by Meg Cabot
Tom’s hazel eyes goggle. “You are fucking shitting me.”
“Call him,” I say, unwinding my scarf, “and see.”
“The coach is gay?” Tom looks as stunned as if I’d walked up and slapped him.
“Apparently. Why? Doesn’t he set your gaydar off?”
“Every hot guy sets my gaydar off,” Tom says. “But that doesn’t mean it’s actually accurate.”
“Well, he asked about you,” I say. “Either it’s all part of a diabolical scheme to keep us from suspecting him in Lindsay’s murder, or he really does have a little crush on you. Call him, so we can find out which it is.”
Tom’s hand is already reaching for the phone before he stops himself and says, giving me a confused look, “Wait. What does Coach Andrews have to do with Lindsay’s murder?”
“Either nothing,” I reply, “or everything. Call him.”
Tom shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. I’m not doing something this important in front of an audience. Not even an audience of you. I’m doing this from my apartment.” He scoots back his (well, really, my) chair, and stands up. “Right now.”
“Just let me know what he says,” I call, as Tom hurries out the door and toward the elevator. When he’s gone, I sit there and wonder just how far Andrews will be willing to take this thing, in the event he isn’t actually gay. Would he put out for Tom? All in an effort to throw off investigators? Could a straight guy even do that? Well, probably, if he’s bi. But Coach Andrews didn’t seem bi.
Of course, he hadn’t seemed gay to me, either, until today. He did an excellent job of hiding it. But then, maybe if you’re a gay basketball coach, you have to be good at hiding it. I mean, if you want to keep your job.
I’m wondering if President Allington has any idea that his golden boy is a gay boy, just as Gavin McGoren strolls into the office.
“Wassup?” he says, and throws himself onto the couch across from my—I mean, Tom’s—desk.
I stare at him.
“How should I know what’s up?” I say. “It’s a Snow Day. No one has class. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be off in a bar somewhere in SoHo, drinking yourself blind?”
“I would be,” Gavin says, “except that boss of yours says I have to see him for”—he digs a much-folded, very grimy disciplinary letter from his back pocket—“follow-up counseling pertaining to an incident involving alcohol.”
“Ha,” I say happily. “You loser.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t have a very professional attitude towards your job?” Gavin wants to know.
“Has anyone ever told you that trying to drink twenty-one shots in one night is extremely dangerous, not to mention stupid?”
He gives me ano-duh look. “So how come they haven’t caught the guy that iced Lindsay?” he asks.
“Because no one knows who did it.” And some of us are driving ourselves crazy trying to figure it out.
“Wow,” Gavin says. “That makes me feel so safe and secure in my living environment. My mom wants me to move to Wasser Hall, where people don’t get their heads chopped off.”
I stare at him, genuinely shocked. “You’re not going to, are you?”
“I don’t know,” Gavin says, not making eye contact. “It’s closer to the film school.”
“Oh, my God.” I can’t believe this. “You’re thinking about it.”
“Well, whatevs.” Gavin looks uncomfortable. “It’s not cool, living in Death Dorm.”
“I would imagine it would be very cool,” I say. “To a guy who aspires to be the next Quentin Tarantino.”
“Eli Roth,” he corrects me.
“Whatever,” I say. “But by all means, move to Wasser Hall if you’re scared. Here.” I lean down and pick up the empty box I’d lugged to the Winer Sports Complex and back again. “Start packing.”
“I’m not scared,” Gavin says, shoving the box away and sticking his chin out. I notice that the straggly growth on it is getting less straggly and more bushy. “I mean… aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not scared,” I say. “I’m angry. I want to know who did that to Lindsay, and why. And I want them caught.”
“Well,” Gavin says, finally looking me in the eye, “do they have any leads?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “If they do, they aren’t telling me. Let me ask you something. Do you think Coach Andrews is gay?”
“Gay?” Gavin lets out a big horse laugh. “No!”
I shake my head. “Why not?”
“Well, because he’s a big jock.”
“Historically, there have been a few gay athletes, you know,” I say.
Gavin snorts. “Sure. Lady golfers.”
“No,” I say. “Greg Louganis.”
He stares at me blankly. “Who’s that?”
“Never mind.” I sigh. “He could be gay and just not want everyone to know. Because it might freak out the players.”
“Gee, ya think?” Gavin asks me sarcastically.
“But you don’t think he’s gay,” I say.
“How would I know?” Gavin asks. “I never met the guy. I just know he’s a basketball coach, and they aren’t gay. Most of the time.”
“Well, have you ever heard anything about Coach Andrews and Lindsay?”
“What, like, romantically?” Gavin wants to know.
“Yeah.”
“No,” he says. “And, might I add, gross. He’s, like, thirty.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah. That’s ancient.”
Gavin smirks, and says, “Whatever. Besides, I thought Lindsay was all hot-and-heavy with Mark Shepelsky.”
“They’ve cooled off, apparently,” I say. “Lately she’s been hooking up with a kid named Doug Winer. Do you know him?”
“Not really.” He shrugs. “I know his brother, Steve, better.”
And the earth suddenly seemed to tilt on its axis.
“What?”I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.
Gavin, startled by my response, stammers, “St-Steve. Yeah. Steve Winer. What, you didn’t know—”
“Steve?” I stare at him. “Doug Winer has a brother named Steve? Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” Gavin looks at me strangely. “He was in one of my film classes last semester. We worked together on a project. It was kind of lame—which makes sense, since Steve’s kind of lame. But we hung out some. He’s a senior. He lives over at the Tau Phi House.”
“He’s a Tau Phi, too?” I can’t seem to digest any of this.
“Yeah. He’s, like, president of the house, or something. Well, he should be, ’cause he’s the oldest guy there. The dude’s twenty-five, and he’s still taking classes like Intro to Social Work and shit. Steve wants to be a big-time breadwinner, like Daddy. But he’s too stupid and lazy to think of any way to do it except through dealing. So… ” Gavin shrugs. “He deals coke and shit to college party kids, while Dad—and New York College, as far as I can tell—turns a blind eye. I mean, it makes sense the school won’t do anything about it, because old man Winer donated the sports complex.” He chuckles. “Too bad his own kids are too fucked up most of the time to use it.”
“So the Winer boys are big-time dealers?” I ask. Suddenly Coach Andrews isn’t interesting me half as much as he was earlier.
“I don’t know about big-time,” Gavin says, with a shrug. “I mean, they both deal, and all, which is fine. But you aren’t supposed to sample your own wares. But back when I had class with him, Steve was using, all the time. And so he was always asleep—crashing, you know—when we were supposed to be working on the project. I had to do the whole thing myself, practically. We got an A, of course. But no thanks to Winer.”
“So what’s he deal?” I ask.
“You name it, the Winer can get it. Though he’s got principles. He only sells to people who are ready to experience the alternative planes of reality that drugs can help them achieve. It’s like this thing.” Gavin rolls his eyes. “Some principles. You know what that guy’s hobby used
to be when he was a kid? Burying cats up to their necks in dirt in the backyard, then runnin’ over their heads with the lawn mower.”
“That,” I say, wide-eyed, “is disgusting.”
“That’s not all. Steve’d tie a brick to their tails and throw ’em in the pool. That guy is a maniac. Plus, he’s got this thing about money. See, their old man made a pile of money in construction. And he wants his boys to do the same. You know, find their own entrepreneurial fortunes, and shit? So soon as they graduate from college, they’re cut off. That’s why Steve’s trying to keep the gravy train go as long as he can.”
I eye him. “Gavin,” I say. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“All this stuff about the Winers.”
Gavin looks blank. “I dunno. I’ve partied with them.”
“You’ve partied with them?”
“Yeah,” Gavin says. “You know. I think Steve’s a loser, but the guy’s got connections. That is one bridge I’m not burning, even if he did totally fuck up our project. But, you know, when I get my own production company going, I’ll need investors. And drug money is better than no money. I don’t have to ask where it came from. Plus, some great-looking chicks show up at those Tau Phi parties. There’s one tonight… .” His voice trails off, and he looks at me warily. “I mean, women. Not chicks. Women.”
“There’s a party at the Tau Phi House tonight?” I ask.
“Um,” Gavin says. “Yes?”
And suddenly I know where I need to be tonight.
“Can you get me in?”
Gavin looks confused. “What?”
“Into the party. To meet Steve Winer.”
Gavin’s perpetually sleepy brown eyes actually widen. “You wanna score some coke? Oh, man! And I always thought you were straight! All those anti-drug ads you did when you were a star—”
“I don’t want any coke,” I say.
“’Cause coke’s no good for you. Reefer’s the way to go. I can get you some excellent reefer, mellow you right out. ’Cause you can be a real tight-ass sometimes, you know that, Heather? I always noticed that about you.”
“I don’t want any reefer,” I say, through gritted teeth. “What I want is to ask Steve Winer a few questions about Lindsay Combs. Because I think Steve might know something about it.”
Gavin’s eyelids droop back down to their normal width. “Oh. Well, shouldn’t the police be doing that?”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” I give a bitter laugh. “But the police don’t really seem to care, as far as I can make out. So. What do you say? Do you think you can score me an introduction?”
“Sure,” Gavin says. “I can do that. I mean, if you want me to. I can take you with me tonight to the party.”
“Really?” I lean forward on Sarah’s desk. “You would really do that?”
“Uh,” Gavin says, looking as if he doubts my sanity, “yeah. I mean, it’s no big deal.”
“Wow.” I stare at him. I can’t tell if he’s trying to get into my good graces to pull some kind of scam, or if he sincerely wants to help. “That’d be… great. I’ve never been to a frat party before. What time will it start? What should I wear?” I try not to think about the FAT CHICKS GO HOME sign. Will it still be there? What if they won’t let me in because they think I’m too fat? God, how embarrassing.
I mean, for them.
“You’ve never been to a frat party before?” Now Gavin looks shocked. “Jesus, even when you were in college?”
I decide to let that one slide. “Slutty, right? I should dress slutty?”
Gavin isn’t making eye contact anymore. “Yeah, slutty usually works out good. Things don’t usually start going until eleven. Should I pick you up then?”
“Eleven?” I practically scream, then remember Dr. Kilgore, who, I can tell from the murmuring behind the grate, is meeting with someone in Tom’s office, and lower my voice. “Eleven?” By eleven o’clock, I’ve usually got out my guitar, for a few pre-bedtime rounds of whatever song I’m currently working on. Then it’s lights out. “That’s so late!”
Now Gavin looks back at me, grinning. “Gonna have to set the alarm, huh, Grandma?”
“No,” I say, frowning. Who’s he calling Grandma? “I mean, if that’s the earliest—”
“It is.”
“Well, fine. And no, you can’t come pick me up. I’ll meet you outside Waverly Hall at eleven.”
Gavin smiles. “What’s the matter? You afraid of your boyfriend seeing us?”
“I told you,” I say. “He’s not my—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gavin says. “He’s not your boyfriend. Next thing you’re gonna be saying, this isn’t a date.”
I stare at him. “It isn’t. I thought you understood that. It’s an exploratory mission, to get to the bottom of Lindsay Combs’s murder. It isn’t a date at all. Although I really appreciate your—”
“Jesus!” Gavin explodes. “I was just messing with you! Why you gotta be like that?”
I blink at him. “Like what?”
“All professional and shit.”
“You said a minute ago I wasn’t very professional,” I point out.
“That’s just it,” he says. “You run all hot and cold. What’s up with that?”
He says all this just before Tom walks in, beaming.
“What’s up with what?” Tom wants to know, sliding into the seat behind my desk. I can tell from his expression that his phone call with Steve Andrews had gone well.
What does this mean? Did I have the wrong Steve, after all?
But why would Kimberly lie to me?
“This thing,” Gavin says, waving the disciplinary letter in Tom’s face. “Man, look, I know I screwed up. But do we really have to go through all this? I don’t need no alcohol education, I already got it in the St. Vinnie’s ER, man.”
“Well, Gavin,” Tom says, leaning back in my chair. “You are a lucky man, then. Because, due to the fact that I currently have no access to my office—and happen to be in an excellent mood—you are off the hook from alcohol counseling this week.”
Gavin looks shocked. “Wait… I am?
“For this week. I will reschedule. For now… fly,” Tom says, waving his hand toward the outer door. “Be free.”
“Holy shit,” Gavin says happily. Then he turns and points at me. “I’ll see you later, sweetcheeks.”
And he runs out.
Tom looks at me. “Sweetcheeks?”
“Don’t ask,” I say. “Really. So, I take it you and Steve—”
“Seven o’clock tonight,” Tom says, grinning ear to ear. “Dinner at Po.”
“Romantic,” I say.
“I hope so,” Tom gushes.
So do I… for his sake. Because if it turns out I am wrong, and Steven Andrews isn’t gay, that means there is actually something to what Kimberly told me in the ladies’ room last night.
Until I know for sure, though, I’m concentrating on the only other lead I have… Manuel’s mysterious “Steve,” which all too coincidentally turns out to be the name of Doug Winer’s brother. If he knows something about Lindsay’s death, I’ll be able to tell… at least I hope so.
If I don’t get thrown out for being a fat chick, first.
20
Like Michael and his Jesus Juice
Like OJ and his glove
We just fit together
My true dysfunctional love.
“We Fit”
Written by Heather Wells
Never having been to a frat party before, it’s sort of hard to figure out what to wear to one. I understand sluttitude is in order. But to what degree? Plus, it’s cold outside. So do I really want to venture out in pantyhose and a mini? Is a mini even appropriate on a woman of my age, not to mention one with as many thigh dimples as I seem to have developed recently?
And it’s not like I even have anybody I can ask. I can’t call Patty, because then she’ll remember I never gave Frank an answer ab
out the gig at Joe’s, and Magda’s no help at all. When I call and ask her if I should wear a mini, she just says, “Of course.” And when I ask if I should wear a sweater with it, she explodes, “Sweater? Of course not! Don’t you have anything mesh? What about leopard print?”
I settle for a black mini that fits a little snug, but with a diaphanous (though not mesh) top from Betsey Johnson, you can’t see the little bulge my belly makes as it hangs over the skirt’s waistband in spite of my control-top pantyhose. I throw on a pair of skinny black knee boots (which will be instantly trashed by the salt from the snowplows) and go to work on my hair. I want to look very different from the way I’d looked the last time I’d been at the Tau Phi House, so I opt for an up do, sexily mussed… since it will end up that way when I pull off my hat, anyway.
A few spritzes of Beyoncé’s latest—hey, I know it’s wrong to wear a rival pop star’s signature scent, but unlike Tania’s (or Britney’s), Beyoncé’s actually smells good… like fruit cocktail, yum—and I’m ready to go.
I just don’t anticipate running into Jordan Cartwright on my way out.
Seriously. Why me? I mean, I sneak all the way downstairs—making it safely past the other two men in my life without either of them suspecting a thing, Dad in his room tootling his flute, and Cooper in his room doing whatever it is he does in there after dark, which God only knows what that is, but I think it must involve headphones because I don’t see how he could stand doing whatever it is while listening to whatever it is Dad is playing—and out the front door, only to encounter a freakishly bundled-up Sasquatch-like figure trying to figure out how to climb the stoop with cross-country skis on.
“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?”