Meg Cabot - Size 12 Is Not Fat
- Название:Size 12 Is Not Fat
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Meg Cabot - Size 12 Is Not Fat краткое содержание
HEATHER WELLS ROCKS!
Or, at least, she did. That was before she left the pop-idol life behind after she gained a dress size or two—and lost a boyfriend, a recording contract, and her life savings (when Mom took the money and ran off to Argentina). Now that the glamour and glory days of endless mall appearances are in the past, Heather's perfectly happy with her new size 12 shape (the average for the American woman!) and her new job as an assistant dorm director at one of New York's top colleges. That is, until the dead body of a female student from Heather's residence hall is discovered at the bottom of an elevator shaft.
The cops and the college president are ready to chalk the death off as an accident, the result of reckless youthful mischief. But Heather knows teenage girls… and girls do not elevator surf. Yet no one wants to listen—not the police, her colleagues, or the P.I. who owns the brownstone where she lives—even when more students start turning up dead in equally ordinary and subtly sinister ways. So Heather makes the decision to take on yet another new career: as spunky girl detective!
But her new job comes with few benefits, no cheering crowds, and lots of liabilities, some of them potentially fatal. And nothing ticks off a killer more than a portly ex-pop star who's sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.
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“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?
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