Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (Heather Wells 2)

“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 screenwriting 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 fuck is 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.

22

Truth is it just

Don’t mean a thing

To have the man

But not the ring.

“Marriage Song”

Written by Heather Wells

Having two hundred pounds of frat boy hit you in the gut is a special feeling, one that’s hard to describe. To tell you the truth, it’s actually a good thing I’m as big a girl as I am. I might not actually have survived if I’d been a size 2.

But since (truth be known) Doug doesn’t actually outweigh me by all that much—plus, I saw him coming, and so had time to reflexively clench—I just lie on the floor with the breath knocked out of me. I haven’t sustained any internal injury. That I can detect, anyway.