Big Boned (18 page)

The youth choir, perhaps inspired by this news, bursts into song. Their choice?

“Kumbaya,” of course.

“You know,” Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch says, her eyes pink from tears. “Owen spoke very fondly of you. I believe that you and Garfield were probably the two people he was closest to in the world at the…end.”

“Wow,” I reply. Which seems inadequate. But what else are you supposed to say when someone tells you something like this? “Thank you, Pam.”

The thing is, if this is true, it’s completely unsettling. Until he’d been killed, I’d rarely, if ever, given Owen Veatch a thought outside of working hours.

But I smile at the Mrs. Veatches, who’d gathered around me as soon as the memorial service was over like a couple of hungry lionesses around a wounded gazelle. I tried not to look too desperate to escape.

“Owen once told me that you were the fastest typist he’d ever seen,” Mrs. Veatch Number One (Owen’s mom) says, with a watery smile.

Pam nods. “He did,” she confirms.

“Well,” I say. “Thank you, Mrs. Veatch. And…Pam.” Owen was obviously talking about someone else. I type like twenty words a minute.

I look around the atrium we’re standing in—the main floor of the student athletic center, which has been transformed into a temporary wake, with long tables set up for punch and cookies. Of course, no one has bothered to close the sports center off to the students, so there are still people in sweats walking through the mourners, showing IDs to the temporary security officers (provided by Mr. Rosetti, and looking quite unlike our own security officers, in that they are considerably larger and more menacing in appearance) in order to get in, then glancing curiously at the floral wreaths and asking, “Is this some kind of ice cream social?”

I am doing my best to avoid certain parties who have shown up, but I don’t seem to be having much success. This is made more than clear when Dad touches my arm.

“Um,” I say. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, honey,” he says. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

Great. I need this like I need…well, a bullet in the head.

“Sure. Pam—Dad, this is Pam, Owen’s former wife.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dad says, pumping Pam’s hand. She’s changed from the creepy rag doll sweatshirt to a subdued black suit. I introduce him to Mrs. Veatch Number One, as well, then walk with him toward a large potted palm sitting by a huge glass wall, part of the atrium that overlooks the school’s indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, below. The air smells pleasantly of chlorine. I have a feeling the scent is the only thing about this conversation that’s going to be pleasant.

“Thanks for coming, Dad,” I say. “You didn’t have to. It means a lot that you did. You didn’t even know Owen.”

“Well, he was your boss,” Dad says. “I know how much this job means to you. I don’t exactly understand
why
it means so much. But I understand that you love it.”

“Yeah,” I say. “About that—”

He holds up a single hand, palm out. “Say no more.”

“I’m really sorry, Dad,” I say.

I mean it, too. I
am
sorry. Well, for Mandy Moore.

“I have to say, if I hadn’t heard that speech you just gave down there about your boss,” he tells me, “I’d have thought—well, that you were making the biggest mistake of your life. But after what you said about why you people do what you do…I think I get why you like this job you do—sort of.”

“It’s just,” I say. “Writing about sippy cups? So not my thing. I did try. But I couldn’t make it work. I just think what you and Larry proposed? I don’t think it would make me happy. I want to break into songwriting someday, I think—but I want it to be on my terms. With
my
songs, about
my
experiences. Not stuff about sippy cups. And if that doesn’t
happen…I’m okay with it. Because I like what I’m doing now. And I can wait. Really.”

“Well, I figured. But I thought it was worth a shot,” Dad says. “I’ll explain it to Larry. Anyway. I wanted to say good-bye. I took my last box uptown this morning, and I walked Lucy a half-hour ago. I won’t be back. Unless you invite me, of course. And I’ll always call first before coming over…”

“Oh, Dad,” I say, giving him a squeeze. There’d been a time—not too long ago, actually—when his presence in the house had driven me to the brink of insanity. But now that he was leaving, the truth is, I was kind of bummed about it. “You know you can come over anytime you want. You don’t need to call first—or wait on an invitation.”

“I’m not sure Cooper would agree with that,” Dad says into my hair, as he hugs me back. “But that’s all right.”

“What do you mean?” I throw Cooper, standing over by the punch bowl with Tom, a startled look over my dad’s shoulder. “What did Cooper say?”

“Nothing,” Dad says, as he lets go of me. “You be good, now. I’ll talk to you later.”

“No, I mean it,” I say. “What did Cooper—”

“Heather?”

I fling a glance over my shoulder. Tad is standing there, smiling at me shyly. Talk about bad timing.

“I’ll call you,” Dad says to me, actually making a phone symbol out of his thumb and pinky, and holding it to his face. Geez. When did
he
get so Hollywood? To Tad, he says, “Later, dude.”

Okay, maybe it
won’t
be so bad having Dad move out.

“How
are
you?” Tad asks, stroking my arm.

“I’m fine,” I say. I’m staring after my dad so intently, I can’t help wondering if he can feel my eyes boring holes in his back. What did Cooper say? Why won’t he tell me? Why are all the men in my life conspiring against me? This isn’t fair!

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” Tad says. “But you haven’t been returning any of my messages.”

“Yeah,” I say, noticing, as my dad sweeps out, that Cooper, though he and Tom have been joined by Tom’s boyfriend Steve, and seem to be involved in some kind of conversation—no doubt about college basketball—has given up subtlety, and now is openly staring at me. “I’ve been swamped. The strike, and everything.”

“Well, things’ll get better. And I hear Tom’s been made interim hall director. So that’s good news.”

“Yeah,” I say. Did Cooper tell my dad he had to call first before coming over? And if so, why? Why couldn’t he just drop by? What was Cooper so afraid of my dad walking in on, anyway?

“Heather, are you okay?” Tad wants to know.

I shake myself. What am I doing? What’s
wrong
with me? The men in my life aren’t conspiring against me.

No
one
is conspiring against me. I have got to calm down. I have got to
get a grip.

“Fine,” I say, smiling up at Tad. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I’ve been so wacky lately. I’ve just…you know.”

Tad nods understandingly. In the reflective blue light from the pool, his blond hair has a slightly green tinge.

“You’ve been through a lot this week,” he says. “I get it. Believe me. What happened to Owen…”

“I know,” I say, slipping my hand in his.

“…and then for it to turn out to have been a student. I mean, I still can’t believe it.”

I don’t drop his hand. But I think about it. Especially when I almost catch Cooper looking over this way again. I think.

“Sebastian didn’t do it, Tad,” I say, as nicely as I can.

“Well, of course he did it, Heather,” Tad says. “They found the murder weapon in his purse.”

“Murse,” I correct him. “And just because they found the murder weapon on him doesn’t mean he did it.”

“Well,” Tad says. “No offense, but it’s sort of illogical to suppose it was someone else. The Blumenthal kid had the motive, and the means, and they found the weapon on him, so—”

“Yes,” I say. Now I really do drop his hand. “But it’s still
possible
he didn’t do it. I mean, you have to admit that much.”

“Well, sure,” Tad says. “Anything’s
possible
. But, statistically speaking, it’s not very
probable—
”

“Sebastian Blumenthal,” I say, “could very well have been framed. Did you ever think of that?”

Tad blinks down at me, his gorgeous blue eyes hidden behind the thick lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses. I used to think this was a good thing. You know, that no one could see how beautiful his eyes were but me.

But now I wonder if it’s such a good thing after all. Because what if those lenses have actually been keeping
me
from seeing something I should have seen before? Something vital about Tad? Not how hot he is, either, but that, nice as he is and all, Tad is a little bit of a tool?

“Heather,” he says. “That makes no sense whatsoever.
Who would do something like that? Who would go to all that trouble?”

“Um,” I say. “How about the real killer? Just for instance? Do you not watch
Law & Order
, Tad? Have you never even
seen
an episode of
Murder, She Wrote
?” Frustrated, I brush a stray strand of hair from my eyes. It’s almost as if I’m brushing away a veil that’s been there for months, and seeing Tad clearly for the first time. “Tad, you have a
Scooby Doo
lunch box in your office. Have you ever even watched
Scooby Doo
?”

“A student gave that to me,” Tad says. “What’s the matter with you, Heather? You know I don’t believe in television. Why are you acting this way?”

“How can you not
believe
in television?” I demand. “How can you not believe in something that never did anyone any harm? Sure, in large doses television may be bad for you. But so is anything. Chocolate, for instance. Sex, even!”

Tad is still blinking down at me. “Heather,” he says. “I think maybe you need to go home and lie down and have some herbal tea or something. Because you seem a little overwrought.”

I know he’s right. He’s one hundred percent right. Also, I’m not being fair.

But I can’t stop myself. It’s like a piece of me snapped up there behind that podium, and now something is pouring out of me, a tidal wave of some vital part of me, and I can’t stop it.

Except that I’m not sure I want to. I’m not even sure it’s such a bad thing.

“What did you want to ask me, Tad?” I hear myself demand.

He looks down at me in total confusion. “What? When?”

“The other day,” I say. “You said you had something you wanted to ask me, when the timing was right. What was it?”

Tad blushes. At least, I think so. It’s hard to tell in the light from the pool. Basically, he just looks green.

“You think the timing is right
now
?” he asks. “Because I hardly—”

“Oh, just
ask
,” I snarl. I seriously don’t know what’s come over me. It’s like I’ve turned into Sarah all of a sudden. Pre-makeover.

Tad looks too scared to do anything but what I say.

“Okay,” he all but whimpers. “It’s just that a bunch of us from the math department are going to spend the summer following the Appalachian Trail—you know, hiking by day and camping out at night—and I was just wondering if, you know, you’d be interested in coming along. I know you’re not much of an outdoorsy girl, and of course you have work, but I thought if you could get a leave, you might want to come. It should be a lot of fun. We plan on living off the land, getting away from it all, no cell phones, no iPods…it should be totally enriching. What…what do you think?”

For a minute, I can only stare up at him.

Then, slowly, I realize that whatever it is inside of me that’s broken seems to have righted itself.

I feel whole again.

I also feel like laughing. A lot.

But I know this would hardly be appropriate under the circumstances—the circumstances being both the refreshment period after Dr. Veatch’s memorial service, and the fact that my boyfriend’s just asked me, in all seriousness,
to spend the summer with him, hiking the Appalachian Trail.

“Well, Tad,” I say, struggling to keep a straight face. “I’m totally flattered. But, you know, I’ve only had this job a little less than a year, so I think it’d be really hard for me to get that much time off.”

“But you could probably get a week off,” Tad says. “Maybe you could join us for a week?”

The thought of spending my one week off this summer on a dirty, sweaty, tick-infested hiking trail, not bathing, and eating nuts and berries with a bunch of math professors almost causes me to weep. With laughter.

But I keep it together by biting down, hard, on the insides of my cheeks.

“I don’t think so,” I say. The words come out sounding odd, on account of how hard I’m biting myself. “Tad…I don’t think this is going to work out.”

Tad looks relieved. But also as if he’s struggling to hide it.

“Heather,” he says cautiously. “Are you…are you breaking up with me?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry, Tad. I like you, and everything, but I think we might be better off keeping our relationship as purely student-teacher. If Dr. Veatch’s death has taught me anything, it’s that life is fleeting, and we’re better off not wasting time on relationships that are pretty obviously not destined to be.”

Tad looks so relieved, I’m worried he might pass out. I brace myself, in case I have to catch him.

“Well,” he says, still struggling to look sad. “If you really think that’s better…”

“I do,” I say. “But I still want to be friends. Okay?”

“Oh, of course,” Tad says.

Tad seems more relieved than ever.

Although his relief seems to turn to alarm when, a second later, Muffy Fowler sidles up to me and, looking up at Tad from beneath her eyelashes, asks, “Hi, Heather. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Why, of course,” I say. “Muffy, this is Tad Tocco, my math professor. Tad, this is Muffy Fowler. She’s the new PR liaison with the president’s office. She’s also,” I add, for absolutely no reason other than, well, why not? “an avid outdoorswoman.”

“I am?” Muffy asks, then squeaks when I kick her on the ankle. “Ouch, I mean, oh yeah. I am.”

“Uh,” Tad says, stretching his right hand toward Muffy. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Muffy says, with a twinkle. I’m totally not making that up, either. Muffy actually manages to twinkle. “I wish my math professors had looked like you when I’d been in school. I might have paid more attention to my fractions.”