“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 about 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?”
“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.
