by A. J. Lape
Murphy mumbled to the ceiling about going to church more. “Marjorie, that kid is twisted, and you’re both too young to have boyfriends.”
Murphy made sure of that at the beginning of the summer. There’s a guy named Liam Woods that I’d gotten close to at the end of sophomore year … it was inevitable. Eddie Lopez wanted both of us dead, and she nearly succeeded with Liam by employing her black belt karate skills. Trouble was, he graduated in May, and things fizzled out before they really got started. He visited a few times, but we wound up watching movies or watching Murphy watch us. I think it humored Liam, but he moved to Alabama three weeks ago to attend Auburn University on a swimming scholarship. Let’s just say he’d either drowned or found a new girlfriend.
“She said marry,” I clarified.
Murphy tried, but his patience expired before it reached full maturation. He stared at her, back at me, debated whether to be politically correct, then just blurted out, “He’s stupid.”
“He’s bad?” Marjorie frowned.
Murphy grunted, “A bad apple, kid.”
No kidding. Bobby loved to blow crap up. Unfortunately, I was the type that often needed his employ. I’d given him ten bucks for various jobs over the years. In my little corner of the world, I liked to think I’d taught him the value of self-employment.
Come to think of it, I wonder if Bobby’d paid Frick and Frack a visit.
Murphy smelled under both his arms, slid a glance in my direction, and then narrowed his eyes on Marjorie. “Please tell me you aren’t wearing your sister’s voodoo cream.”
“I am,” she beamed. “Claudia said I needed to start early because Darcy’s boobies aren’t responding.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Murphy whispered.
Claudia Gonzalez was my Puerto Rican Nanny. She practiced what Murphy considered the Dark Arts (ahem, voodoo), and at the top of her list was a potion that promised to provide an ample bosom. She claimed the answer was in the Crescent Moon, so during that phase I slathered on a paste concocted by her and her sister. That cream was bogus. I was barely a B-cup and now experiencing hot flashes and unnatural chest hair growth.
Marjorie smelled like she’d been dabbling in the goo.
“Claudia said the smell means it’s working,” she grinned.
“I figured that meant it was rotting,” Murphy muttered, “but who am I to judge what is clearly science?”
Murphy did sarcasm better than anyone.
The conversation predictably sailed over her head. “That’s right, Daddy, don’t judge. But if you must know, it’s comprised of witch hazel and island plant life.”
“Well, you’ve got the witch part right.” Murphy was petrified of the spirit world. He was even more petrified of anything that had to do with Claudia’s sister. Murphy read that part in the Bible over and over about the Antichrist ushering in the end of the world … he believed Claudia’s sister might be the vessel delivering it.
He pushed all three of us off the couch then ambled over to the countertop and picked up the Diamond matchbox.
“Make yourself useful, kid,” he said to me, opening the back door to scout for a burial plot. He pivoted to Marjorie. “Follow me. We’re going to have a little refresher course on appropriate six-year-old behavior.” She skipped behind him, not having a clue the two of us together probably warranted a visit from child protective services.
My MacBook Air sat on the countertop. I powered it up and keyed in the webpage for The Orlando Sentinel. Each time I left for vacation, I read the community blogs to find out the gossip in town. I scrolled through the main headlines: man arrested for striking son with pizza; alligator caught strolling upscale neighborhood; and five-year-old boy still missing. I read the opening paragraph about the pizza then found my way back to the story on the missing child. That story piqued my curiosity, and even though school records indicated I had a 160 IQ (shocking, I know), it took a lot to hold my interest.
One of the ADHD (Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder), oftentimes my mind had one idea, and my body had another. People like me wound up trying harder than everyone else, or giving up and embracing the inevitable: a life of never really hitting the mark. I definitely knew what it felt like to be an outsider, realizing you were different, knowing short of a miracle, not a whole lot ever changed. Did it shape who I was? Absolutely. That’s one reason why I interfered when I shouldn’t; why I helped when no one needed it; why I broke the rules even when forbidden. I sought change and was a sucker for happy endings.
Sometimes it brought hope; other times it oozed stupidity.
You choose.
One thing I had going for me was I happened to be a verb. Opening up the refrigerator, I got my verb on and pulled out the condiments, chomped into a pickle spear, scanning the opening paragraph of The Orlando Sentinel.
ORLANDO, FL. Orange County officials are reporting there has been a shift in the case of the disappearance of Cisco Medina. Originally focusing on the thousands of leads that flooded their switchboard, authorities are now of the opinion that Fernando and Guadalupe Medina have not been totally forthcoming in the ongoing investigation of the disappearance of their five-year-old grandson.
Cisco Medina disappeared on his way home from a public park in early February, which launched a nationwide manhunt. No body or ransom ever entered the picture, and an exhaustive search produced no workable leads.
The Medinas, who reported their grandson missing, have thrown another confusion into the investigation by leaving town a month ago and not informing authorities. They had been awarded legal guardianship of their grandson when his mother, Lola Medina, lost him in a high stakes poker game with an undercover policeman when he was two.
In a news release on the sixth month anniversary of his disappearance, authorities reported that his mother, along with his father, are not considered suspects in the case and both have “air tight alibis on the night of his disappearance.”
According to the news release, “At the time of his disappearance, the mother was found on video at Walmart off John Young Parkway, and the father, Hank Henry, was seen on television showing his dog in a local dog show.”
A trust that finances private investigators was set up in Cisco’s name by Elmer Herschel, the landlord of the apartment complex where the Medinas lived. When interviewed by the Sentinel, Herschel stated, “I’m shocked the grandparents skipped town. They were a nice couple, but I guess everyone has secrets.”
According to the authorities, even if the child surfaces with his grandparents, guardians are required to check in with Child Services and the Medinas are in violation of that agreement. Any information you may have, please contact the Orange County’s Police Department or the Orlando Sentinel at 407-555-1234 or by email at [email protected].
I grabbed another pickle and washed it down with a Coke while I wondered where Cisco was. An incorrigible snoop, I could sniff out the biggest stories that professionals couldn’t catch a whiff of even if right under their noses. That’s the main reason Eddie Lopez nearly murdered me. When I found a dead body in a dumpster near school, I discovered a local gang was involved and bravely—or moronically—called them on it. Problem was, Eddie wound up being the actual murderer, and I didn’t even know she belonged to the group … she basically sucker punched me. She didn’t just sucker punch me, though; she nearly killed our assistant principal whose recovery had been brutal.
But should I get involved with Cisco Medina? For God’s sake, it sounded like a job for the Army, Navy, Air Force, or Marines. Still, for some insanely, idiotic reason I couldn’t let it go, although I knew nothing apart from a few paragraphs in an online newspaper and had only two weeks to work with.
A smart person would leave the job to the professionals; a dumb person wouldn’t know enough to care; an idiot would contact the newspaper and … lie.
This wasn’t exactly what I’d call a good life-choice, but the longer Cisco was unaccounted for, the colder the trail got. The colder
the trail got, the more he’d be relegated to a cold case file. Cold case files were essentially when the authorities folded, or Destiny said it’s not the time to right your particular wrong.
Been there. Done that. Sucked.
I fired up my email account and typed a few sentences, changed my mind, and decided for a more direct approach. Thumbing the digits for The Orlando Sentinel into the house phone, after four rings, an overworked voice answered. “Troy here,” he muttered. “Make it front page or go away.”
I stood up straight, finding my big-girl voice. “Hello, I have a lead in the Cisco Medina case.”
A sweat mustache instantly formed over my lip. “Is that right?” he chuckled. “Well, sweetie, no one’s had a lead on Cisco Medina for months.”
“Well, I do,” I lied. “And don’t call me sweetie.”
Rustling paper, amidst sidesplitting laughter. “You don’t like sweetie, huh? How about babe?”
“Listen, dude, are you sexist?”
“Who me?” he mocked, his voice innocent. “Nooooo, I love women.”
“Sure feels like you’re sexist to me. Just because I have ovaries, it doesn’t mean I can’t hang with the boys.” My God, I needed to shut up.
“Okay, Miss Ovaries. If you can find Cisco Medina, then you’re the Messiah I’ve been waiting for. My boss just called me ‘a frigging dipwad.’ Don’t make me die a frigging dipwad, babe.”
“Well, I’m better than a frigging dip wad,” I said confidently.
Whatever that was.
My cell phone blasted, I got spooked, and butter-fingered the phone off into never-never land. When I lunged for the receiver, my hand guiltily knocked over the pickle jar. Pawing at the air, I quickly grabbed my laptop and set it off to the side. Unfortunately, I toppled the jar again, and juice splashed me in the face like Orcas attacking a herd of seals. Watching the liquid ripple across the countertop, I snatched the phone from the floor, said “Hello” three more times, realizing we’d disconnected. Whoever had dialed my cell, though, was the persistent type. It had gone to voicemail twice and now belted out a tune by Milli Vanilli, my song choice of the month.
Feeling my way to the sound, I grasped the phone and glanced down at the number. It was no surprise the good-boy in my life was rearing his not-so-ugly head. Dylan had this metaphysical ability to show up at the precise moment I was making a mess out of my day or someone else’s.
Dabbing my face with a hand towel, I clicked the speaker with my thumb. “Hullo?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured. “How’s my girl?”
Let’s think about this … covered in pickle guts. “In a pickle,” I mumbled.
2. THE BIG MAN
AMONG POLYNESIAN TRIBES, THERE’S A Big Man.
“Big Man Theory’s” one of those unspoken things. He wasn’t by birth destined to rule, but there’s a certain something in his swagger that makes him the natural leader. So much so, his mere presence trumps the royal bloodline. As a result, most Big Men are probably forced to watch their backs. My best friend, Dylan Taylor (my Big Man), however, was always busy watching mine.
Everyone wants a personal bodyguard, and I suppose that’s what Dylan is to me. In fact, he fought off an armed Eddie Lopez until the unspeakable happened, and the police grounded her like a rabid animal. That in a nutshell was Dylan; he didn’t care if odds were stacked against him—he understood what needed to be done and did it. It wasn’t just the situation with Eddie that made him my hero, though. Certain circumstances in my childhood forced me to think of other things—adult things—and before I knew it, my mind was obsessed with so many minutia that I forgot what relaxed looked and felt like. Dylan was my grounding force. He had a quality about his heart that was pure. The weaker you were, the stronger he became to build you back up.
Most never got to experience a love that deep, but we’d been holding hands since we were six years old. Whether through mud pies, backyard baseball, or preschool overnights, we’d always been the other’s preferred companion. When someone has that effect on you, it’s hard to reconcile those emotions. In some respects, he was a best friend: keeping secrets, talking me through catastrophes, and fighting my battles. In others, he’d been a brother: a ponytail yank, squabbles over meaningless matters, and a kick in the seat of the pants. Still, at times, he parented me: a nurturer, loving disciplinarian, and always accessible.
Every year, I branded him with a new pseudonym, primarily because of the evolving status of those feelings. This year was the Big Man—not only for reasons of pecking order—for reasons of stature.
We’d always done everything together, even growing inches in sync, but by the end of sophomore year, he’d gone off and left me height-wise. Thankfully, my endocrine system heard my nightly prayer, and I was coasting at 5’9”. Dylan, however, rocketed into legendary status. When he jumped, it was five inches higher; when he ran, he clocked two seconds faster; and when he smiled, it grew half an inch wider.
Big Man league in my book.
Mouthwatering, testosterone-in-motion in everyone else’s book.
“Wake up, sleepy head. Let’s go see Mickey.” That deep baritone voice, no doubt, belonged to Dylan. I peeled back an eye, scanned the perimeter, and peeked at the figure squatted within a breath of my face. Yup, it was him: deep voice and sexy as all get out, but on a boy that the Best Friend Rule said was “hands off.”
An imposing 220 pounds, his muscles were strong, defined, and built like they’d been chiseled from the finest granite. Then there was the hair. All of that package topped itself off with a short, jet-black mane he wore in one of two ways: classic and stylish around his strong brow and cheekbones or modern-messy like he’d just rolled out of bed. Today was messy, and messy looked … oh, my word. I pictured him rolling around in the sheets and almost said, Mmmm.
“You’re confusing me,” I exhaled.
Dylan giggled, not having a clue of the filth lurking in my mind. He blinked slowly, snapping me awake with butterscotch eyes that looked taboo.
“Go away,” I groaned, “you’ve got morning breath.”
His smile quirked up at one corner. “Crawl on over here and let me taste your mouth, sweetheart. I promise it will be a good experience.”
I think I might’ve died for a second…
Groaning harder, I rolled onto my stomach. I hated him … I hated him and his flirty mouth. Whenever he talked like that, I remembered when the school’s supposed dream girl, Brynn Hathaway, suction-cupped his lips right in front of me.
Let’s just say he wasn’t repulsed.
“Come on, Darc,” he teased. “Don’t make me get rough with you. Murphy said I could if the situation called for it.”
Only Murphy would allow Dylan into his sleeping daughter’s room. He thought Dylan was perfect. Other boys would have a better chance of remaining suntan free in the land of hot lava than waking me in the dark. Dylan, however, was given the key to the city.
Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, I thought. If Murphy ever heard, you’d be gumming your meals, tongueless.
“It’s too early,” I whined.
He tenderly ran the back of his knuckles down my cheek. “I know 5:30’s early, Darc, but Dad has decreed that we’re in the air by 8AM sharp.” Dylan’s family, who I referred to as the Greek god immortals, was chomping at the bit for this particular vacation. Normally, we traveled to Florida the first two weeks after school released, but apparently, the world of cosmetics had a crisis with their new lip gloss. One thing led to another, and here we were two weeks before school began on our annual trip to their second home in Florida. It was in Serendipity—the country club of the stars.
“I’m tired, D. Give Mickey my regards and send me a postcard,” I mumbled, and then rolled to my side.
Dylan yanked back the covers, seducing me with what smelled like a cup of java. “Get up. I brought you some black coffee. Evidently, I should’ve brought a pot.” No kidding, problem was, as a hyperactive person coffee sometimes relaxed me. The
re was a good chance I’d get up; an even greater chance I’d fall into a coma.
“Cookie?” I grinned, rising up on my elbows.
“No, a doughnut.” Coffee was one of my 3Cs along with a Coke and a cookie. They kept my body running in its less than optimal state. A doughnut wasn’t a cookie, but it would serve as a close substitute.
“Maybe I should kiss you after all,” I laughed.
Dylan’s deep chuckle traveled all the way to my bones. “We don’t have enough time for the kind of kissing I’m interested in, sweetheart. That’s going to take a long weekend, handcuffs, and the fire department on-call.”
Holy Mother, hose me down. There was no good reason why I reacted this way, but I chalked it up to dumb and blonde … and maybe a little bit of PMS.
“I love you,” he grinned.
“Always,” I answered. Dylan and I always said we loved one another. Whoever uttered those three words first, the other ended the sentiment with “always.”
I fumbled around on the nightstand for my glasses, sliding them on my nose. My glasses were librarian-friendly in a rectangular Burberry black. They made me look studious … surely that was a capital crime. Once I squinted into focus, Dylan pulled me out of the bed as I looped my arms up around his neck. My knee socks hung at my ankles, and Murphy’s plaid button-down shirt I’d slept in was rumpled above my boxer shorts. Not head-turning bedroom lingerie by any means, but then again, it was me. Androgynous was kinda my thing.
Dylan ran his hands up and down my back, giving me one heckuva massage.
“You’ve got great hands,” I moaned.
He giggled like a 12-year-old boy. “Any chance I get to squeeze my hands around you, I’m going to take.”