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, Iam !
“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.”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
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. “Iknow .”
“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 justfollow 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’sthis 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 myresidents ,” 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. “Mymom 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
Page 133
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
am in no mood for shenanigans.”
Gavin looks surprised. Then he grins at me happily. “Jordan Cartwright saidshenanigans ,” 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’tblend ,” 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.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“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 wordsFAT 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
Page 135
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
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 evenfit 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 missingLetterman ! 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
Page 136
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
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.”
Gavin nods. “Okay. But don’t go off with him alone. If he asks.”
I can’t help preening. Just a little. I finger the tendrils that have escaped from my updo. “Do you think he will?”
“Steve’ll do anything that moves,” is Gavin’s disconcerting reply. “He’s a dog.”
I stop preening. “Right,” I say, giving my miniskirt a tug to make it a millimeter longer. “Well, let’s go.”
We make our way through the crowd of writhing bodies to the pool table, where two guys are taking turns shooting, in front of an appreciative audience of size 2s. Where did all these tiny girls come from? Is there some kind of island where they’re all kept, and only let out at night? Because I never see them during the daytime.
Then I remember. The island is called Manhattan, and the reason I never see them in the daytime is because they’re all busy at their internships at Condé Nast.
Gavin waits politely for a tall guy to put the six ball in the corner pocket—much to the appreciative sighing of the size 2s—before going, “Steve-O.”
The tall guy looks up, and I recognize Doug Winer’s pale blue eyes—but that’s it. Steve Winer is as lanky as his little brother is stocky, a basketball player’s body to Doug’s wrestling frame. Wearing a black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to reveal a set of very nicely tendoned forearms, and jeans so frayed they could only be designer, Steve sports the same carefully mussed hairdo as all the other guys at his party—with the exception of Gavin, whose hair is mussed because he really didn’t comb it after he got up.
“McGoren,” Steve says, a smile spreading across his good-looking face. “Long time no see, man.”