Big Boned

Next to Mrs. Allington, her husband, President Allington, is deeply entranced in his BlackBerry. Except when I look closer, I see he’s not checking his e-mail or surfing the Web. He’s playing Fantasy Football.

“Fellow Pansies,” Reverend Mark goes on, in his deep, melodic voice, “I call upon you not to grieve for Dr. Veatch, nor mourn his passing, but to celebrate his entrance into the kingdom of the Lord.”

Reverend Mark seems to be winding down. I can see that the choir is getting ready to launch into their next number. We’ve already been treated to “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” I wonder, as I flip through my note cards to review what I’m going to say about Owen, what our next musical treat will be. I have no idea what kind of music Owen liked. I recall he once mentioned Michael Bolton, and shudder involuntarily. Tom glances over at me and says, knowingly, “I know. If she keeps up at this rate, they’re going to have to carry her out,” and nods meaningfully at Mrs. Allington.

With a few final assurances that Dr. Veatch is currently dwelling in the house of the Lord—a far better abode than the one-bedroom apartment he’d formerly dwelt in—Reverend Mark leaves the podium, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, the long robes of his surplice fluttering behind him. Muffy smiles her big, toothy Miss America smile at him as he passes by. Reverend Mark smiles back, but not as big—

Then his gaze falls on me, seated next to Muffy, and the smile crumbles, then disappears completely. In fact, you might even say the look he gives me is… well, deadly.

Yeah. Reverend Mark doesn’t like me too much.

He’s so busy giving me the death stare that the Reverend Mark almost smacks into Dr. Jessup, who is making his way up to the podium next. Dr. Jessup shakes the minister’s hand, and Reverend Mark utters a few words and places a comforting hand on the Housing Department head’s shoulder.

The brief lull gives me an opportunity to look around the newly renamed (for reasons best left unmentioned) New York College Sports Center gymnasium. Every folding chair and most of the bleachers are filled with people. People who didn’t know Owen. People who have just come to gawk at the memorial service of a murdered man. The gym floor is filled with flowers… and film crews from the local news cha

Except one. Make that two. There, high up in the bleachers, I see them. Jamie and Gavin. Holding hands. And, yeah, okay, right at that particularly moment, making out.

But they’re there, and not because someone threatened them, but to show their respect. My eyes fill with tears. God, what’s happening to me? I’ve never been this emotional over a murder victim in my building. It’s not like there haven’t been plenty. And I didn’t evenlike this one.

Dr. Jessup coughs into the microphone, and I turn back to face the podium. The head of housing thanks Reverend Mark for that fine eulogy, then a

This a

Oh, so great. Now I’ll be keeping track of checks all day, on top of everything else. Dr. Jessup adds that for those who wish to attend, there’ll be refreshments served on the main floor of the sports center (in front of the fitness office) from six o’clock this evening until six-thirty.

The youth choir startles just about everybody then by suddenly bursting into a particularly spirited rendition of a song from the musical Hair. It isn’t just that “Good Morning Starshine” is the type of song you’d never expect to hear at a memorial service. It’s that “Good Morning Starshine” is a song you’d never expect to hear anywhere. The Mrs. Veatches, though, appear to be enjoying themselves, along with Mrs. Allington. Every single one of them is holding a tissue to the corner of one eye. Even Mrs. Veatch Senior has woken up a little, and is asking, in a loud voice, “Is it over yet? Is it over?”

Sadly, the song ends way too soon, and Dr. Jessup returns to the microphone to say, “And now, the person with whom Dr. Veatch worked most closely while he was here on campus, the assistant director of Fisher Hall, our own Heather Wells, will say a few words. Heather?”

My heart, which had seemed to return to normal since Cooper drove off, does this weird swoopy thing inside my chest. I’ve never had a problem with stage fright when it comes to singing. You can, after all, hide behind the song. But when it comes to public speaking—forget about it. I’d seriously rather be hanging by an elevator cable or be roofied by a psychotic frat president than have to get up and speak in front of all these people.

I clutch my notes and try to swallow my fear, taking no comfort at all in Tom’s whispered “You can do it!” and Muffy’s “Just picture ’em all in their boxers and panties!” That kind of thing works great on The Brady Bunch, but in real life? Not so much.

I make my way to the podium, wishing more than ever I’d thought to stop home first to change. I’m dressed, I realize, no differently than any of the students.

Convinced I’m going to hurl, I turn to address the sea of faces I see before me—and only then realize I recognize more of them than I’d previously realized. Like, sitting directly in the middle of the folding chairs before me, Tad, who raises a hand and smiles encouragingly. I manage a queasy grin back…

… which fades as soon as I realize that seated not four rows behind him is Cooper, who raises a hand as well, thinking I’m smiling at him.

Oh God. I’m going to hurl. I just know it.

Glancing down at the note cards I’ve stacked on the podium, I shake my head. I can’t do this. I can’t. Why can’t I just chase down Reverend Mark and kick him in the back a few times? It would be so much easier.

“Hi,” I say, into the microphone. My voice echoes disconcertingly throughout the gym. Hi… hi… hi. “Um… The day I met Dr. Owen Veatch, the first thing he unpacked in his new office at Fischer Hall was a Garfield Month-at-a-Glance calendar.”

I look out at the audience to see how they’re receiving this information. They all look back at me stonily. Except Tom. He’s buried his face in his hands. And Tad. He’s smiling encouragingly. Cooper just looks confused.

That’s when I notice my dad, in a chair next to Cooper’s. Oh God. My dad is here, too? Seriously, this is proof there is no God.

“Dr. Veatch,” I go on, “loved Garfield—more, it turned out, than I ever knew. So much, in fact, that he adopted a big orange cat that looked just like him, and named him Garfield. And when that cat developed thyroid disease, what did Dr. Veatch do? He didn’t worry about the expense of caring for a sick animal, or put him down. He gave Garfield pills for it. That’s the kind of man Dr. Veatch was. The kind who loved his cat, Garfield.”

I glance at Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch. She’s crying, and gazing up at me happily. Well, good. That’s who this is for, after all. The people who’d really cared about Dr. Veatch. And Garfield. I’m doing the right thing. I know it.

Even if I can see that Tom is currently sticking his finger down his throat and making gagging motions.

“The last time I saw Owen,” I go on, “he was sitting at his desk, writing the speech he was going to give the senior RAs at their graduation di