by Meg Cabot
“Heather?” Sasquatch squints up at me in the light spilling from the door I’ve just opened. “Oh, thank God it’s you.”
Even though his voice is muffled because of all the scarves he’s wrapped around his neck and face, I recognize it.
“Jordan.” I hasten to close and lock the front door behind me, then make my way carefully down the steps—not an easy feat in three-inch spiked heels, given the ice. “What are you doing here? Are those…skis?”
“You wouldn’t return my calls.” Jordan lowers the scarves so I can see his mouth, then raises the ski goggles that were hiding his eyes. “I really need to talk to you. And Dad’s got the limo, and none of the car services can get over the bridges, and there were no cabs. So I had to ski down Fifth Avenue to get here.”
I stare at him. “Jordan,” I say, “you could have taken the subway.”
His eyes widen in the light streaming down from the street lamp overhead. “The subway? This time of night? Heather, there are muggers.”
I shake my head. It’s finally stopped snowing, but it’s still bitterly cold. My legs are already frozen, with just a thin layer of nylon to protect them.
“Jordan,” I say impatiently, “what do you want?”
“I…I’m getting married day after tomorrow,” Jordan says.
“Yes,” I say. “You are. I hope you didn’t come all the way down here to remind me about it and to beg me to come to your wedding. Because I’m still not going.”
“No,” Jordan says. It’s hard to tell in the streetlight, but he looks a little peaked. “Heather. I’m getting married day after tomorrow.”
“I know,” I say. Then, all at once, I realize what he’s doing there.
Also that he’s drunk.
“Oh, no.” I show him the flat of my gloved palm. “No. You are not doing this to me now. I don’t have time for this, Jordan. I have to meet someone.”
“Who?” Jordan’s eyes look moist. “You do look kinda…dressed up. Heather…do you have a boyfriend?”
“God!” I can’t believe this. Fortunately my voice doesn’t carry very far along the street. The two feet of snow blanketing the tops of all the parked cars—not to mention the clouds, hanging so low that they’re reflecting the light of the city with a pinkish hue—muffle it. “Jordan, if you changed your mind about marrying her, tell her, not me. I don’t care what you do. We broke up, remember? You broke up with me, as a matter of fact. For her.”
“People make mistakes,” Jordan murmurs.
“No, Jordan,” I say. “Our breaking up wasn’t a mistake. We needed to break up. We were right to break up. We don’t belong together.”
“But I still love you,” Jordan insists.
“Of course you do,” I say. “The same way I love you. Like a sibling. That’s why we had to break up, Jordan. Because siblings aren’t supposed to—you know. It’s gross.”
“It wasn’t gross that night we did it up there,” he says, nodding toward Cooper’s front door.
“Oh, right,” I say sarcastically. “That’s why you ran so fast when we were done. Because it wasn’t gross.”
“It wasn’t,” Jordan insists. “Well…maybe it was weird. A little.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Jordan, you only want to be with me because I’m familiar. It’s easy. We were together so long…we grew up together, practically. But that’s not a good reason for two people to stay together. There has to be passion. And we don’t have that. Whereas I think you and Tania do.”
“Yeah.” Jordan looks bitter. “She’s chock-full of passion, all right. I can barely keep up.”
This is so not what you want to hear about your ex’s new girlfriend. Even if you DO think of him as a brother. Mostly.
“Well, ski on back uptown,” I say, “and take an aspirin and go to bed. You’ll feel better about things in the morning, I promise.”
“Where are you going?” Jordan asks mournfully.
“I have to go to a party,” I say, opening my purse to make sure I’ve brought my lipstick and my new can of pepper spray. Check, and check.
“What do you mean, have to?” Jordan wants to know, skiing beside me as I carefully pick my way along the sidewalk. “What’s it for, work or something?”
“Something like that,” I say.
“Oh.” Jordan skis with me until we reach the corner, where a traffic light blinks forlornly along a trafficless street. Not even Reggie is out in weather like this. The wind from the park whips around us, making me reconsider this entire venture, and wish I were in my tub with the latest Nora Roberts instead of out on this empty street corner with my ex.
“Well,” he says finally. “Okay, then. ’Bye.”
“’Bye, Jordan,” I say, relieved that he’s finally going away.
As he skis slowly off toward Fifth Avenue, I start across the park, bitterly regretting my decision not to wear jeans. True, I wouldn’t look as alluring. But I’d be a heck of a lot warmer.
Getting across the park is murder. I no longer admire the beauty of the new-fallen snow. The paths are plowed, but not well, and new snow has covered them. My boots aren’t waterproof, being designed primarily for indoor use, preferably in front of a roaring fire on a bearskin rug. At least, that’s what the girl in the catalog was doing in the picture. I knew I should have ventured over to the gazillion shoe stores on Eighth Street instead of ordering them online. But it’s so much safer to order online. There’s no Krispy Kreme sign blinking HOT NOW on my computer.
I’m half hoping that when I get to Waverly Hall, Gavin won’t be there and I can turn around and go home.
But he’s there, all right, shivering in the arctic wind from the park. As I totter toward him in my high heels, he says, “You owe me, woman. I’m freezing my ’nads off.”
“Good,” I say, when I reach him. “Your ’nads get you into too much trouble, anyway.”
I have to place a hand on his shoulder to steady myself as I knock snow from my boots. He looks down at my legs and whistles.
“Jesus, sweetcheeks,” he says. “You clean up good.”
I drop my hand from his shoulder and smack him on the back of the head with it instead.
“Eyes forward, Gavin,” I say. “We’re on a mission, here. There’ll be no ogling. And don’t call me sweetcheeks.”
“I wasn’t,” Gavin insists. “Oggl—ogle—what you said.”
“Come on,” I say. I know I’m flushing. That’s because I’m beginning to have strong reservations about all of this—not just the miniskirt, but enlisting Gavin’s aid. Is this really the way a responsible college administrator behaves, meeting students—even ones who are twenty-one—in the dead of night outside of frat parties? Gavin’s already shown a marked immaturity when it comes to handling his alcohol consumption. Isn’t my agreeing to accompany him to an event like this just reinforcing his poor judgment? Am I an enabler? Oh, God, I am!
“Look, Gavin,” I say, as we move through the courtyard of the building toward the front door. I can’t see the underwear in the shrubbery anymore because it’s all covered with snow, but I can hear the pounding music coming from an upper floor, so loud it seems to reverberate inside my chest. “Maybe this isn’t the best idea. I don’t want to get you into trouble….”
“What are you talking about?” Gavin asks, as he pulls the door open for me—always a gentleman. “How am I going to get in trouble?”
“Well,” I say. A blast of warm air from inside the lobby hits us. “With the drinking thing.”
Gavin shudders, despite the warmth. “Woman, I am never drinking again. You think I didn’t learn my lesson the other night?”
“Come in or close the door,” the guard roars from the security desk. So we hurry inside.
“It’s just,” I whisper, as we stand there stamping our feet under the glare of the security officer, “if Steve and Doug really are behind what happened to Lindsay, they’re extremely dangerous individuals….”
“Right,” Gavin says. “Which
is why you shouldn’t drink anything, either, once we get in there, that you didn’t open or pour yourself. And don’t leave your beer alone, even for a second.”
“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “You really think—”
“I don’t think,” Gavin says. “I know.”
“Well, I—”
Behind us, the outer door opens, and Nanook of the North follows us inside.
Except it isn’t Nanook. It’s Jordan.
“Aha!” he says, flipping up his goggles and pointing at me. “I knew it!”
“Jordan.” I can’t believe this. “Did you just follow me?”
“Yes.” Jordan is having some trouble getting his skis inside the door. “And good thing I did. I thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Close the door!” the crusty old security guard bellows.
Jordan is trying, but his skis keep getting in the way. Annoyed, I go to him to help, giving one of his ski poles a vicious tug. The door finally eases shut behind him.
“Who’s this guy?” Gavin demands. Then, in a different tone of voice, he says, “Oh, my God. Are you Jordan Cartwright?”
Jordan removes the ski goggles. “Yes,” he says. His gaze flicks over Gavin, taking in the goatee and Dumpster-wear. “Rob the cradle much, Heather?” he asks me bitterly.
“Gavin’s one of my residents,” I sniff. “Not my boyfriend.”
“Hey.” Gavin is wearing a tiny smile on his lips. I should have taken this as a sign that I wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “My mom really enjoyed your last album, man. So did my grandma. She’s a huge fan.”
Jordan, most of his scarves halfway unwound, glares at him. “Hey,” he says. “Fuck you, kid.”
Gavin feigns offense. “Is that any way to talk to the son of one of the only people who bought your last CD, man? Dude, that is cold.”
“I’m serious,” Jordan says to Gavin. “I just cross-country skied down here from the East Sixties, and I am in no mood for shenanigans.”
Gavin looks surprised. Then he grins at me happily. “Jordan Cartwright said shenanigans,” he says.
“Stop it,” I say. “Both of you. Jordan, put your skis back on. We’re going to a party, and you’re not invited. Gavin, buzz up so we can get someone to sign us in.”
Gavin blinks at me. “The frats don’t have to sign anyone in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say to him. “The sign-in policy is campus-wide. I’d show my ID to get us in, but, you know, I don’t want them knowing a housing official is on the way up.” I look at my ex, who is still unwinding his various scarves. “Jordan. Seriously. Gavin and I are here on a mission, and you’re not invited.”
“What kind of mission?” Jordan wants to know.
“One that involves keeping a low profile,” I say. “Which we aren’t going to be able to do if we waltz in there with Jordan Cartwright.”
“I can keep a low profile,” Jordan insists.
“The sign-in policy doesn’t include the Greek system,” Gavin says, in a bored voice.
I glance at the security guard. “Really?”
“Anyone can go up there,” the guard says, with a shrug. He looks almost as bored as Gavin. “I just don’t know why they’d want to.”
“Does this have something to do with that dead girl?” Jordan wants to know. “Heather, does Cooper know about this?”
“No,” I say, through gritted teeth. I can’t help it, I’m so annoyed. “And if you tell him, I’ll…I’ll tell Tania you cheated on her!”
“She already knows,” Jordan says, looking confused. “I tell Tania everything. She said it was okay, so long as I didn’t do it again. Listen, why can’t I go with you guys? I think I’d make an awesome detective.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I say. I’m still reeling from the information that his fiancée knows he cheated on her. I wonder if she knows it was with me. If so, it’s no wonder she always gives me such dirty looks whenever she sees me.
On the other hand, dirty looks are the only kind Tania ever gives anyone.
“You don’t blend,” I accuse Jordan.
Jordan looks insulted. “I do, too, blend,” he insists. He looks down at the skis he’s holding, then hastily leans them, and the ski poles, against the wall, along with his goggles. “Can you watch these?” he asks the security guard.
“No,” the guard says. He’s gone back to whatever it is he’s watching on his tiny desk-drawer television.
“See?” Jordan holds his arms out. He’s wearing a shearling coat, multiple scarves, jeans, ski boots, a woolly sweater with a snowflake pattern stitched into it, and a balaclava. “I blend.”
“Can we go up already?” Gavin wants to know, giving a nervous look out the door. “A whole bunch of people are coming. The max capacity of the elevator is three. I don’t want to wait.”
Tired of arguing with Jordan, I shrug and point to the elevator. “Let’s go,” I say.
I’m almost positive Jordan says, “Goodie!” under his breath.
But that’s not possible.
Is it?
21
When night ends
At breaking dawn
You know you’ve been partying
Way too long.
“Party Song”
Written by Heather Wells
I’ve never really liked parties. The music’s always turned up too loud, and you can never hear what anyone is saying to you.
Although at a party like the one at the Tau Phi House, that might actually be a good thing. Because no one here looks like much of a scintillating conversationalist, if you know what I mean. Everyone is super-attractive—the girls with stick-straight blow-outs, the guys with product carefully layered through their rumpled locks, to give them the appearance of having bed head, when you so know they just got out of the shower.
And though it might be below freezing outside, you wouldn’t know it by the way the girls are dressed—spangly halter tops and low-riders so low they’d make a stripper blush. I don’t see a single pair of Uggs. New York College kids are nothing if not up on their Hot or Not lists.
I am dismayed when we come off the rickety elevator to see that the words FAT CHICKS GO HOME are still spray-painted along the hallway, though it looks as if a little progress has been made in removing them. They’re not quite as fluorescent as they were last time I was here.
But they’re still there.
And I certainly don’t see anyone above a size 14 at the party. If I had to guess, I’d say the average size present is a 2.
Although I don’t know how these girls find thongs in the children’s section, which is undoubtedly where most of them have to shop in order to find anything that fits them.
But not everyone seems to find their incredibly slim waists (how do all their internal organs even fit in there? I mean like their liver, and everything? Isn’t it all squashed? Don’t you need at least a twenty-nine-inch waist in order for everything in there to have enough room to do its job?) freakish. Jordan is soon having a very nice time, since the minute he walks through the door, a size 2 runs up to him and is all, “Ohmigod, aren’t you Jordan Cartwright? Weren’t you in Easy Street? Ohmigod, I have all your CDs!”
Soon more size 2s are gathered around him, wriggling their narrow, nonchildbearing hips and squealing. One of them offers Jordan a plastic cup of beer from a nearby keg. I hear him say, “Well, you know, after my solo album came out, there was a bit of a backlash from the media, because people aren’t comfortable with that which isn’t familiar,” and I know he’s gone, sucked into the Size 2 Zone.
“Leave him,” I say to Gavin, who is staring at Jordan in concern—as who wouldn’t? Those girls look as if they haven’t eaten in days. “It’s too late. He’s going to have to save himself. Have you seen Doug anywhere?”
Gavin looks around. The loft is so crowded with people—and the lights are turned so low—that I don’t see how he could recognize anyone. But he manages to spy Doug Winer in a
corner over by the wide windows, making out with some girl. I can’t tell if the girl is Dana, his paramour of the other morning. But whoever she is, she is keeping Doug occupied…enough so that I don’t have to worry about him lifting his head and spotting me for the time being.
“Great,” I say. “Now, which one is Steve?”
He looks around again. This time he points in the direction of the billiards table and says, “That’s him. Playing pool. The tall one, with the blond hair.”
“Okay,” I say. I have to shout in order for him to hear me, because the music is pulsing so loud. It’s techno pop, which I actually sort of like. To dance to. Sadly, no one is dancing. Maybe it’s not cool to dance at college parties? “We’re going in. You’re going to introduce me, right?”
“Right,” Gavin says. “I’ll say you’re my girlfriend.”
I shake my head. “He’ll never believe that. I’m too old for you.”
“You’re not too old for me,” Gavin insists.
I’m unbuttoning my coat and pulling off my hat. “You called me Grandma!”
“I was joking,” Gavin says, looking sheepish. “You couldn’t really be my grandma. I mean, how old are you, anyway? Twenty-five?”
“Um,” I say. “Yeah.” Give or take four years. “But still. Tell him I’m your sister.”
Gavin’s goatee quivers indignantly. “We don’t look anything alike!”
“Oh, my God.” The techno pop is starting to give me a headache. What am I even doing here? I should be home, in bed, like all the other late-twenty-somethings. Letterman is on. I’m missing Letterman! I fold my coat over my arm. I don’t know what else to do with it. There’s no coat check, and I don’t dare leave it lying around. Who knows who might throw up on it? “Fine. Just say I’m a friend who’s looking to alter her state of consciousness.”