1 Per Cent Murders

by T W Morse

  “‘Wait a minute, you’re the person I bumped into!’ I was so livid, but as soon as I saw her and heard her voice, my frustrations vaporized. She pushed back her tight curls showing off her soft, white adorable face, sprinkled with freckles on the bridge of her nose. I was in love at first sight. She took my hand and placed her other hand on my chin, making me look into her intense brown eyes. Time stood still. The summer breeze paused. Even the crickets stopped chirping. Fireworks went off and Gary Wright's ‘Dream Weaver’ let loose in my mind. She, once again, in a very serious tone said, ‘I’m so miffed at your boss for sacking you like that. He’s such a wanker!’ Speaking what seemed like an accent straight from Downton Abbey or more like Monty Python. All I could say was ‘Ah — it’s all good.’

  “She introduced herself as Jillian Stephens. I introduced myself and then she said in the most serious delicate voice, ‘Do you like — carnivals?’

  “That's how she asked me to the local Fourth of July carnival in Clark. She was studying abroad at University of Southern Maine. She was eating at the resort with friends. She was bending down in front of the kitchen exit door, trying to take a picture with her newly bought flip phone. Then I burst out of the kitchen with the tray, sending her, and my dishes, flying.

  “She saw the exchange with my boss and felt mortified that she got me fired. Her friends were, of course, her best friends, your Aunt Sally and Uncle John. They were going to the carnival the next day, and she didn’t want to be the third wheel again. The rest was — history.”

  “Mom was so cool! I miss her.”

  “I do, too. How about we play a Beatles song tonight? They were her favorite.”

  I nod in agreement, “Yeah, sounds good. How about ‘The Long and Winding Road’? It was their last hit and will be our first!”

  “Sounds like plan, Stan.”

  “Dad, seriously, you can’t say stuff like that, especially when I’m talking with Hannah.”

  “I know. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your game. Remember I’m your wingman!”

  “Dad! Dad — no! Subject change? Over the weekend, what do we have for homework?”

  “Just have to study for the quiz on Monday.”

  Having Dad for U.S. history is great. He is hard, but it is always good to have the inside info and constant reminders. We approach Mangrove High School, which stands a few blocks from downtown Somerset and about three miles from the beach. It’s rough, having the smell of the salt water fill the air during school, knowing the Gulf of Mexico is a stone's throw away.

  Dad pulls into the faculty parking lot. Several football fields could fit into Mangrove High’s asphalt jungle of a parking lot and have plenty of room to spare. All spaces are labeled with numbers so the students don’t snag any of the faculty spots, or vice versa. Dads parking space is 221. He is so proud of his space, being an avid Sherlock Holmes fan. 221B Baker Street is the London address of the famed literary character. Dad used to read me Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s original Sherlock Holmes stories, otherwise known as the cannon. We both love mysteries, even Mom did. Mom preferred Agatha Christie, though, and often read some of her classics to me before bed. I got the best of both literary mystery worlds. As a family, we loved all things mystery. We played Clue; we completed escape rooms, often getting out of them in record time, I might add. I think that’s what kept Dad and I so tight, our love of the unknown.

  We approach Mangrove High in our little Prius. Mangrove is a huge three-story, bright flamingo pink brick building; brand new sports stadiums abut the pink monster. It is no more than thirty years old. Really new compared to my hundred-year-old school back in Clark, Maine, but everything in Florida is new.

  It is far better than my middle school, which resembled army barracks, and felt like them, too. That was the dreaded Somerset Middle School.

  Somerset Middle School’s hallways are open aired, wrapped around ten separate concrete one-story buildings, surrounded by a high perimeter fence. If it isn’t an army barrack, then the next closest comparison is a prison. I’m not sure if the fence is to keep the public out or to keep the students in. I love Mangrove High, though. Especially because for the first time going to school I am treated with respect and not like a little kid. I could go on all day about how bad Somerset Middle was. Maybe I am a little jaded because it was my first years in Florida, adjusting to Mom's death.

  Mangrove allowed me to have a fresh start—no uniforms, unlike the prison over at Somerset Middle. The freedom and focus of high school is so much more refreshing than middle school. When I think of Somerset Middle, Pink Floyd's The Wall rings in my ears. I don’t want to be another brick in the wall. Conformity sucks!

  Mangrove High’s entrance is plastered by a twenty-foot manatee: our mascot, Manny the Manatee. He smiles down at everyone that enters, like a billboard car salesman. Dad bursts through the double doors eager to start our day and move on to the weekend.

  Mangrove High’s hallways are covered with turquoise lockers, still shining in the bright Florida morning sun, which stretches from the skylights above, giving a peaceful serenity and the calm before the storm of students who will invade in a short time.

  Another oversized Manny the Manatee sign hangs in front of the double doors that swing into the main office, near the front entrance, reminding us with a word bubble coming from his mouth, “Don’t do drugs!” Sure thing, Manny. Our manatee version of McGruff the Crime Dog, keeping kids clean one lame mascot at a time. I have never known any drug user to actually stop using drugs because the Manny sign compelled them do so. If anything, he may have driven kids to start using drugs.

  Drugs are sometimes a problem at Mangrove, especially since about 70% of the student body come from homes with the top 1% of incomes. Hot parties where drugs are rampant are happening every weekend, especially since most of their parents jet set on the weekends, taking trips to their second homes in Aspen or Vail, or weekend trips to Miami. While the parents are away, the children will play and play hard. I hate that scene and avoid it at all costs. I stay away from most of the 1% influencers at Mangrove.

  According to a newspaper article I read recently, Florida families that make over $377,000 of income a year qualify as the 1%. Meaning 99% of Floridians don’t make anywhere close to $378,000, especially if your dad’s a widowed teacher. Somerset, and of course Mangrove, is home to a majority of them, and a lot of those made far, far more than the $377,000.

  Somerset exudes wealth. Some of the houses down at the beach are for sale for ten million to twenty million dollars. For the most part, at Mangrove High, students leave their entitled attitude at the door. So the average kids, including me, are able to stand shoulder to shoulder with them. American public schools - yeah!

  The long corridor lay in front of us with the enormous staircase leading to the expansive second floor, littered with signs of every upcoming event and club. Signs read, “Go Manatee Basketball! Send Everglades High back to the swamp!” Wow, harsh. There’s a big game tomorrow night against Everglades High School, our rivals.

  Conrad, my best friend, is one of their rising stars. Some of the old cross-country signs are still hung, now partially covered by chess club and drama club signs. Cross-country is my sport. We had our last meet a week ago. I came in second at districts. Dad was so proud. He freaked out at the finish line, jumping up and down with pure elation. Running and music help me and Dad cope. When I run, my mind becomes clear and I can concentrate on the present; it brings clarity to a very busy teenage brain.

  I separate from Dad, who heads for his classroom, and I start toward the before-school study hall in the cafeteria, so I can find Conrad.

  “Ulysses, meet me at my classroom at quarter to three. I have to go home first before we go to open mic night,” Dad yells down the hall.

  I yell back, “Can I meet you at Penny U? I was going to walk over with Hannah and Conrad after Conrad's basketball practice.”

  Dad smiles and says, “No problemo,” and winks at me before fading i
nto his classroom near the front office.

  CHAPTER 3

  - ULYSSES -

  FLUORESCENT BULBS MAKE A LIT STUDY HALL

  M angrove High’s cafeteria is expansive. Waxed floors gleam from the extra fluorescent lighting, leaving no shadows. They remind me of the office from the opening scenes of Joe Versus the Volcano, Mom’s favorite movie. We watched it over and over again when I was a kid. Maybe our school is preparing our retinas for future dead-end office jobs like Tom Hanks’ character in the movie. The morning study hall has several students clinging to a few of the dozens of cafeteria tables that line the expansive room. All the students are either in deep thought or joyously conversing before the arduous day ahead.

  It doesn’t take long to spot Conrad. His blonde hair shines in the fluorescent light of the cafeteria, giving an albino appearance of pure white hair. He sits studying his geometry; his gaunt face looks more frustrated than ever. That is the face he makes whenever he’s completing Mr. O’Leary’s geometry work. Conrad always has to do the morning study hall because of basketball. He hates it, but it was the only way his dad let him play.

  I’ve known Conrad Wright for five years now. He was my first Florida friend. His parents are divorced, like many Somerset families, and he could relate to my broken home. His dad is a lawyer, and a rich one, according to Conrad. I guess if he’s that rich, he must be pretty good at what he does. Conrad is in geometry with me and Hannah, but this year we don’t share any other classes. He has Dad in U.S. history, but a different period than me.

  He lives in a large, white, Art Deco home on the beach. The place is a mausoleum. Nothing could ever be touched in his house, and it gives Conrad a nervous demeanor that never goes away. I would hate to be nervous in my own home. Conrad’s mom is a famous model, never living in one place for very long. She pays Conrad’s father a huge alimony check every month so the beach house can remain a museum.

  I plop down opposite Conrad. As I do, the sound of his teeth grinding causes me to cringe, undoubtedly a result of O’Leary’s lovely homework. “Today is the day!” I excitedly exclaim.

  Conrad looks up at me with a queasy expression that quickly morphs into a wide smile as he asks, “Hey, U! What’s so special about today?”

  “I’m asking Hannah out, today! I've waited long enough! I’m walking to Penny U with her after your practice, and the deed will be done there. You comin’ with?”

  Conrad parts his white hair hanging over one side of his face. “Sorry man, I’m actually getting tutored by O’Leary after practice. Practice is going to be short, just a shoot around because of tomorrow night’s game. O’Leary said he is staying late and he’d be ‘happy’ to tutor me.” He made the air quotes around “happy” and looks like he could pass out from the horror. Other than O’Leary, Conrad’s dad and his house are the only things that get him this nervous.

  “What the hell, man, you volunteered for this? Are you crazy! I would rather have all my toenails pulled off than go in and get extra help from O’Leary!”

  “I know. I’m already feeling anxious, well, more anxious than usual anyway. My grade is starting to slip, and my dad says if it goes below an A I’m off the team!”

  Conrad’s dad only dreams of one thing, his son becoming a lawyer like him. He doesn’t like me that much, but I’ve never known him to really like anyone; he’s a bit of a jerk.

  “I gotcha, man. Meet you at Penny U later?”

  Conrad loves basketball. Not sure what he would do if he couldn’t play anymore. Conrad’s dad belongs to the Somerset Beach Club, and they have a great indoor basketball court. We spend many hours shooting around. I don’t care for the game — the solo sports are for me — but it’s fun when I’m with Conrad. His frame screams basketball player: tall, lanky, fast, with a mean jump shot. He is the only freshman that got any playing time.

  Conrad staying behind sounds pretty perfect after all, this way I can talk to Hannah alone. Conrad breaks me from my thoughts and back to our conversation by saying, “Sure, as long as Dad says it okay. Hey, look who it is!”

  CHAPTER 4

  - ULYSSES -

  JUST A GUY AND A GIRL

  I spin around and see Hannah Reyes coming into the cafeteria. Hannah moved here shortly after Dad and I arrived. Her family moved to Somerset because Mrs. Reyes, Hannah’s mother, inherited from her uncle two warehouses near downtown, which they transformed into Penny University Cafe. I was the one assigned to show Hannah around when she arrived to Somerset Middle School. Ever since, we’ve been tight friends.

  When I gave Hannah the tour of the school, I joked with her, comparing Somerset Middle to a prison, “So this is the prison barracks, that's the office where the warden beats you, over there is the cafeteria where they serve you slop. Beware, there’s always of possibility of getting a shiv in the back.”

  She found my corny humor funny. Hey, it worked for Dad with Mom; it may work for this guy and girl.

  The fluorescent bulbs of the cafeteria pulsate off of her, exposing every unique feature. She has deep brown hair tied back into a tight ponytail at her shoulders, showing off her wide forehead that shimmers in the intense light. Her mocha Cuban skin glows with pink round cheeks that lie below her thick black glasses. Her wide eyes dance beneath the lenses that are separated by her sharp nose, which arches under the bridge of her glasses. Speaking and laughing with her girlfriends Sarah and Isabella illustrates her presence and poise, unmatched anywhere in school.

  She is known to be sweet one minute, but if angered, she is capable of giving out a severe tongue lashing. This is especially evident when she overhears students talking trash about her or one of her friends. In those moments, she lets her feisty Cuban heritage loose. Today she looks hot in her knee-cut white shorts and lavender polo shirt that hugs her tiny, slim figure. She chose to go sockless under a pair of dark brown leather Sperrys that had seen better days. They accentuate her smooth dark legs, which hypnotically drew me to her. She broke away from Sarah and Isabella, sliding in the seat next to Conrad and across from me.

  “Hey, Ulysses, Conrad! Are you guys excited for tonight? We’ve got a couple of poetry readings going on before you and your dad. I think you’re scheduled for 6:30. Conrad, you stopping by? I personally can’t wait! Tonight’s my first night waitressing. My parents can now pay me! I can earn some extra money for the class trip to London next winter.”

  Hannah keeps talking while Conrad and I just stare in disbelief, nodding in foolish silence. Hannah sometimes goes on and on, without waiting for responses to her questions or even taking a breath.

  “Conrad, what’s with with Mr. O’Leary’s math assignment? I mean come on! Why assign so much work? Do you think he’ll have a pop quiz today? Probably not, but just to make sure, I studied a lot! Did you guys?”

  She finally takes a breath and Conrad is about to reply when she jumps up and yells to Sarah and Isabella, “Wait up! Talk to you guys later, got to go. See you in history, U! Are we still walking together to Penny U after Conrad’s practice?”

  Words stumble out of my mouth,“Ahh yeah, yeah, yeah, sounds per-per-perfect.”

  She cocks her head and smiles innocently as she skips over to her girlfriends, giggling and throwing their heads back as they scamper out of the cafeteria.

  Conrad is the first to respond after the whirlwind of Hannah’s energy leaves our table. “Smooth, U! Obviously, she has access to limitless coffee at her parents’ cafe, but she may want to switch to decaf.”

  I am thinking the same thing and wonder how many shots of espresso she had this morning. Hannah’s tiny energetic demeanor is hyper enough, even without coffee.

  Conrad continues, “U, Hannah may only think of you as a guy friend, rather than a boyfriend! Don’t get your hopes up, dude; there’s other fish in the sea!”

  I am confident Conrad is wrong. “Nope, that’s not how it will go down today. Ever since I’ve laid eyes on Hannah, I’ve dreamed of her. Last night ninjas were chasing us in my dream.”r />
  “Ninjas? Why ninjas? What did you have to eat before bed?” he says in an irritated, tired tone, sounding like a surfer from California.

  “Nothing. I don’t know!” I snap.

  “It could’ve been a sign not to ask her out,” he counters with the same annoying tone.

  I don’t want to hear this trash coming from my best friend. “Piss off, Conrad! I’m not telling you my dreams anymore.”

  “I had a dream last night that I scored a hundred points against Everglade High, and after the game everyone hoisted me on their shoulders chanting my name, ‘Conrad!! Conrad!!’” Conrad proceeds to make cheering sounds with his hands cupped against his mouth.

  “Wow, why don’t you make it more about you?” Conrad can sometimes piss me off, but I am running on adrenaline. Nothing is going to keep me from asking out Hannah after school. What if she says no? Now Conrad is in my head. He is back to working on his math as I get out a water bottle from my backpack. It drips with moisture from the humid air as I nervously gulp most of it down and glance at the clock to notice the first bell is close to ringing. Second thoughts fill my mind as I perseverate on things to come.

  CHAPTER 5

  - LOGAN -

  WOW, A RED VELVET TRACKSUIT?

  M y classroom is a small, windowless, manageable space. Thirty desks curve in a makeshift lecture hall layout. Jefferson and Washington posters stare at me while I unpack my laptop. The worn-out carpet doesn’t make a sound as I trample on. The eerie quietness of my classroom often rattles me. It is uncomfortable. Classrooms are usually loud, like a mall or a sports stadium, so when there is no noise it often is unnerving, especially during tests and prior to the bell. My desk is decent, but it’s too large for the room. The synthetic material gives it the appearance of real wood, but it’s not fooling anyone. It is covered in piles of ungraded and graded packets, almost consuming the surface and nearly knocking over my wooden engraved sign, which displays “Mr. Adair” in ornate cursive lettering. The sign was gift from a fellow teacher a decade ago and is now held together with Gorilla Glue. I think you can guess why. My desk is littered with different color pens, highlighters, and a couple of picture frames. One frame is of Jill and I holding Ulysses on the day he was born; the other is a picture of me, Jill, and Ulysses at Disney World in front of Cinderella’s Castle six years ago, the year we decided to make the move to Florida.