kid!"

Shaking my head in disgust, I turn and make my way down the bleachers toward my father. He is still staring, enraptured, at the ball court.

"Dad," I say, when I reach him.

He doesn't take his eyes off the game. Nor does he say anything. The scoreboard over the middle of the court is counting down the time left in the game. There appear to be nine seconds left, and the Pansies have the ball.

"Dad," I say again. I mean, it really isn't any wonder he doesn't realize I'm talking to him. No one has called him dad in years.

Mark Shepelsky has the ball. He's taking it down the court, dribbling hard. He has a look of concentration on his face I've never seen him wear before...not even when he's filling out a vending machine lost-change report.

"Dad," I say for a third and final time, this time much louder.

And my dad jumps and looks down at me- Just as Mark stops, turns, and throws the ball across the court, sinking it into the basket right before the halftime buzzer goes off, and the crowd goes wild.

"What?" Dad asks. But not me. He's asking the fans around him. "What happened?"

"Shepelsky made a three-pointer," some helpful soul shrieks.

"I missed it!" Dad looks genuinely upset. "d.a.m.n!"

"Dad," I say. I can't believe this. I really can't. "Why'd you come to the house? You said you were going to call first. Why didn't you call?"

"I did call," he says, watching as the Pansies run from the court, high-fiving one another, their expressions ecstatic. "No one answered. I thought you might be trying to avoid me."

"Did it ever occur to you I might not be avoiding you?" I ask. "That I just might not have gotten home yet?"

Dad realizes, I guess from the stress in my voice, that I'm not happy. Plus, all the action on the court is over for the moment, so he actually spares a second to look down at me.

"What's the matter, honey?" he asks. "Did I screw up?"

"It's just," I say, feeling idiotic for getting so upset, but unable to help myself, "things with Cooper, my landlord...I mean, they're delicate. And you showing up like that, out of the blue-"

"He seems like a nice guy," Dad says, glancing over at where Cooper is sitting. "Smart. Funny." He grins down at me. "You certainly have your old man's approval."

Something inside me bursts. I think maybe it's an aneurism.

"I don't need your approval, Dad," I practically shout. "I've been getting along fine for the past twenty years without it."

Dad looks taken aback. I guess I shouldn't blame him. It's not his fault what he seems to think is going on between Cooper and me isn't.

"What I mean is," I say, softening my tone guiltily, "it's not like that. With Cooper and me, I mean. We're just friends. I do his billing."

"I know," Dad says. He looks confused. "He told me."

Now I'm confused. "Then why'd you say you approve? Like you thought we're dating?"

"Well, you're in love with him, aren't you?" Dad asks simply. "I mean, it's written all over your face. You might be able to fool him, but you aren't fooling your old dad. You used to get that same look on your face back when you were nine years old and that Scott Baio fellow would come on TV."

I gape at him, then realize my mouth is hanging open. I close it with a snapping sound probably only I can hear over the din of the gymnasium. Then I say, "Dad. Why don't you go sit down with Cooper? I'll be back in a minute."