“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!”