Meg Cabot - Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

I blink. “Snelling. Tom Snelling.”

“Yeah,” the coach says. “I mean… he’s new, right?”

“He started last month,” I say. Wait. How did we get off the subject of Lindsay, and on to Tom?

“Where’d he come from?” Coach Andrews wants to know.

“Texas A & M,” I say. “The thing about Lindsay is—”

“Wow,” the coach says. “That must be a big change for him. I mean, going from College Station to the Big Apple. I mean, it’s been rough for me, and I just came down from Burlington.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I imagine that was tough. But Tom’s handling it.” I don’t mention the part about how he wants to quit. “About Lindsay, what I was wondering was—”

“He’s not married, is he?” Coach Andrews asks. Casually.

Too casually.

I stare at him. “Who?Tom? ”

“Yeah,” he says. Suddenly I notice his cheeks are turning sort of… well, pinkish. “I mean, I didn’t see a ring.”

“Tom’s gay, ” I say. I realize he’s a Division III college basketball coach and all. But really, how dense can this guy be?

“I know, ” Coach Andrews says. Now his cheeks are red. “I was wondering if he’s in a relationship with anyone.”

I find myself shaking my head at him, blinking. “N-no… .”

“Oh.” The coach looks visibly relieved—even happy—to hear this news. “Because I was thinking, you know, it’s hard moving to a new city and starting a new job and all. Maybe he’d want to grab a beer sometime, or something. I don’t—”

His phone rings. Coach Andrews answers it. “Andrews,” he says. “Oh, great. Here, let me grab a pen.”

I sit there while Steven Andrews jots down Lindsay’s locker number and combination, trying to understand what I think I’ve just learned. Because unless I’m mistaken, Coach Andrews is gay.

And seems to want to date my boss.

“Great, thanks so much,” the coach says, and hangs up the phone.

“Here you go,” he says, sliding the piece of paper he’s written toward me. “Just go on down to the women’s locker room, and you’ll find it. Number six twenty-five.”

I take the paper, fold it, and slip it into my pocket in a sort of daze. “Thanks,” I say.

“No problem,” Coach Andrews says. “Where were we, again?”

“I… I… ” I feel my shoulders sag. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, right, Tom,” he says. “Tell him to call me sometime. You know. If he ever wants to hang out.”

“Hang out,” I echo. “With you.”

“Yeah.” Coach Andrews must see something in my face that alarms him, since he asks, looking suddenly anxious, “Wait, was that totally inappropriate? Maybe I should just call him myself.”

“Maybe,” I say faintly, “you should.”

“Right.” The coach nods. “You’re right. I should. I just felt like—well, you know. You seem cool, and maybe you’d… but never mind.”

This was, I decided, either the most elaborate attempt ever to draw suspicion away from a murder suspect, or Coach Steven Andrews was, in fact, gay.

Had Kimberly lied to me? It’s starting to look like it. Especially when Steven Andrews leans forward and whispers, “Not to sound like a girl or anything, but… I totally have all your albums.”

I blink at him one last time. Then I say, “Great. I’ll just be going now.”

“’Bye,” he says happily.

And I take my box and leave. Fast.

“Call Coach Andrews,” I say to Tom, when I get back to the office.

He looks up from his computer—or I should say,my computer. “What?”

“Call Steve Andrews,” I say, collapsing into Sarah’s chair and tossing my box—empty; someone had already cleaned out Lindsay’s locker, just like Tom had said—onto the floor. “I think he has a crush on you.”

Tom’s hazel eyes goggle. “You are fucking shitting me.”

“Call him,” I say, unwinding my scarf, “and see.”

“The coach is gay?” Tom looks as stunned as if I’d walked up and slapped him.

“Apparently. Why? Doesn’t he set your gaydar off?”

“Every hot guy sets my gaydar off,” Tom says. “But that doesn’t mean it’s actually accurate.”

“Well, he asked about you,” I say. “Either it’s all part of a diabolical scheme to keep us from suspecting him in Lindsay’s murder, or he really does have a little crush on you. Call him, so we can find out which it is.”

Tom’s hand is already reaching for the phone before he stops himself and says, giving me a confused look, “Wait. What does Coach Andrews have to do with Lindsay’s murder?”

“Either nothing,” I reply, “or everything. Call him.”

Tom shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. I’m not doing something this important in front of an audience. Not even an audience of you. I’m doing this from my apartment.” He scoots back his (well, really, my) chair, and stands up. “Right now.”

“Just let me know what he says,” I call, as Tom hurries out the door and toward the elevator. When he’s gone, I sit there and wonder just how far Andrews will be willing to take this thing, in the event he isn’t actually gay. Would he put out for Tom? All in an effort to throw off investigators? Could a straight guy even do that? Well, probably, if he’s bi. But Coach Andrews didn’t seem bi.

Of course, he hadn’t seemed gay to me, either, until today. He did an excellent job of hiding it. But then, maybe if you’re a gay basketball coach, you have to be good at hiding it. I mean, if you want to keep your job.

I’m wondering if President Allington has any idea that his golden boy is a gay boy, just as Gavin McGoren strolls into the office.

“Wassup?” he says, and throws himself onto the couch across from my—I mean, Tom’s—desk.

I stare at him.

“How should I know what’s up?” I say. “It’s a Snow Day. No one has class. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be off in a bar somewhere in SoHo, drinking yourself blind?”

“I would be,” Gavin says, “except that boss of yours says I have to see him for”—he digs a much-folded, very grimy disciplinary letter from his back pocket—“follow-up counseling pertaining to an incident involving alcohol.”

“Ha,” I say happily. “You loser.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t have a very professional attitude towards your job?” Gavin wants to know.

“Has anyone ever told you that trying to drink twenty-one shots in one night is extremely dangerous, not to mention stupid?”

He gives me ano-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.”