Size 12 and Ready to Rock by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page B

Stephanie says as she opens her bottle of water. Her smile is beatific. She clearly Botoxes. Too bad she can’t Botox her personality. Or that vein in her forehead. “So this is what you’re doing now?” she asks, gesturing around the Allingtons’ terrace. “Running a dorm? ”
    “Residence hall,” I correct her automatically. “But you probably know that already. It’s written at the top of the sign-in log.”
    Stephanie looks blank. “The what?”
    “The sign-in log,” I say. “You know, the one you’re required to sign whenever Christopher checks you in and out of the building?” I try not to make it sound like I know how many times she’s spent the night here, even though I do, or that I think it’s weird she sleeps over so much in her boyfriend’s parents’ apartment. “It says Fischer Hall is a college residence hall right across the top. You must have noticed that we require your signature and a valid form of photo ID every time you stay, so that if you break a housing regulation while you’re here—such as filming without authorization—we can hold you accountable for your actions.”
    Stephanie stares at me across the glass patio table. “You’re serious,” she says in disbelief. “This is really what you do for a living.”
    “Why not?” I ask, making my voice light with effort.
    “Obviously I heard that your mother took off with all your savings,” she says. “But surely you still earn enough royalties from your songs that—”
    I can’t help letting out a snort. Stephanie glances from me to Cooper in bafflement. “What?” she asks.
    “You’re a Harvard MBA, Stephanie,” Cooper says, his tone mildly amused. “You should be familiar with how record companies—particularly your employer—cook their books.”
    “I still get royalty statements from Cartwright Records claiming they haven’t earned back what they spent on the billboards advertising concerts I gave in Thailand ten years ago,” I explain to her, “so they feel they don’t owe me any money.”
    Even in the fairy lights, I can see that Stephanie’s turned a little pink, embarrassed for her employer.
    “I see,” she says.
    “But things are good,” I hasten to assure her. “As part of the benefits package for working here, I can go to school for free to get my degree—”
    “Oh,” Stephanie says knowingly. “So that’s what you’re doing, working here, getting your law degree so you can sue your mom . . . and Cartwright Records too, I presume?”
    I put as much confidence as I can into the smile I give her.
    “Not exactly,” I say.
    The truth is that I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree. When everyone else my age was going to college, I was singing to packed malls and sold-out sports arenas.
    I could still sue Cartwright Records, of course, but I’ve been assured by various legal experts that such a suit would take years, cost more than I’d ever win, and likely result only in a bad case of acid reflux . . . my own. Same thing with going after my mom.
    “I’ve got . . . different priorities,” I explain to her. “Right now I’m taking classes toward a BA in criminal justice.”
    “Criminal . . . justice?” she repeats slowly.
    “Uh-huh,” I say. The incredulous look on her face is making me rethink my choice of majors. Is there a degree in advanced butt-kicking? If so, I’m signing up for it, and starting with hers.
    “Heather Wells,” she says, shaking her head. “Heather Wells is working in a New York College dorm and getting a degree in criminal justice .”
    I raise my fist only to have Cooper reach out to grasp it beneath the glass tabletop.
    “New York College is lucky to have Heather,” Cooper says calmly, his gaze on Stephanie’s. “And so are the students who live in this residence hall. And I think Christopher might know a thing or two about how good Heather is at mitigating crime and upholding social justice. Don’t you, Chris?”
    Christopher looks