Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“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.