by A. J. Lape
Schooled at Sisters of the Immaculate Heart that overran Diablo with the Wooden Spoon of St. Michael’s Robe—seriously, something got lost in translation—Claudia declared proudly that’s where she honed her skills. Anyway, the long and short of it is, she practiced what Murphy considered the Dark Arts. She could will-away a cold with one of her jungle elixirs; she could cure the summertime flu with a mustard paste. Tonight, she planned to curse-away the wart on the bottom of my foot.
I assumed we’d ask for forgiveness later.
Earlier this evening she phoned her sister, and they came up with a plan that entailed buying a piece of pork fat from the butcher. The plan was to rub it on the wart by the light of the moon then bury it under the stars with a flashlight.
Sounded logical, right?
Since Claudia lived down the street, as soon as the moon rose, she was knocking at the door. Dressed in a yellow and white flowered muumuu, she was now chanting Puerto Rican gibberish while I sat on a stool in the bathroom that separated Marjorie’s and my rooms. I rolled my Old Navy lavender pjs to my knee and put my right foot in her hand.
Next to me, Marjorie had her doctor’s kit open, holding the pork fat ready to assist. While Claudia cleansed the area with iodine, Murphy strode in and sat down on my bed...as far away from the action as possible. Murphy was petrified of the spirit world. He swore he saw the devil rise from the ashes of a burning house and dance the hoedown with a demon during college.
My guess was it was just bad moonshine.
I knew in my gut he had something on his mind, other than this quote-unquote healing service. His brows were knit together so tight it almost looked painful. When Claudia began to rub the fat in a counter-clockwise pattern, the energy shifted in the air.
“Why did the assistant principal call me today?” he said in a monotone voice.
I ground my teeth so much in the span of a few seconds I was sure I cracked my upper left molar.
Dressed in black flannel pajamas, Murphy was eating banana pudding. That could be good, that could be bad. He was a nervous eater and was blatantly blowing his diet. My gut instinct said this conversation had only one way to go: to heck in a handbag.
Picking a few imaginary hairs off my black tank top, I glanced up, giving him nothing but air and head. “Was he bored?”
Claudia stabbed me with the pork.
Murphy sat his white bowl on my nightstand, steam practically rolling out of his ears. “Good God, kid. Sometimes you just suck me dry.” I briefly wondered where that statement originated: Murphy or AP Unger. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your offenses have traveled up the gosh-danged totem pole.”
Yeah, it was alarming to me, too. Marjorie jumped on her high horse, pivoting toward him. She was partly dressed with pink underwear and a sweatshirt—I suppose that was a step in the right direction. “Don’t swear, Daddy,” she frowned.
Murphy ignored her. “Answer the question, Darcy, and let me remind you, you know the rules.”
“Try your hardest and tell the truth,” Marjorie declared with a big smile.
I can promise you, he didn’t want the truth. That would be hypertension and a year’s supply worth of TUMS. When nothing came out, he fumed, “Let me jar your memory. AP Unger said, and I quote, he saw you ‘fall into Valentine Vecchione’s POS Bug during 7th period.’ ”
Ah, the POS Bug. Well, he at least had his adjective right. AP Unger and Murphy were in the same fraternity at the University of Kentucky—different years. So, not only did they have secret handshakes and rituals, they spoke hillbilly. “Do you want to know what else he said?” Not really. I’d rather take a helicopter ride through the eye of a storm than deal with those in authority, but right now my choices were listen...or um, listen. “He said there’s a fly in the ointment.”
“A fly in the ointment,” I repeated.
Murphy painted on a sarcastic smile. “Yes, kid, an inconvenience that detracts from the usefulness of something. Thing is, I don’t know who’s the fly—you, Valentine, or something else you’re tangled up in.”
“Vinnie is a friend of Dylan’s, Murphy.”
I wasn’t above being a name-dropper. Murphy barely wrinkled his brow—not wanting to give away anything—but mark my words, Dylan was going to get a phone call or email for particulars on Vinnie’s persona. Let’s hope Dylan was in the lying mood or could creatively stretch the truth.
I brushed off more imaginary hairs. “What I did just sort of happened. Vinnie was merely the conduit.”
Murphy mumbled to himself, “This too shall pass, this too shall pass.” Murphy always threw around Bible verses when he was troubled...but he wasn’t above throwing God under the bus and the “hands off approach” to some of his unanswered prayers, either.
“Start talking,” he warned; I assumed that was to me, but honestly, it could’ve been an ultimatum to the Almighty.
After Claudia’s final swirl, I stood up and unrolled my pants. Then I tugged a purple wool sock up to my ankle, trying to buy some time. Tell the truth, the little angel coaxed. Lie, lie, lie, the devil laughed. Finally, I decided on a mixture of the two.
I sighed out an explanation. “I didn’t feel like going to class. That’s the truth. I took a verbal beating from Ivy Morrison on how I was a charity case, and I didn’t want to be there anymore. School sometimes isn’t the sanctuary parents would like to believe as they work in their ivory towers.”
Wow, sort of poetic, maybe even a little tragic.
Murphy breathed deep, exhaling even deeper. Murphy had a scar over his left eye that took out a third of his eyebrow. The cause of that injury remained nameless. All I knew was if you mentioned it, his stare ran icy cold. My guess was the other guy looked worse. He ran his finger over the scarred portion then scratched his neck and wished to heck, I’m sure, that he wasn’t a single father. Picking up his bowl, he ate a few more bites really slowly...so slowly, I think my hair might’ve grown a few millimeters in the process.
“Kid, you know you’re grounded, right?”
Riiiiight...like that was doing any good. “Yes, Dad.”
“Is this why you’re rebelling?” No, I just didn’t know how to let it go. A few more moments of silence passed when he nearly floored me with his next statement. He looked me square in the eyes and said, “Then consider yourself ungrounded.”
Claudia gasped and even Marjorie stopped to scratch her head. This is where he should’ve tripled my punishment, but God bless him, he’d all but told me to continue on. If you were looking in the dictionary, this was the definition for “pile on the guilt.” I’m not sure if that was Murphy’s angle, or if he was throwing things at the wall hoping they’d stick. I wasn’t even sure how I was supposed to reply. A “thanks” sounded trite and nothing at all sounded mockingly unappreciative.
Before I could make a decision, he muttered, “Regarding this thing with Ivy, you know you’re beautiful, and in my book, she’s just jealous.”
Spoken like a biased father. “I hear you, Murphy, and I appreciate the sentiment.”
Murphy grunted, giving his spoon one last lick then stood up. “Keep your nose clean, Darcy. I want to be able to defend you, but sometimes I get this feeling in my gut that I need to help convict you.”
“The things I do are all rooted in the greater good.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he mumbled to himself. “And by the way, you’re supposed to report to the counselor’s office first thing. Wear your Sunday-best, and I’d advise you to not be late.”
My conscience said I should do as my father said, but I feared that went against my genetic code. I couldn’t help but look at Marjorie hoping things would be different for her. Besides being a nudist, she was good—really good. I scooted away hoping my badness wasn’t catching.
According to the eleven o’clock news, the murderer was off on round two of his dumpster fetish. Another body, this time female, was found one township over in West Chester. Thing was, it was discovered in
the back of a garbage truck only seconds from the landfill. Initial reports indicated the method of death was the same, but when you’ve been riding in a compacting unit, a lot of incidental damage can occur.
The news anchor said this particular garbage truck visited a dozen dumpsters, and sanitation experts—believe it or not there are people like this—deduced that by the placement of the corpse in the compactor, the body had to have been picked up at either sites four, five, or six.
Call it sucky reporting, but no one divulged what sites four, five, or six were.
It was Wednesday morning, and I woke to storms and lightning coming from the east. Most of our storms came from the west. When they came from the east, God only knew what the day was going to bring. I didn’t consider myself a worrywart, but I did have a tendency to be superstitious.
And an insomniac…
As of midnight, I’d changed my toenail polish twice, ironed my skinny jeans, found my inner “ohm” through ten minutes of yoga, and cleaned my empty fish tank.
Last Christmas, I received a tank with a goldfish named George Washington. I thought, This is going to be easy. You didn’t have to pet them; you didn’t have to walk them; you just had to keep them alive. Evidently, that entailed some skills I didn’t possess because I had an aquatic graveyard in my back yard.
Two weeks shy of four months, I’d gone from Washington to Franklin Pierce. That was 14 presidents—one a week—Darcy Walker’s bowl of death had somehow assassinated. When Jefferson died, Claudia hung a crucifix over my bed to help cleanse the room of bad juju. I hadn’t given the theory a test drive, but it definitely didn’t help with swarms of the insect kind.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I got into a fight with a mosquito. There were three bites on my arm, one underneath my left eye, drooping it almost to my cheek. Things weren’t going well in Darcyville, but trust me, I’d seen worse.
As I downed crispy bacon and scrambled eggs, I dialed Dylan. Six thirty here, twelve-thirty there. He hadn’t called, which was strange, and I wondered if Vinnie squealed and this was the freeze-out.
After four rings and a trip to voicemail, I hung up and imagined that natives had taken him, he’d fallen into a volcano, or God forbid, Lailanni sunk her hooks into him, and he was helping her shave her legs.
Telling myself my fears were unwarranted, I threw back a double shot of espresso and skimmed over my anatomy notes. I think I knew it...I think. I fell asleep studying, and the only way I knew for sure was I inked a note on my hand that said, Yes, idiot, you did study.
Beside me, Murphy slid his arms into a khaki lightweight jacket, zipping it halfway. “Good luck on your test, kid.”
I looked at Murphy, Murphy looked at me, and both of us smelled failure and sleepless nights. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, I smelled failure; he smelled another night of promising God he’d give him 90 percent of his earnings instead of the customary ten.
After a not so gentle reminder to visit the counselor—where I was to act contrite with the promise to stand up straight and obediently follow the rules—Murphy departed, and I closed up my book. Next, I had a dessert of five tootsie rolls and filled my coffee mug to the brim, jogging outside to catch a ride with Jon Bradshaw.
I shrugged mentally. I’m not sure why he was playing chauffeur, but I wasn’t going to tank the good will.
Jon’s navy pickup was just this shy of the junkyard. When I opened its rusty door, the radio was blasting a country song where the soloist screamed an anthem to hate women forever. Jon didn’t say anything as I slid into my seat. Just stared and looked as stone-faced as usual. Pulling out onto Tylersville Road, I told him what I did yesterday. He was slack jaw for a few beats then rolled his eyes, mumbling, “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” I said a little too proudly.
“And what do you hope to accomplish?”
I was riding that razor-thin line between stupid and dumb. I actually didn’t know. Jon gave me a scoff that was overly loud, and all that made me do was dig my heels in deeper.
He looked a little more rough than normal. His curly hair was hanging in his eyes, wet from lack of an umbrella. His khaki shorts were splattered with mud, his white t-shirt was its usual gray, and his right eye appeared oddly swollen. He had a deep scar in his right eyebrow where he’d headbutted Finn a month ago. His eyebrow came out the loser. Looks like it might’ve been a loser again.
“What did you do?” I lightly laughed. “Make out with someone’s fist?”
Jon let out a harsh sigh. I wasn’t sure if he was angry or completely worn out. He finally grumbled, “Trudi Hatchett and I started a brief relationship last night. And when I say brief, I mean it lasted about two hours.”
What that had to do with a semi-black eye was beyond me.
Jon was a failure in the relationship department. Over the years, I’d listened to bathroom conversations and even dropped notes in class to keep him informed of the goings-on of Clementine Miriam Rabinowitz, Trudi Hatchett, and sometimes even (gag) Ivy Morrison. Although I felt like none were his perfect love match, I tried to support my brothers even when things felt stupid.
He was gripping the steering wheel tightly, and by the way the veins were popping in his hands, I could tell whatever happened hurt all the way down to the visceral level. When you were someone’s friend, their pain ripples down to you—that’s just the way it was. I muttered an unenthusiastic, “Talk to me,” then reached for his hand even though I knew that might not be a good idea.
9 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
OH, THAT WAS a bad idea, alright. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. I could understand his angst. Apparently, Trudi told him she liked him, told him she didn’t, called back with second thoughts, then ultimately gave him the “let’s be friends” line that was the bane of every teenager that had a crush. This wasn’t the first time she’d blindsided him. His ego took a hit last Christmas Break.
By the time we parked, I had a splitting headache; I needed a nerve pill and a mammoth dose of sugar. I hit the vending machines first thing, grabbed a Snickers bar then collected my books for first period heading “straight” for the counselor’s office.
No stops, no detours, no nothings.
It was located on the first floor behind the main office. Right there in prime viewing to watch the people that had problems. Whatever, I told myself. Just get in, get out, and get it done. I waved to a few people as my two-dollar Target flip-flops puttered across the tile, pulling some Cherry Bomb lip balm out of my purse, trying to multitask. When I finished, I finger-combed my hair trying to undo what the humidity had already destroyed.
About ten feet from the office, Vinnie muscled his way through the crowd and grabbed me by the elbow yanking me to his side. Vinnie was Vinnie—duplicate outfit as yesterday, cotton T and shorts, only in white. Frankly, they were defying the laws of physics because they were a size too small for his body. “What’s going on between you and Bradshaw?” he barked acidly.
Somebody shoot me.
When he told Dylan he was looking out for me, he was really looking out for me. I sighed, getting the distinct feeling he wanted the explanation for himself more than for Dylan. Then I sighed even deeper, wondering why I was obliging. “Nothing. He’s a brother. I don’t date brothers. That’s incest.”
Lord have mercy, I’m convinced there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t say.
Vinnie looked as if I was trying to explain the world’s mysteries in a five-second sound bite. He didn’t push for particulars; I didn’t offer. No way in the world was I going to try and explain my brain to Vinnie when I barely understood it myself.
Almost to the office, I glanced outside and saw the big, white van for Saxon Brothers’ Exterminators. It had a three-foot rat on the side along with a picture of a dead roach and other oversized critters. It was fondly called the Ratmobile. The Ratmobile needed to be driven to the crematorium for cars. Once you washed it, all the paint was going to rub off.
Eddie Lopez,
Justice’s arch nemesis, had parked her over-six-feet-tall, probably two-hundred-plus pound body at the passenger door talking to someone. They’d just finished kicking the tires and were conversing like they were “on the job.” Guess the school had a rat problem.
Vinnie glanced at my mosquito-bitten cheek, frowning. “Dolce, buy some Clearasil.”
I didn’t even dignify him with the story. The last thing on my mind was another piece of advice when I was pretty sure I was about to be ripped a new um, conscience. Two steps into the clear, lo and behold I heard that sound...that sound that made you wish you would’ve dressed a little nicer.
It was Liam Wood’s voice, purring my name.
I didn’t know what to do...keep walking or worship at his feet.
When the sadist in me turned, the first thing I thought was...Oh. My. Good. God. This was what Eve felt when Satan offered her the apple.
Between his v’d shoulders and long, muscular legs, Liam was put together like a rippled bodybuilder. In jeans and a blue polo, he sauntered toward me grinning one of those heart-stopping grins. The kind that made your mind hiccup and your body go limp. After my brain got with the program, I think I grinned back.
What can I say, he was cute.
Vinnie could ruin any moment. He territorially draped his arm over my shoulder, acting as though I were a cheese-dripping slice of pizza. “What’s up, Woods?”
Blatantly ignoring Vinnie, Liam’s piercing browns held me captive when all at once he dipped his head and sniffed right underneath the curve of my chin.
I moaned, I hoped inaudibly.
“Wow, you smell great,” he murmured.
What could only be interpreted as a growl left Vinnie’s lips.
Liam wasn’t a fool. He knew Vinnie’s rotund shape was only dwarfed by how strong and mean he could be when crossed. He held up both hands in a back-off motion.