by A. J. Lape
She smacked her red dragon lips. “She even says she prays for you.”
I stand amazed.
I held my chin high. “Tell her thanks.”
Ivy gave an experimental smile in the mirror then rolled down the lipstick, replacing its silver lid. “Would you like me to give you a make-over? Maybe I can get some community service hours for it.” She started at my feet, made it to my hips, actually rolled her eyes then painted on a benevolent smile. When I didn’t say anything, she looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “What is your beauty regimen anyway?”
File that under None of Your Business.
Still, I found myself mumbling, “Soap and water.”
Stop it, Darcy, my small ego begged. You’re giving her everything, and you owe her nothing.
“Her beauty regimen doesn’t involve a witch’s cauldron, bats, and dead frogs like yours,” Justice fumed, from behind. See, this was where I hated the effect Ivy had on me. I’d lost all control of my senses. Justice was literally standing a foot away with my other girlfriend, Rudi Morgan, flanked from behind. I hadn’t even noticed.
My glasses fogged with embarrassment. Ivy shrugged as though she didn’t want to fight. She probably didn’t; this was just status quo for her evil, little mind. “Hey, I’m merely trying to help the little charity case here,” she explained. “Nothing more.”
I told her to kiss-my-you-know-what. It’s a shame it never made it out of my mouth.
Dressed in yellow from head to toe, Justice looked like a banana. She snorted sarcastically, “You don’t have a self-sacrificial bone in your scrawny little body, Ivy. That means it will be easy to snap.”
Ivy gave Justice her serial killer smile. “The karate thing not going so well?” she smirked sarcastically. Justice looked in the mirror touching her right eye that was as black as coal. I knew what that meant. Justice had gone toe-to-toe with Eddie Lopez again. Eddie—real name Eduarda—was a senior female at our school that schooled at Justice’s dojo. I’d rather pluck the nose hairs of a grizzly than to mess with Eddie. She was a demented lunatic. Plus, she was plain, ole weird. Justice had a job at a clothing consignment store; I worked at a bookstore. Eddie? She had a part time job at Saxon Brothers’ Exterminators...killing rodents all over the city.
Justice snorted. “I hate Eddie. She’s never beaten me, but I swear, the girl tries to kill me daily.” Ivy dumbly rolled her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be crying or something?” Justice jabbed.
Good point, I thought. I read on Facebook last night that Ivy and her longtime boyfriend, Jagger Cane, broke up. I thought a breakup was supposed to leave you throwing up in the bathroom or crying in your hands. Ivy was all “easy come, easy go” about it. I found it odd, however, that she’d broadcast on a social networking site that she got dumped. If I ever landed a boyfriend, the last thing I’d want to admit is he dumped me for no just cause. But that’s what teenagers did today. They told their life stories to their “list of friends” that weren’t really friends. Believe me; I was in no position to judge. My criteria for a cyber friend was that you were living and breathing with no known markers for future serial killers.
As Ivy continued to primp unaffected, Rudi glared on my behalf while Justice threw an imaginary dagger. Giving both girls a smile that said, “Thanks,” I left the room without further comment. A part of me begged to cry—to head up a We Hate Ivy Support Group or just succumb to the humiliation—but thankfully, the bigger part reminded me I had a job to do.
And maybe karma would one day visit her on my behalf.
Right then, my iPhone jumped around in my pocket as I merged into oncoming traffic. Changing its ringtone regularly, today’s sound was the slow drippings of Chinese Water Torture.
How appropriate...once I glanced at the number.
6 DEEP SEA FISHING
IT WAS MR. Omniscient himself.
Normally, he was my confidante. Everything we’d ever spoken stayed under lock-and-key and was repeated only in the company of the Mrs. Butterworth’s bottle. But he’d want to know details if he picked up on my mood. I didn’t have time for details, and well, I didn’t want to cry.
Clicking “accept,” I took a deep breath trying to sound so happy it was nauseating. “Hey, D. Shouldn’t you be sleeping right now?” There was a six-hour difference. Midnight or beyond.
“I got a text from Vinnie yesterday.” Crap. Dead air. No one was breathing, and I wanted to crucify Vinnie’s lard-butt body.
I juked left around a cluster of people, got jostled by two guys, and took a right at the Spirit Shop, zigzagging around some girls. “Good morning to you, too,” I mumbled.
He inhaled deeply, exhaling even deeper. “Exactly what happened? Vinnie said, ‘Darcy’s a bad influence.’ How in the,” bleep profanity, “can you be a bad influence on Valentine Vecchione?”
“I prefer the term iniquity engineer.” Coined that phrase on the spot.
Dylan debated laughing; there was a lengthy pause, and I could feel the faint glimmer of humor begging to live. But the urge never made it past the infancy stage because he finally seethed, “Start talking, hound dog. I’m quickly losing my patience.”
He’d called me hound dog since seventh grade when I figured out Finn Lively was playing spin-the-bottle with an eighth grade girl. Wasn’t hard. Finn had a permanent smile plastered on his face in pink lipstick. The brunette eighth grader was wearing a lot of blonde hair.
“So,” I started.
“Soooo,” he echoed.
“Umm,” I now stuttered.
“Go on, Miss Umm. I’m dying to hear your spin on things. And let me tell you,” he paused, darkly, “I will hear the spin.”
I shivered even though I was perfectly warm. Dylan had a way of making me feel naked even with all my clothes on. He could strip your will and defenses bare, one painful question after the next.
The truth shall set you free, I mumbled in my head. The truth shall set you free.
I cleared my throat. “So, how’s Maui? Is it whale mating season?”
Explicit profanity followed. “What’s going on, Darcy?”
Dylan only called me Darcy when he’d been pushed over the line or was trying to get my attention. In other words, when I was being stupid. Most might take that as an insult; I was used to the formality.
Right then, I heard him speak to someone softly, like he was sorry he’d wakened them.
The hair on my neck stood on end. “Who are you talking to?”
He giggled. “Say, hello to Lailanni. We hit it off at the luau and are getting to know one another better.” I think I swallowed my tongue.
“Hi,” I choked out. Lailanni didn’t answer. Guess she was the quiet type or didn’t know English. “Isn’t this a little fast?” I joked.
Dylan gave a tired sigh. “Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking of a June wedding.”
“Har, Har.” Okay, we both knew there was no Lailanni (I think), and if there were? Heaven help me, I was going to die keeping them apart.
Another even deeper sigh. “You know I have your back, right?”
By that time, I’d made my way to first period, sliding into a seat. US History was taught by Biggie Butts—no kidding—and was he a pain in mine. While Dylan mumbled something about a collar and a leash long enough to cross the Pacific, I asked a few people nearby if they’d heard about the murder. The two to my left knew nothing, the one sitting behind asked if Rudi was single, and the guy to my right was Jagger Cane—Ivy’s on again-off again boyfriend.
“Hello, babe,” he grinned. I shivered. Every, single time I saw Jagger, my first thought was, Hold onto your knickers. He had some funky mojo going on, and I didn’t think it was the good kind, at least not the kind your daddy would approve of. “I saw some rumbling around over there in between classes,” he said, “but I’ll only give specifics if you kiss me.”
I didn’t make eye contact for fear of falling victim to his silver-tongued ways. I was one of those people that were generally ignored
by the opposite sex. I wasn’t sure what was up with this week—maybe it was the new moon—but for some reason, I was being treated like a hot commodity.
I slumped down, realizing this was going to be harder than I thought.
Dylan murmured, “Come on, sweetheart. Talk to me.”
Dylan never ceased to hope I’d fall in line like the rest of the nice, little children. Countless times I told him it was better to accept things than to keep going down the same road that led nowhere. Trouble was, I had self-destructive tendencies. And there’s not a whole lot you can do for anyone that’s hellbent on a path of self-destruction.
For the first time ever, I tapped the screen and hung up on him.
I drummed my fingers on the desk as Jon slid into the seat in front of me. I flicked him on the neck. “Does Dylan have a Lailanni in his life?”
When I told him what happened, Jon squinted his eyes myopically, like he couldn’t see me or maybe was trying to focus on the question. “You have to be the dumbest blonde on record.”
Sharks had to keep moving or they’d die. I felt like a shark. A shark that needed to move before Jagger held me down and I died.
“What are you doing this weekend, babe?”
Right after lunch, there’s a half hour period where you could grab some tutoring or head to the Media Center. I wolfed down some orange colored peanut butter crackers then headed to the Media Center except I picked up a stray along the way...Jagger Cane.
A little taller than me, he was dressed in dark jeans and a red polo, strutting in expensive tan loafers. And when I say strut, I mean strut. Jagger walked on his toes in some sort of cocky fashion that’s hard to describe. With spiked, brown hair and razor-sharp, black eyes, Jagger was unusually good looking. Problem was, he was morally unmoored, adrift in a sea of bad-gone-to-worse. Long and short of it? It all boiled down to a bad attitude. He played all sports but felt like his skill alone should place him as the shining star. Thing was, his star wasn’t really as bright as he thought it to be, but then again, I’m not sure he ever correctly dusted it off.
Located between the theater and lunchroom, the Media Center was my second choice in the gossip mill. It had two stories, only accessible by the first floor. My goal was to get to the second floor, sit and soak it in, but I needed to ditch Jagger.
He trailed a fingertip down the back of my neck. I squirmed away shivering, not even acknowledging the way he made me feel. “Mmm, you smell good. New perfume?”
“Yeah, it’s called shark repellant. You like?”
Jagger chuckled, not in the least bit offended. “So what will it be, babe? Movie? Dinner? Both?”
Against my better judgment, I actually stopped like a fool and looked at him. No one—and I repeat no one—had EVER asked me out on a date. He was nice enough looking, had available funds, and could probably show a girl a good time. Trouble was, would you actually make it home in one piece? His reputation preceded him. His and Ivy’s relationship was punctuated with public meltdowns and physical throw downs so violent, one or the both of them needed to be locked up for domestic violence. Who in their right mind would walk into that??
Jagger’s eyes smoldered like black coals. “I think you’re beautiful, funny, and incredibly smart. Everything I’ve ever dreamt of.”
Insert nervous laughter. No doubt Jagger was the lying type. Problem was, with habitual lying, the lines between reality and fantasy become blurred. My guess was he couldn’t find the truth if it came up and slugged him in the happies (Darcyspeak for testicles).
Stepping into the Media Center, I headed straight for the stairs as my iPhone shot out some water torture. While Jagger jabbered away, I thumbed it straight to voicemail. I knew it was Dylan... where Jagger was concerned he had a satellite large enough to contact Pluto. Dylan hated the way Jagger treated girls, and the two were in a perpetual turf war because Jagger wanted everything that Dylan had...unfortunately, it was understood I was on the list of assets.
Made me think I was microchipped.
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I tried to get in the library mode. Be quiet, I told myself, or at least whisper at an acceptable decibel. The media specialist ran the place like one of those Church of Scientology silent births—demanding no noise whatsoever. Why the worry? I got kicked out last week for talking in the silent reading section.
Navigating to the top of the stairs, she poofed into existence like the phantom in your worst nightmares. As soon as we met eyes, she practically screamed, “Shhh!”
God help me, but I wanted to “Shhh!” her back. She had black reading glasses perched on the bump of her nose, wearing a mint green polyester shirt with matching bell-bottomed pants. The woman was lost in the land of hippie.
I zipped my lips shut and headed toward a cluster of tables in the back. Wall after wall of resource books were here that the smart kids worshiped. It was no surprise that Jubilee was standing on a stepstool removing a four-inch leather bound volume from the top shelf. I smiled. Then I smiled bigger. If anyone knew anything about anything it would be Jubilee. She was in the back of the line when God was handing out common sense, but her mother wasn’t.
Her mother was the president of the PTA. Hang around any school long enough and you figure out pretty quickly that the PTA knows everything.
I slid into a nearby table and turned around. Jagger was missing—practically swallowed up in a black hole. Then I heard sniveling to my right and realized he’d sat down next to Ivy who appeared to be whining and studying.
Shocking on the second count.
His shoulders were tensed with both his loafers pointed in my direction, as if she was something he was going to take care of quickly so he could get to me.
I shook my head in disbelief. “Jubilee, did you hear about the guy in the dumpster yesterday?”
Jubilee turned around, steadying herself on the wooden shelf. God love her, but she had pencil marks on her forehead. “Hey, Darcy,” she smiled. I asked her again. No answer. I was going to have to spoon-feed her through the whole process.
“Did you—” I said louder.
Someone’s throat cleared. A look over my shoulder showed Jagger devilishly grinning at me.
“Her?” I heard Ivy whine aghast. “Why? She’s just so...average!” She grabbed his wrist and held on tight. Jagger glanced down at her red manicured nails like they were handcuffs. When he attempted to pull away, she made some sort of “nuh-uh” sound, digging them into his skin.
Jagger dumbly and rather jerkily grinned, “Darcy’s my dream girl.”
Um, huh?!
If he had hope of a redeeming quality, it just got slingshot to Hades. He not only flirted with girls, but he did it in front of his girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend—whatever she was. But that was Jaggerland...nothing but me, myself, and I.
Gritting my teeth, I said too loudly, “Stop!”
Ivy’s eyes flashed, giving me the quick run-down as she tried to assess if I were a worthy adversary. I didn’t mind a good fight; in fact, I wanted to be a Big Time Wrestler when I was eight. Problem was, my idea of fighting involved pulling pants down and running like the wind. Ivy looked like she’d done this deal before...quite successfully, I might add. When Jagger giggled, as God as my witness, she hauled off and smacked him in the cheek.
Shocking. Simply shocking.
“Stop what?” Justice asked, falling into the seat next to me, munching on some miniature chocolate chip cookies. She took one look at Jagger rubbing his jaw then got a load of Ivy’s acid face and chuckled. “Darcy, if you were a horse, she’d have plans to make you dog food.”
Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Jagger and Ivy’s conversation escalated into a verbal brawl and wasn’t even remotely private. She said something about, “Low-life cheater, scum of the earth, with an unbelievably cheap choice in replacements.” In other words, Darcy was beneath him. He called her a whiny, dirty word that rhymes with witch.
When Ivy’s voice rocketed, naming off ev
ery single bad thing he’d ever done to her, Justice kneed me under the table, her brown eyes itching for a fight.
“Are you going to take that from her?”
Currently, I was. A glance down at my watch showed I had about twenty minutes before next period, and Jubilee—if she even had anything—hadn’t technically joined the conversation yet. Anyway, what was I going to say? Gee, let’s be friends, Ivy?
This was where I was supposed to crawl under a table and hide, but honestly, I wanted the whole charade over. The quicker I got answers, the quicker I could leave the room and convince my ego it didn’t matter. I turned to Jubilee who rubbed her hand across her forehead again, smearing the pencil lead even further.
“My God,” Justice munched, as Jubilee and her ten-pound book collapsed with a thunk next to us. “Jubilee, you really ought to look in a mirror sometimes.”
Jubilee cocked her head to one side, not having a clue that was a hint. She was wearing khaki shorts and a white, fitted t-shirt that had three rhinestone snaps mis-buttoned at the top. “What did you need?” she asked, ignoring Justice.
“I was wondering if you heard anything about the guy found in the dumpster yesterday. Do you know what they did with him?”
Jubilee played with one of the white beads braided into her hair. “He went to the Valley Morgue. A tow truck came and took the dumpster away after hours. One of those crime scene investigative units from Valley Police wanted it to evaluate.” I kicked myself for not thinking of that sooner. My guess is they removed the body then tried to leave everything else “as-is” as they searched for clues. How in the world was I going to arrange an incognito trip to the police department?
“Anything else?”
“AP Unger’s extremely upset and got into a big argument with some guys yesterday at school.”
“Did it have anything to do with the Dumpster Dude?”
She frowned confused, literally with that look that said, Why are you calling him Dumpster Dude? I thought that was pretty self-explanatory. “I don’t know,” she said, “but evidently, these guys were seen loitering around the area a little while before, and he made them come back inside the school.”