Size 12 Is Not Fat by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page B

stick? I know all those guys who go after models do. But I mean, what kind of normal person wants to hug, or be hugged by, a lot of pointy bones? It would be one thing if she were naturally pointy. But I happen to know that Rachel starves herself in order to be that way on purpose .
    It’s just not right.
    To my relief, Rachel lets go almost immediately, and as soon as she does, I hurry from the office without another word, mostly because I am afraid I will start crying if I speak. Not because of her boniness, but because it all just seems like such a waste . I mean, a girl is dead, her parents devastated. And for what ? A thrill ride on top of an elevator?
    It just doesn’t make any sense.
    Since the alarm to the fire exit is still turned off, I leave the building through it, relieved that I don’t have to pass the reception desk. Because I seriously think I might lose it if anyone says a single word to me. I have to walk all the way down to Sixth Avenue and around the block to avoid running into anyone I know—passing right by Banana Republic, which does carry size 12 clothing, but rarely has any in stock, because, being that it’s the most common size, they can never keep enough of it on the racks for everyone—but it’s worth it. I am in no shape for small talk with anyone.
    Sadly, however, when I get to my front door, I discover that small talk is exactly what I’m in for. Because lounging on my front stoop is my ex-fiancé, Jordan Cartwright.
    And I’d truly been convinced my day couldn’t get any worse.
    He straightens when he sees me, and hangs up the cell phone he’d been jawing into. The late-afternoon sunlight brings out the gold highlights in his blond hair, and I can’thelp noticing that in spite of the Indian summer heat, the lines pressed into his white shirt and—yes, I’m sorry to have to say it—matching white pants look perfectly crisp.
    With the white outfit, and the gold chain around his neck, he looks like he’s AWOL from a really bad boy band.
    Which, sadly, is exactly what he is.
    “Heather,” he says, when he sees me.
    I can’t read his pale blue eyes because they’re hidden by the lenses of his Armani sunglasses. But I suppose they are, as always, filled with tender concern for my well-being. Jordan is good at making people think he actually cares about them. It’s one of the reasons his first solo effort, “Baby, Be Mine,” went double platinum. The video was number one on Total Request Live for weeks.
    “There you are,” he says. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I guess Coop’s not home. Are you all right? I came down as soon as I heard.”
    I just blink at him. What is he doing here? We broke up. Doesn’t he remember?
    Maybe not. He’d obviously been working out. Like majorly. There’s actual definition to his biceps.
    Maybe a dumbbell fell on his head or something.
    “She lived in your building, didn’t she?” he goes on. “The girl on the radio? The one who died?”
    It is totally unfair that someone who looks so hot can be so…well, lacking in anything remotely resembling human emotion.
    I dig my keys out of the front pocket of my jeans.
    “You shouldn’t have come down here, Jordan,” I say. People are staring—mostly just the drug dealers, though. There are a lot of them in my neighborhood, because the college, in order to clean up Washington Square Park for the students(and, more importantly, their parents), puts all this pressure on the local police precinct to scoot all the drug dealers and homeless people out of the park and onto the surrounding streets…like, for instance, the one I live on.
    Of course when I’d accepted Jordan’s brother’s offer to move in with him, I didn’t know the neighborhood was so bad. I mean, come on, it’s Greenwich Village, which had long ago ceased to be a haven for starving artists, after the yuppies moved in and gentrified the place and the rents shot sky high. I figured it had to be on par with Park Avenue,