Free Size 14 Is Not Fat Either by Meg Cabot

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    public in general, that the law enforcement officials in this city are using every measure available to us to track down this vicious criminal. At the same time, we’d like to urge our students to take extra safety precautions until Lindsay’s killer is apprehended. Although it is the goal of our residence halls to foster a feeling of community—which is why we call them residence halls and not dormitories—it’s important for students to keep their doors locked. Do not allow strangers into your room or into any campus building.
    While the police believe this senseless crime to be, at this time, an isolated act of random violence, we cannot stress enough the necessity of exercising caution until the individual responsible is brought to justice….”
    No sooner were the words “keep their doors locked” out of President Allington’s mouth than half the students in the lobby abruptly disappeared, heading toward the elevators with anxious looks on their faces. It’s the habit of a lot of kids in buildings like Fischer Hall to leave the door to their room propped open to welcome drop-by visitors.
    This is apparently about to change.
    Of course, the fact that Lindsay hadn’t been killed in her room didn’t appear to occur to any of them.
    Any more than the fact that there hadn’t been anything “random” about the act of violence that had ended Lindsay’s life. Her killer had obviously known her—and also the Fischer Hall cafeteria—at least passably well.
    But if this fact hadn’t sunk in to the student population, it had been driven home to the cafeteria staff, who were only just now being allowed to go home after a day’s worth of grueling questioning. I’m shocked to see them come streaming out of the cafeteria shortly after the end of President Allington’s press conference, at quarter to five o’clock…well after those who were assigned to the breakfast shift usually got off work. Detective Canavan and his colleagues had really grilled them…no pun intended.
    Still, tired as she must have been, Magda manages a smile as she comes toward me. She’s slathered her fingers with Purel, and is wiping them with a Kleenex. As she gets closer, I see why: her fingertips are black with ink.
    Magda’s been printed.
    “Oh, Magda,” I say, when she’s close enough. I put an arm around her shoulder, leading her out of the lobby and back toward my office, where it’s quieter. “I’m so sorry.”
    “It’s all right,” Magda says, with a sniffle. The whites of her eyes are pink, her eyeliner and mascara smudged. “I mean, they are only doing their jobs. It isn’t their fault one of my little movie stars—”
    Magda breaks off with a sob. I hustle her into the hall office, where at least she’ll be hidden from the inquiring gazes of the residents gathered in front of the elevator bank, home after their first day of classes—only to discover that they’ll have to seek their evening meal elsewhere.
    Magda sinks into the institutional orange couch in front of my desk and buries her head in her hands, sobbing. I hasten to shut the outer office door, which locks automatically when closed. Tom, having heard the disturbance, comes out of his own office and stands, looking at Magda uncomfortably as the words “Little movie star,” and “Byootiful little baby” drift up incoherently from her knees, which is where she’s sunk her face.
    Tom looks at me. “What’s the deal again with the movie star thing?” he whispers.

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    “I told you,” I whisper back. For a gay guy, Tom can be surprisingly clueless sometimes. “They filmed a scene fromTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtles here at Fischer Hall. Magda was working here at the time.”
    “Well.” Tom stares at her some more as she cries. “It certainly seems to have made an impression.
    Considering it’s a movie no one ever