Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (Heather Wells 2)

He gives me a no-duh look. “So how come they haven’t caught the guy that iced Lindsay?” he asks.

“Because no one knows who did it.” And some of us are driving ourselves crazy trying to figure it out.

“Wow,” Gavin says. “That makes me feel so safe and secure in my living environment. My mom wants me to move to Wasser Hall, where people don’t get their heads chopped off.”

I stare at him, genuinely shocked. “You’re not going to, are you?”

“I don’t know,” Gavin says, not making eye contact. “It’s closer to the film school.”

“Oh, my God.” I can’t believe this. “You’re thinking about it.”

“Well, whatevs.” Gavin looks uncomfortable. “It’s not cool, living in Death Dorm.”

“I would imagine it would be very cool,” I say. “To a guy who aspires to be the next Quentin Tarantino.”

“Eli Roth,” he corrects me.

“Whatever,” I say. “But by all means, move to Wasser Hall if you’re scared. Here.” I lean down and pick up the empty box I’d lugged to the Winer Sports Complex and back again. “Start packing.”

“I’m not scared,” Gavin says, shoving the box away and sticking his chin out. I notice that the straggly growth on it is getting less straggly and more bushy. “I mean…aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not scared,” I say. “I’m angry. I want to know who did that to Lindsay, and why. And I want them caught.”

“Well,” Gavin says, finally looking me in the eye, “do they have any leads?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “If they do, they aren’t telling me. Let me ask you something. Do you think Coach Andrews is gay?”

“Gay?” Gavin lets out a big horse laugh. “No!”

I shake my head. “Why not?”

“Well, because he’s a big jock.”

“Historically, there have been a few gay athletes, you know,” I say.

Gavin snorts. “Sure. Lady golfers.”

“No,” I say. “Greg Louganis.”

He stares at me blankly. “Who’s that?”

“Never mind.” I sigh. “He could be gay and just not want everyone to know. Because it might freak out the players.”

“Gee, ya think?” Gavin asks me sarcastically.

“But you don’t think he’s gay,” I say.

“How would I know?” Gavin asks. “I never met the guy. I just know he’s a basketball coach, and they aren’t gay. Most of the time.”

“Well, have you ever heard anything about Coach Andrews and Lindsay?”

“What, like, romantically?” Gavin wants to know.

“Yeah.”

“No,” he says. “And, might I add, gross. He’s, like, thirty.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah. That’s ancient.”

Gavin smirks, and says, “Whatever. Besides, I thought Lindsay was all hot-and-heavy with Mark Shepelsky.”

“They’ve cooled off, apparently,” I say. “Lately she’s been hooking up with a kid named Doug Winer. Do you know him?”

“Not really.” He shrugs. “I know his brother, Steve, better.”

And the earth suddenly seemed to tilt on its axis.

“What?” I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.

Gavin, startled by my response, stammers, “St-Steve. Yeah. Steve Winer. What, you didn’t know—”

“Steve?” I stare at him. “Doug Winer has a brother named Steve? Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Gavin looks at me strangely. “He was in one of my film classes last semester. We worked together on a project. It was kind of lame—which makes sense, since Steve’s kind of lame. But we hung out some. He’s a senior. He lives over at the Tau Phi House.”

“He’s a Tau Phi, too?” I can’t seem to digest any of this.

“Yeah. He’s, like, president of the house, or something. Well, he should be, ’cause he’s the oldest guy there. The dude’s twenty-five, and he’s still taking classes like Intro to Social Work and shit. Steve wants to be a big-time breadwinner, like Daddy. But he’s too stupid and lazy to think of any way to do it except through dealing. So…” Gavin shrugs. “He deals coke and shit to college party kids, while Dad—and New York College, as far as I can tell—turns a blind eye. I mean, it makes sense the school won’t do anything about it, because old man Winer donated the sports complex.” He chuckles. “Too bad his own kids are too fucked up most of the time to use it.”

“So the Winer boys are big-time dealers?” I ask. Suddenly Coach Andrews isn’t interesting me half as much as he was earlier.

“I don’t know about big-time,” Gavin says, with a shrug. “I mean, they both deal, and all, which is fine. But you aren’t supposed to sample your own wares. But back when I had class with him, Steve was using, all the time. And so he was always asleep—crashing, you know—when we were supposed to be working on the project. I had to do the whole thing myself, practically. We got an A, of course. But no thanks to Winer.”

“So what’s he deal?” I ask.

“You name it, the Winer can get it. Though he’s got principles. He only sells to people who are ready to experience the alternative planes of reality that drugs can help them achieve. It’s like this thing.” Gavin rolls his eyes. “Some principles. You know what that guy’s hobby used to be when he was a kid? Burying cats up to their necks in dirt in the backyard, then runnin’ over their heads with the lawn mower.”

“That,” I say, wide-eyed, “is disgusting.”

“That’s not all. Steve’d tie a brick to their tails and throw ’em in the pool. That guy is a maniac. Plus, he’s got this thing about money. See, their old man made a pile of money in construction. And he wants his boys to do the same. You know, find their own entrepreneurial fortunes, and shit? So soon as they graduate from college, they’re cut off. That’s why Steve’s trying to keep the gravy train go as long as he can.”

I eye him. “Gavin,” I say. “How do you know all this stuff?”