by A. J. Lape
“Why did you call, Jinx?” I tried to say calmly. “I followed you out into the hall fifth period and heard you say, and I quote, ‘Is um, is um—are you sure? Really? That shouldn’t have happened.’ I know in my gut you were chasing that body down. Now whether you put him in the dumpster is another story. And by the way, what message were you trying to give me in the cafeteria? Pardon me for saying it, but you’re not exactly Mr. Congeniality, Jinx. We met eyes, so I know there was a reason.”
I expected a hang up, nothing at all, or “Sorry, wrong number,” and I sure as heck didn’t expect, “You need to watch yourself, Darcy. You’re already in too deep, and you don’t strike me as the type that’s a good swimmer. In fact, it’s going to be difficult to swim when your flesh is rotting off in chunks, oozing fluid, and being eaten by scavengers. I enjoy dead bodies, Darcy. How about you?”
I cringed, goose bumps traveling from my head to my feet. Instantly, I wished I would’ve kept my mouth shut. This caller was speaking through one of those voice distortion units, the resulting sound somewhere between Darth Vader and Freddy Krueger movie scary. Even digitized, you couldn’t miss the murderous intent and anticipatory inflection in every word.
This was a warning, or maybe a promise.
I wasn’t sure.
I willed threats to roll off my tongue—anything to make me look like a bad-tuded chick with anger management issues—but all I could manage systemically was the urge to wet my pants. What exactly had I done to warrant a threatening phone call? Yes, I’d spoken to the authorities, but even then, they sort of found me. Was someone worried I mentioned their name? If so, then who? The officer I spoke with requested I tell him exactly what I saw, so I told him about Jinx. But I couldn’t say that I saw Jinx touching the body or doing anything with the body. If this was Jinx, however, he committed an egregious error. Sure it made me nervous, but one threatening phone call wasn’t going to make me heel; in fact, it told me I was onto something even if I didn’t know what that something was.
As I sat in quiet defiance, next thing I knew they disconnected with me wondering if I should dig a hole to China or go at Jinx full-force and declare, game-ON.
I barely slept the rest of the night. When my feet hit the floor, I was bone tired—my puffy eyes telling me this was the perfect day for my I-don’t-care look. It consisted of a wet ponytail, little or no cosmetics, and my glasses. I was grossly nearsighted, and a lifetime of carrots, milk, cheese, and vitamin A didn’t make a darn difference.
I was Darcy Walker, folks, was I expecting a miracle?
Trying to jar my senses, I took an ice cube flavored shower but first cranked up the music. Picking out music, in my opinion, was the most crucial decision of the day. It set the tone. You could laugh at someone’s witty repartee over their breakup, scoff at an alternative mix to a classic song, or jam to a tune that only had four words but the beat left you dancing.
Today, I chose classic hard rock—Iron Maiden, Run to the Hills—evidently, I needed to get in the butt-kicking mood or drop a few seconds on my forty.
Once I was completely numb, I popped out of the shower and dressed in my standard uniform: jeans and a t-shirt. Hard to screw up jeans and a shirt, but in reality, all it said was I didn’t have a sense of style.
Sliding my feet into a pair of black flip-flops, I limped downstairs zombified, favoring a wart I’d picked up in Gym class a week ago. Flipping on the kitchen lights, the chill from the floor traveled up my boot cut jeans, giving me the shivers. I needed to find my Zen; that calm, cool, and collected place where nothing else mattered.
For me, it was a coffee, Coke, and a cookie.
Anyone that’s hyper can tell you coffee and other stimulants can have the opposite effect and calm instead of stimulate...I’m here to tell you that’s true...we were the lucky ones (NOT). There were many times I needed to wake up, and coffee was like taking a sleeping pill. What I needed on those days was a sledgehammer.
I poured a cup of dark, ebony coffee, the reed of smoke rising up and tickling my nose. As I blew a soft breath into the mug, I waited for the calm to take over but got nothing. I grabbed two cookies out of the Keebler bag and stuffed one in my mouth. After the chocolate chip route, I scarfed two powdered doughnuts then raided the refrigerator and downed an open can of flat Coke.
Still nothing, and now I was bloated and my jeans were at capacity.
Popping the button on my waistband, I forced a burp, glancing at the brass clock on the wall. 6:50AM. Bus stop time. I sighed then shuddered. Bus 150 was a dump. It was littered with gum wrappers, hairballs, and what smelled like urine and stale hamster food. But as Murphy grumbled the first day of school, The taxpayers paid for it, so be thankful.
Whatever, I wasn’t thankful.
I cleaned off the table, stacked my cup in the dishwasher, and did a few math problems while I stood at the counter. When my brain was spent, I grabbed my fitted white cotton hoodie, pulling my arms through, zipping it to my chin. My body was one notch above reptilian and hovered at “barely alive.” The temperature of the high school didn’t help matters, either. Some days it felt like an inferno, others, it was an icebox. Back in the winter someone stole the copper piping out of the air conditioning unit, and the dose of Freon versus new piping had never been regulated. Even though we were in between seasons, a Siberian air cut through you at all times.
Yelling “Goodbye” upstairs, I fished some Go Glam! nude lip-gloss out of my purse and rolled on a healthy coat of Smack Attack. The irony gave me pause. I ran through lip-gloss like a car ran through motor oil. It was a crying shame my lips had never experienced any activity whatsoever with the opposite sex.
With one hand on the doorknob, I nearly jumped out of my skin when the doorbell rang. Peeking through the peephole, I felt the beginnings of a cluster headache. My word, it was too early in the morning for Jon Bradshaw. By the beady-eyed look he returned, he felt the same way.
I creaked open the wooden door. Before I could say hi, hello, or even kiss-my-you-know-what, he forced his way onto the hardwood and blurted, “Taylor said I had to pick you up this week. I don’t like it, and you don’t like it, but it’s the way it’s got to be.”
He pantomimed a gunshot to the head. Good ole Dylan, I laughed to myself. Micromanaging all the way from Maui.
Jon was one of the few sophomores that had their license. Let’s just say he took the whistle-stop tour through kindergarten and leave it at that. He was my height, stocky, had average brown hair, eyes, and looks. Maybe he was good-looking—heck, maybe he was a ten on the hunk scale—but if truth be known, I wanted to punch him, and he really wanted to punch me.
I gave him a smirk that pretty much admitted he was Dylan’s bootlicker. “Shut up, Walker,” he groaned. “Have you ever dealt with him when he’s angry?”
Every day, I thought to myself. Every freaking day.
…but we loved him.
High school’s hard, it just is. The halls were full of people that are your friend one minute; the next they’re not. If you find someone that’s authentic and you’re smart, you hang onto them...Dylan was the benchmark. He had a reputation for a razor-sharp mind with a quick-witted tongue; incredibly protective of those he loved. If someone said something derogatory about you, he had your back and then some. As a male, he could strengthen the backbone you have. As a female, just a little of his dominance made him dangerously addictive.
Due to his stoic nature, I nicknamed Jon, “Grumpy,” the unhappiest of Snow White’s dwarf friends. The youngest of the seven Bradshaw boys, unquestionably, he was the most stable. He came from a long line of high school dropouts and other recreational activities best kept to one’s self. Thing was, Jon developed this characteristic over the years of being able to negotiate and talk people out of anything. Due to that characteristic alone, he was someone you needed on your friendship roster.
Especially if you tended to be low on scruples.
Falling into more scrapes than most, I saw the nee
d to expand the Walker bloodline with brothers that would have my back. Knowing you needed to define what qualified the initiates, in my little corner of the world it was simple...you had to have swagger. A certain bravado with undying loyalty. What it boiled down to was my brothers and I kept secrets for one another with a commitment of ’til death do we part.
We even had an initiation ceremony and secret handshake.
When we wrecked on his dirt bike freshman year—and were covered in scrapes and bruises—Jon was the first I brotherized into my hypothetical blood brotherhood. Presently, there were two others dumb enough to join. So, in my own warped mind, I was Darcy Walker, AKA, a mobster godfather. You’d think number one in line to my throne would be Dylan, but he scoffed at my own attempt to mobsterize my life. Turned me down flat. I didn’t care. One way or another, I was going to mix blood with him before I officially pushed up daisies.
The weather report forecasted sunny skies with a high of 79 degrees, but in Cincinnati, you never really could tell. The only constant thing weather-wise was change. Anticipating a heat wave, Jon had thrown himself into a pair of black athletic shorts, an inside-out navy t-shirt, and dirty, white sneakers. Left to his own devices, he had the fashion sense of a horse. I opened my mouth to comment but reminded myself he came in a real car with real wheels—not atrocious Bus 150, being infected with God-only-knew-what.
A mahogany mirror was mounted to the wall by the door. Jon stole a look at himself, frowning. Pushing his wavy hair out of his eyes, he quickly pulled his shirt over his head, turning it the appropriate way. We no sooner turned for the door than my little sister came tap dancing down the stairs, two at a time...naked as a jaybird.
You could’ve heard a pin drop.
After a second of shock, I doubled over laughing.
Marjorie’s naked phase. It was common knowledge the six-year-old had a proclivity for lounging in the clothes that God gave her. Thing was, she was naked because she wanted something. Who would’ve thought nudity would be such a good bargaining tool?
With almond-shaped, brown eyes, Marjorie had a heart-shaped face and a pert little nose, her ivory skin smooth and unblemished like a China doll. Her curly hair, however, was fire engine red. The color that made you think something happened during the gestational cycle or that the universe hated you.
Nicknamed M as a baby, I was frightened she’d never figure out how to write her too-long name...but she was smart. She mastered all eight letters plus reciting the Bill of Rights by the time she was two. So, on top of all that cuteness was a legitimate genius. You had a problem; Marjorie could figure it out like an industrial engineer. You didn’t have a problem; Marjorie was the best conversationalist in the world. Thing was, when she did have a problem she came to me—so there must be some dumb in there somewhere.
Jon launched into the beginnings of an asthma attack. By that time, Murphy practically flew over the balcony, screaming for Marjorie to act like a lady. A cigar was hanging out the left side of his mouth, balanced between his teeth and lips. Murphy smoked cigars when he needed to relax. The first year of his single fatherhood, he alone smoked enough cigars to keep the tobacco industry and Cuba afloat.
When he landed, he saw Jon’s face and chuckled.
“Bless him, Lord,” he said. Murphy always said “bless them” when he thought someone’s life was doomed. He said “bless their heart” when he felt someone was moronically stupid.
Right then, Marjorie busted into some bawdy, raunchy moves with her hips. The pediatrician said her behavior was just a phase, but my guess was it might lead to a lot of spandex and a stripper pole by the time she was in high school.
“Bless her heart,” Murphy predictably groaned. “She’s a stinking genius but can’t get the little things like clothes.”
Marjorie furrowed her brows, confused. “I get the little things, Daddy, I’m just hot. Besides, I’m going outside to dance naked with my squirrel.”
That’s all it took for Murphy to lose whatever semblance of a smile he had. It wasn’t the “dance naked with a squirrel” comment; it was the “I’m hot” comment.
His face went beet red. “Who messed with the thermostat?!”
Those were the five magic words that made me always look for an escape hatch. Murphy was a thermostat freak, and this conversation was going to have him pointing the finger at everyone, even Jon, who didn’t even live here.
Grabbing Jon’s hand, I dragged his half-paralyzed body out the door.
One thing about going to school in the dark, occasionally you’d get a glimpse of the moon. The morning moon, a brilliant orangey-red in color, was hanging low on the horizon catching the reflection of the rising sun. In a few moments, the sun was going to say hello, so I took a moment to watch the end of one day be replaced by the beginnings of another. Long silence and an even longer sigh ensued as I realized the unbearable monotony to come. Cincinnati was a great place to raise kids. But let’s face it, the ’burbs were boring—just the thought made me cringe.
Once we piled in the car, Jon dialed on some talk radio.
He muttered, “Did you hear about the man found in the dumpster at school yesterday?” I debated telling him I was the finder—even about my prank caller—but in all honesty, I didn’t know what he’d do with the information. He could tell Dylan or worse yet, he could tell Murphy. Even though Murphy was a scary man, the boys that came around our home all seemed to blurt out details about my life they thought he’d like to know. I decided to give him nothing but dumb and blonde. “The morning news said he was identified as Alfonso Juarez,” he continued. “A mob heavy for AVO, considered the worst gang in the world. That’s some scary crap, Walker, right here in Cincinnati, USA.”
Overall, I didn’t consider myself special or someone that fortune favored. If there was a question on a test, with a 50/50 chance of getting it right, most usually the dice would roll against me. But in cases like this—things that were absolutely not my business at all—I was so lucky I’d be barred from Vegas. I didn’t watch the news this morning, I’d planned to keep my thoughts to myself, but here I got the information anyway. I couldn’t contain the smile.
Other than the information about AVO, it was a quiet drive to school. That wasn’t abnormal for Jon; he was a psychological Fort Knox. In light of the silence, I decided to go over my plan...but I didn’t have one. So I just sat there, my left leg jumping up and down like an overzealous pogo stick.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized Alfonso Juarez was going to be the topic of conversation today—well, at least among the deep thinkers. Others would be talking about the latest breakups, makeups, and weekend plans. So my job for the day was to be all ears, and dang it, I was so talented in the ear department.
After I dumped my things in the locker, I knew the immediate place for gossip was the girl’s bathroom. At least that’s what the incorrigible snoop in me figured out in middle school.
I walked into what I called one-last-touch-up-land. If you failed to apply at home, all you had to do was stand in the plume of cosmetic smoke, and you were good to go. When I gazed in the mirror, I came to full awareness this was the best it was going to get. What the Lord giveth, the Lord can take away was my motto. I feared if I touched something, I’d perhaps look even worse.
Someone was extra desperate today because the cloud of hairspray nearly suffocated me. Coughing twice, I found the offender was Clementine Miriam Rabinowitz.
About 5’6” tall, Clementine was easily one of the prettiest girls in school. She had coal-black hair, big black eyes with creamy skin and a double zero build. But she was quiet, and when I say quiet, I mean a cricket chirped louder. Her mystique, I think, was part of the appeal. Guys knew very little about her—she was the mysterious someone to look at while she jumped up and down in her cheerleading skirt.
I sneezed.
Then I sneezed again.
When I coughed three times, my nose made the decision to exit. The moment I turned on my heels, a
s luck would have it, I was face-to-face with Poison Ivy. I seriously went into flight mode.
“Gotta go,” I coughed again, raising my wrist to my mouth.
Ivy was smacking some minty-gum, the aroma making me want to puke. She literally put one hand on my chest and backed me inside with that look like we were going to talk. Suddenly, I felt hotter than a matchstick. Stripping off my zipped hoodie, I coughed again as I tied it around my waist. Ivy looked aghast, like I’d committed some major fashion faux pas. I thought the rest of me looked okay. My black t-shirt had tiny white skulls on it, their tongues sticking rudely out of their mouth in an even ruder “drop dead and die” face.
Surely, she got the message.
Wearing a little white dress and white go-go boots (no lie), Ivy had curled her hair into a mass of blonde ringlets. Normally, I’d say her hair looked great, cutting-edge, fashion forward. Right now, it reminded me of the serpents of Medusa.
Practically pushing me into Clementine, Clementine gave a sheepish smile as Ivy vied for prime position in front of the mirror. Once she was taking up two spaces, she rolled on some red lipstick, her blue eyes slaying me through the mirror.
“My mother talks about you sometimes,” she puckered. “She saw you at Target and said it’s a shame you don’t have a positive role model because there might actually be some beauty behind all of that cotton material.”
I somehow staved off the urge to punch her.
I met her mother once. She’s Ivy on steroids, and I was pretty sure her prayers went south instead of north. Never once had I stopped to consider the way I appeared to other parents, though—I wasn’t sure how that made me feel. A fraction of what her mother said was true. My closet wasn’t remotely like everyone else’s; partly because I didn’t have the dough, but mostly because I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t that I wasn’t open to constructive criticism, though...it’s just that it was her. Ivy’s comments were glib, insincere, and diabolically toxic.