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.”
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 up do. “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.”
Gavin saunters forward to shake the hand Steve’s stretched out across the table. Which is when I notice that Steve’s jeans are hanging low enough on his hips to reveal a few inches of his washboard stomach.
It’s the sight of the stomach that does it—plus the fact that there are a few tawny tufts of hair sticking up from under his waistband, as well. I feel as if someone just kicked me in the gut. Steve Winer may be a student and potential murderer, and therefore off-limits.
But he’s got a wicked bod.
“Hey, dude,” Gavin says, in his habitually sleepy drawl. “How’s it goin’?”
“Good to see you, man,” Steve says, as the two of them clasp right hands. “How’s school? You still a film major?”
“Aw, hells yeah,” Gavin says. “Made it through Advanced Experimental last semester.”
“No shit?” Steve doesn’t seem surprised. “Well, if anyone could make it, it’d be you. You ever see that Mitch guy who was in our group in Tech Theory?”
“Not so much,” Gavin says. “Got busted for meth.”
“Shit.” Steve shakes his head. “That fuckin’ sucks.”
“Yeah, well, they sent ’im to minimum security federal, not state.”
“Well, that’s lucky, anyway.”
“Yeah. They let ’im take two pieces of sporting equipment, so he packed his hacky-sack and a Frisbee. He’s already got a killer Frisbee team started. First one in the prison system.”
“Mitch was always an overachiever,” Steve observes. His gaze strays toward me. I try to adopt the same vacuous expression I see on the faces of the size 2s around me. It’s not hard. I just imagine I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours, like them.
“Who’s your friend?” Steve wants to know.
“Oh, this is Heather,” Gavin says. “She’s in my Narrative Workshop.”
I panic slightly at this piece of improvisation by Gavin—I know nothing about film workshops. But I lean forward—making sure my boobs, in their black frilly demicup bra, plainly visible beneath the diaphanous shirt, strain against the material as hard as possible—and say, “Nice to meet you, Steve. I think we have a mutual friend.”
Steve’s gaze is hooked on my boobs. Oh, yeah. Take that, you size 2s.
“Really?” he says. “Who would that be?”
“Oh, this girl Lindsay… Lindsay Combs, I think her name is.”
Beside me, Gavin starts choking, even though he hasn’t had anything to drink. I guess he doesn’t appreciate my improv any more than I’d appreciated his.
“Don’t think I know anyone by that name,” Steve says, tearing his gaze from my chest and looking me straight in the eye. So much for what those body language experts inUs Weekly are always saying, about how liars never make direct eye contact while they’re telling a fib.
“Really?” I’m pretending like I don’t notice how all the size 2s around us are elbowing one another and whispering.They know who Lindsay Combs is, all right. “God, that’s so weird. She was telling me all about you just last week… . Oh, wait. Maybe she said Doug Winer.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. Is it my imagination, or has he relaxed a little? “Yeah, that’s my brother. She must have meant him.”
“Oh,” I say. And giggle as brainlessly as possible. “Sorry! My bad. Wrong Winer.”
“Wait.” One of the size 2s, who appears to be slightly drunker—or whatever—than the others, hiccups at me. “You heard what happened to her, right? To Lindsay?”
I try to look as wide-eyed and expressionless as she does. “No. What?”
“Ohmigod,” the girl says. “She got, like, totally murdered.”
“Totally!” agrees the size 2’s friend, who looks as if she might be pushing a size 4. “They found her head in a pot on the stove in Death Dorm!”
To which all the size 2s and 4s around the pool table respond by going, “Ewwww!”
I gasp and pretend to be shocked. “Oh, my God!” I cry. “No wonder she hasn’t been in Audio Craft lately.”
Gavin, beside me, has gone pale as the white ball. “Lindsay was an accounting major,” he murmurs, close to my ear.
Damn! I forgot!
But it’s okay, because the music is pounding loud enough, I don’t think anyone heard me but him. Steve Winer, for his part, has reached for his martini glass—seriously, the guy is drinking martinis at a frat party—while his opponent lines up a shot that requires those of us around the pool table to back up a little.
I feel that I’ve lost the momentum to the conversation, so when we all gather back around the table to watch Steve take his next shot after his opponent misses, I say, “Oh, my God, why would somebody do that? Kill Lindsay, I mean? She was so nice.”
I see several of the size 2s exchange nervous glances. One of them actually leaves the table, muttering something about having to pee.
“I mean,” I say. “I did hear something about her and the basketball coach… .” I figure I’ll just throw this out there and see what happens.
What happens is pretty predictable. The size 2s look confused.
“Lindsay and Coach Andrews?” A brunette shakes her head. “I never heard anything about that. All I heard was that you didn’t leave your stash lying around in plain sight when Lindsay was around—”
The brunette breaks off as her friend elbows her and, with a nervous glance at Steve, says, “Shhhh.”
But it’s too late. Steve’s shot has gone crazily wild. And he’s not happy about it, either. He looks at Gavin and says, “Your friend sure does talk a lot.”
“Well,” Gavin says, seeming abashed, “she’s a screen-writing major.”
Steve’s pale blue gaze fastens on mine. I don’t think it’s my imagination that, good-looking as he is, there’s something genuinely creepy about him—hot abs aside.
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “Anybody ever tell you that you look a lot like what’sername? That pop star who sang in all the malls?”
“Heather Wells!” The size 4 isn’t as drunk—or whatever—as anyone else (undoubtedly due to having slightly more body fat, in order to absorb the alcohol), and so is pretty swift on the uptake. “Ohmigod, she DOES look like Heather Wells! And… didn’t you say her name was Heather?” she asks Gavin.
“Heh,” I say weakly. “Yeah. I get that a lot. Since my name is Heather. And I look like Heather Wells.”
“That is so random.” One of the size 2s, markedly unsteady on her feet, has to cling to the side of the pool table to stay upright. “Because you are not going to believe who’s here. Jordan Cartwright. From Easy Street. Not just a look-alike with the same name. The real one.”
There are excited squeals of disbelief from the other girls. A second later, they’re all asking their friend where she’d seen Jordan. The girl points, and the majority of the spectators of Steve Winer’s game of eight ball, have tottered off to get Jordan’s autograph… on their breasts.
“God,” I say to the guys when the girls have all gone. “You’d never guess Jordan Cartwright was that popular by the sales of his last album.”
“That guy’s a queer,” Steve’s opponent assures us. He’s taken control of the table since Steve missed his last shot, and is picking off Steve’s balls one by one. Steve, down at the far end of the felt, doesn’t look too happy about it. “I heard this whole wedding thing with Tania Trace is to cover up the fact that he and Ricky Martin are butt buddies.”
“Wow,” I say, excited that there’s a rumor like this going around, even though I know it’s not true. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah,” Steve’s opponent says. “And that hair of his? Transplants. Guy’s going bald as this cue ball.”
“Wow,” I say again. “And they do such a good job of covering it up whenever he’s on Total Request Live.”
“Well,” Gavin says, taking my arm for some reason, “sorry to interrupt your game. We’ll just be going now.”
“Don’t go,” Steve says. He’s been leaning on his pool cue, staring at me, for the past two minutes. “I like your friend here. Heather, you said your name was? Heather what?”
“Snelling,” I say, without skipping a beat. Why my boss’s last name should come so trippingly to my lips, I have no idea. But there it is. Suddenly my name’s Heather Snelling. “It’s Polish.”
“Really. Sounds British, or something.”
“Well,” I say, “it’s not. What’s Winer?”
“German,” Steve says. “So you met Lindsay in one of your screen-writing classes?”
“Audio Craft,” I correct him. At least I can keep my lies straight. “So what was that girl talking about, back there? About Lindsay only being nice so long as you don’t leave your stash lying around in plain sight?”
“You sure are interested in Lindsay,” Steve says. By this time, his opponent has finally failed to sink a shot and is waiting impatiently for Steve to take his turn, saying, “Steve. Your turn,” every few seconds.
But Steve is ignoring him. The same way I’m ignoring Gavin, who continues to tug on my arm and say, “Come on, Heather. I see some other people I know. I want to introduce you,” which is a total bald-faced lie anyway.
“Well,” I say, looking Steve dead in the eye, “she was a special girl.”
“Oh, she was special, all right,” Steve agrees tonelessly.
“I thought you didn’t know her,” I point out.
“Okay,” Steve says, dropping his pool cue and moving swiftly toward me—and Gavin, whose grip has tightened convulsively on my arm. “Who the fuckis this bitch, McGoren?”
“Jesus Christ!” The voice, coming from behind us, is, unfortunately, familiar. When I turn my head, I see Doug Winer, one arm around the shoulders of a very scantily garbed nonvanity size 8 (it’s nice to see the Winer boys aren’t sizeist). Doug’s pointing at me, his face very red. “That’s the chick who was with the guy who tried to break my hand yesterday!”
All the amiability has vanished from Steve’s face. “Soooo,” he says, not without some satisfaction. “Friend from class, huh?” This is directed at Gavin. And not in a friendly way.
I instantly regret the whole thing. Not the fact that I’m not home on my bed, strumming my guitar, with Lucy curled at my side. But the fact that I’ve gotten Gavin involved. Granted, he volunteered. But I should never have taken him up on his offer. I know that the minute I see the glint in Steve’s eyes. It’s as cold and hard as the frozen metal statues of George Washington in the park below us.
I don’t know if this is the guy who killed Lindsay. But I do know we’re in trouble. Big trouble.
Gavin doesn’t appear to be as convinced as I am that we’re in for it. At least if the calm way he’s going, “What’re you talkin’ about, man?” is any indication. “Heather’s my friend, man. She was just hoping to score some blow.”
Wait.What? I was what?
“Bullshit,” scoffs Doug. “She was with that guy who came to my room and asked me all those questions about Lindsay. She’s a fuckin’ cop.”
Since Gavin genuinely has no idea what Doug is talking about, his indignation is quite believable. “Hey, man,” he says, turning to glare at the smaller Winer. “You been samplin’ a little too much of your own wares? Crack is whack, ya know.”
Steve Winer folds his arms across his chest. In contrast to his black sweater, his forearms look darkly tanned. Steve has obviously been in a warm climate recently. “I don’t deal crack, nimrod.”
“It’s an expression,” Gavin says with a sneer. I watch him in admiration. He may be in film school because he wants to direct, but as an actor, he’s not half bad. “Listen, if you’re gonna go ape-shit on me, I’m outta here.”
Steve’s upper lip curls. “You know what you are, McGoren?”
Gavin doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “No. What am I, man?”
“A narc.” As Steve speaks, two bodies disengage themselves from a couple of black leather couches, where, previously unnoticed by me, they’d apparently been sitting for some time, staring at a basketball game on the wide-screen TV. The girls who’d run off to get Jordan’s autograph are trickling back, but have stopped giggling, and now stand gaping at the drama unfolding before them, as if it were an episode of Real World, or something.
“We don’t like narcs,” one of the Tau Phis says. A little younger than Steve, this one has considerably large biceps.
“Yeah,” says his twin. Well, bicep-size-wise.
I glance from one to the other. They aren’t related, probably, and yet they look exactly alike, same cashmere-sweater-and-jeans combo Steve favors. And same blue eyes without a hint of warmth—or intelligence—in them.
“Jesus, Steve-O,” Gavin says, scornfully enough to sound like he really does resent the implication. He jerks a thumb in my direction. He hasn’t let go of my arm. “She’s just a friend of mine, lookin’ to score. But if you’re gonna act like assholes about it, forget it. We’re outta here. C’mon, Heather.”
But Gavin’s attempt at a retreat is cut short by Doug Winer himself, who steps directly into our path.
“Nobody threatens a Winer and gets away with it,” Doug says to me. “Whoever you are… you’re gonna be sorry.”
“Yeah?” I don’t know what comes over me. Gavin is trying to drag me away, but I just plant my high heels on the parquet and refuse to budge. To make matters worse, I actually hear myself ask, “The way somebody made Lindsay sorry?”
Something happens to Doug then. His face goes as red as the lights on the aerial towers I can see blinking in the dark windows behind him.
“Fuck you,” he yells.
I probably shouldn’t have been too surprised when, a second later, Doug Winer’s head met my midriff. After all, I had been asking for it. Well, kind of.