by A. J. Lape
What the…?
I hoped I was around when Ivy hit rock bottom, I really did. I suppose I should be mortified, but a part of me was so used to her barbs they’d begun to roll right off my back. I didn’t know if that was good for my self-esteem or not.
It was Thursday, and I was waiting at my locker for Vinnie. So far, I’d successfully hidden this relationship from Murphy, who still assumed I was riding in the muck of Bus 150. I was pushing my luck, but that was the least of my worries.
Placing my textbook on the top shelf, I alphabetized and realigned its spine while devising ways to run into Liam Woods. I didn’t realize until late last night I’d told him I’d meet him for lunch. The first sort-of date I’d ever had, I stood someone up. Can we say, relationship missile? I heard through the grapevine he was looking for me everywhere. Today, however, he was MIA everyplace I turned.
Why the blow-off? At lunchtime I parked myself in Ms. Dempsey’s office as she called Valley Police about Oscar (I’m not sure why she allowed me, but I didn’t ask). When she got nowhere, she contacted Valley Juvenile Detention Center, or jail for minors. Once again, nothing. Call it presumptuous on my part, but I suggested she phone the social worker assigned to his case. After two calls to Division of Youth Services, we got a young woman who really needed a refresher course on confidentiality. She regurgitated everything she knew about the case—even that they were trying to tie Oscar to the murder of the female macerated in the garbage truck. After we finished, Ms. Dempsey cried like her world was ending.
As I patted her hand, my resolve strengthened. I was going to free Oscar; I was just trying to figure out how.
Ivy and I’d just left Human Sexuality. Today’s subject: hormones. Rolling on some clear lip-gloss, I gave her the once-over. She didn’t need the class. In fact, if she were a car, her engine was in danger of overheating. Example? When she bent over to rummage in her locker, her white micro-mini rode sky high, flashing the world her hot pink panties. I gasped. Ivy got sent home regularly for pushing the dress code boundaries. You’d think her parents would mind, but I think that was SOP in the Morrison household—Ivy did what Ivy did and they rubberstamped it or turned the other cheek. I mean, who wore a short skirt to school anyway? Unless you wanted to show “your business,” as Murphy said.
Maybe that was my problem.
Maybe I didn’t know how to play the game. I thought I looked nice enough. I was sporting new capris with a brown leather belt, my Chuck’s, and a skintight orange t-shirt with a white number 10 on the front. I was going for the subliminal effect...okay, maybe not subliminal; it was in your face...so shoot me.
My iPhone buzzed with a text from Vinnie. It said, Runng late…stay put n out of truble. What Vinnie was doing was hitting on his girlfriend du jour; I groaned.
Ivy turned on her high-heeled sandals with a smirk, “Who’s that?”
I returned an equally nasty smirk; I wasn’t giving her anything.
Perturbed, she flipped her hair, shoving one textbook and a spiral pad into her oversized Louis Vuitton tote. “Has he finally confessed?”
Back to talking about Oscar. Apparently, she forgot she was working on being a better person. “He didn’t do it,” I said confidently.
“Spoken like a loyal girlfriend.”
If she were dead, I swear it, I’d spit on her grave. Before I could tell her to shove her attitude up her you-know-what, Finn Lively, brother number two, came up beside me and uncharacteristically jabbed, “Shut up, Ivy.”
And shut up, shuttin’ up, I added in my mind.
Ivy didn’t care. She was the exact species of mean-girl to not be offended.
Finn had just finished baseball practice. That’s what he had as a seventh period class. Baseball, for God’s sake. Made me want to join the team. Looking a little helter-skelter, it wasn’t from sweating in the outfield.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he murmured.
“Bonjour,” I answered back in French. He gave me that face that said, I’m-so-stupid-but-I-know-I’ll-do-it-again. Finn had girlfriends—lots of girlfriends—but his relationships were short-lived and “amicably dissolved.” My guess was his latest “amicably dissolved” turned stalker and was certifiably all kinds of scary.
I could see why girls went loco. Finn wasn’t handsome; Finn was beautiful. Taller than me, he was a blue-eyed Scandinavian blonde with a Malibu tan. His chin length, tousled blonde hair was as light as sunshine, his eyelashes as dark as night. Finn’s “player ways” was to unload a different accent a day on the females, and it worked. Sometimes a little too good.
He pulled my Rubik’s cube off the top shelf (which he could solve in nine seconds) then slumped down the wall, hiding behind me.
I stood in front of his white baseball pants, trying my best to...well...hide him.
“Hiding you comes with a price,” I said.
“Name it.”
Finn was the resident geek-slash-genius. What I needed him for wasn’t the problem; he could pull off anything. It was more like the when.
“I don’t know yet, but soon...no questions asked.”
“Oui,” he mumbled. Guess that meant he was game.
It was well past two-thirty. The hall was thinning out, and Ivy was now motor-mouthing how she and Jagger were back together...better than ever.
“Sounds like a match made in Heaven,” I sighed.
“Or the other place,” Finn added in a mumble.
Ivy was so entitled, the social cues the rest of us picked up on, she didn’t. She had no clue we’d slammed the particulars of her dysfunction-driven love life. She flipped her hair then walked across the hall and clutched me by the hand. My God, the first thing I thought was I needed to wash it.
“I hear there’s free counseling in prison for those in relationships,” she sneered. “Just a thought.”
My jaw dropped. I actually heard it crack.
Even though Oscar and I were nothing, I hated shrinks. I did a two-year stint in counseling where my brain was scraped, scrubbed, and reprogrammed by one of the best psychiatrists in the Heartland. Kids don’t want to talk, but she threw so many popsicles at me, I regurgitated out most of my demons. Trouble was, they all found their way back in.
After Ivy left, I stood there for a second, wondering why I was so spineless where she was concerned...a question for my Magic 8 ball tonight.
By this point, it was only Finn, me, and a few brainiacs trying to stuff all their books in their backpacks “just because.” Pulling him off the floor, I marched us toward the parking lot. I was done waiting for Vinnie. If he didn’t show? Well, I’d find us a ride elsewhere.
The air was a little balmy from yesterday’s rain, but the sky was a perkier shade of blue, the clouds in shapes that looked like fat sheep. A warm breeze was blowing, and black birds were lined up on the Amity Health Care Building, eagle-eying the parking lot. Instant heebie-jeebies. It’s like they were staring, wondering where the food in the dumpster went. I shivered off the image and thought of Oscar.
All day, I wondered how juvie life was treating him. He’d had a five o’clock shadow since seventh grade, and I hoped that made him look tough. I didn’t consider myself a mindless bleeding heart—I liked for bad people to pay—but it ripped my heart out the way an innocent had their life judged like he’d had.
I asked around and no one knew a lot about Jinx. He was new, and oftentimes students like that were transient. I’d had friends over the years whose parents were doing a two-year stint in the area, and many were standoffish. I think they wondered, Why bother? Like making true friendships was a waste of time But Jinx did have some friends, I reminded myself. Some friends that (chances are) hated me as much as he did right now. Who did I think I was yesterday anyway? Wonder-freaking-Woman? I’m coming after you, I’d said. I mean, really. Just to be sure, I did a quick circle spin then looked at my clothing, wondering if I was falling out of a blue and red bathing suit, holding a golden rope.
Nope, just me.
Me and my not-so-memorable boobs.
If I were to be honest, yesterday’s Wonder Woman-wannabe-thing was a wake-up call. I shouldn’t threaten someone until I had something substantial to back it up. It hadn’t come back to bite me yet (Jinx was suspiciously absent today), but I had a feeling it would.
As in everything, I longed for Dylan’s take on the situation. We spoke last night, but that idea to get his take on things was just that...an idea that never made it out of its genesis. So, that left Vinnie. I told Vinnie what I knew about Jinx, and that’s when I saw a brief glimmer of his brains. Vinnie pulled on one of his lamb chop sideburns and said, “I noticed him in the crowd, Dolce. He acted like he had a vested interest. Why would he even care unless he was glad it wasn’t him?”
Maybe the both of us marshaled together could unearth the specifics, but as God as my witness, that would literally be a miracle. When Vinnie wasn’t trying to make out with the nearest female, he was eating half his weight in food. What I had to work with was that brief interlude in between...which meant I was screwed.
Then there was the issue of Frank, Oscar’s twin. He was nowhere to be found—not to mention, I still needed to uncover what sites four, five, and six were on the sanitation run. A feeling was taking root in my gut these were the works of the same killer. Could Jinx be that killer? What could Alfonso Juarez and a female in a neighboring township have in common?
Logically, nothing. Gut wise, everything. This was Valley, for God’s sake. Nothing bad ever happened here, but there was a first time for everything.
Once outside, I located Vinnie’s large belly hanging over the door of a white Hyundai Sonata, chatting with some bleached-blonde bimbo. Well, bugger me. She had a serious case of the hold-me-backs going on. I’m not sure what it was with Vinnie. For a man close to one hundred pounds overweight, he had something that shot off a scent to mate for the willing female. I stopped to scratch my head; a look back at Finn showed him doing the exact thing.
“I don’t get it, Ma Chérie,” he muttered. My POV exactly.
Putting my fingers in my mouth, I whistled. “Vinnie! Our baby and I are ready to go home!”
I rubbed my stomach for emphasis as the Italian male paled as white as an Eskimo. The blonde in the Hyundai said a few choice words then squealed her car into reverse, kicking up gravel, probably stripping her transmission.
Mature...
Vinnie went nuclear, giving me a look like he wanted my tongue cut out permanently. He hoofed it toward me, his barrel chest bouncing, thighs swish-swooshing together, madder than a hornet that had its nest torn down. He was a heart attack waiting to happen; I said a prayer his arteries were unclogged.
I disconnected, wondering if the prank caller was Darth Vader. All I got was heavy breathing, garbled sounds, and standing hair on the back of my neck—freakoutville. Pinching the space between my eyes, I debated if I should place “caller block” on the number. If I did, I wouldn’t have to worry about these conversations. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be blowing an opportunity that they’d slip-up and provide something incriminating.
Call me genius or call me stupid, I decided to leave things status quo.
Settling into the car with Claudia, I took a few moments to steady my breath then paused and looked at the sun. It was setting into a deep red blanket, exceptionally pretty up against the midnight blue the rest of the sky was fading into. A welcome change considering the Tundra we’d all just survived.
It was a particularly rough winter. Snowfalls were higher than average with temperatures dipping into the single digits. Cincinnatians were chomping at the bit for spring, but some of us had to keep doing the same old thing that most of the time gave you a heaping helping of the doldrums...me, I was going to work.
Since age 13, I’d worked every Thursday night and weekend at Belinski’s Bookstore. Let’s just say I’d rather gouge a stick through my eardrum.
Located in a red brick strip mall about a mile from my home, most of the time I floundered through my shift. A glance inside looked like a bad case of déjà vu...no traffic whatsoever. That wasn’t surprising. We carried a sparse amount of best sellers, but the people that frequented Belinski’s came for close proximity or maybe, like me, they enjoyed the entertainment value. Mr. Belinski cursed like an entire construction crew, and his communiqués were so creative, I didn’t know whether to be repulsed or impressed. They always included the word pork. What the pork? Ah, pork it. Pork the porkin’ world, he’d say.
Whatever, I shrugged to myself. It was a paycheck.
Kissing Claudia on the cheek, I got out of the car and forced myself to go inside.
Dropping my things behind the green checkout counter, I looked for his bowling ball body. A hefty 300 pounds, his standard clothing was bibbed overalls with a sport coat one size too small that was littered with dandruff. Bright pink cheeks dotted his face with no discernible cheekbones and cloudy blue-gray eyes. His head housed a thatch of blonde hair that made a ring around his head. Thing was, he was either balding or grew out of what hair nature intended.
Picking a few balls of lint from my yoga pants, I repositioned my Belinski’s shirt and shook my head at the idiocy. On a quest to be hip and relevant, Mr. Belinski bought black tshirts that said “Belinski’s is the Bomb” in red lettering. The “o” on the bomb was a picture of a smoking grenade with a burning fuse of fire. Far from the truth. It was more like a Molotov cocktail made up of overpriced books, leftover food, and backroom booze—his.
I squatted down to retie my silver and black Nikes. When I stood up, Mr. Belinski was hovering overtop me smelling like lager and a stale fart...limburger.
God. Help. Us. All. Tonight was going to be a doozy.
He took a big bite, pointing to his shirt he’d snapped to his chin. “I lost weight, Walker.”
I gave him a lying thumbs up. He had three necks, maybe a fourth. I’d have to peek under his chin to know for sure but decided to leave it as one of those phenomenon not meant to be understood. Another phenomenon? Why I still worked here. It was the same for any teenager...you needed the money.
If tonight had a highlight, it was some much needed girl-time. I worked with three other females: one senior citizen, Coralue; Rudi, a fellow junior with only thirty percent hearing; and Chichi, the resident psychic/palm reader/necromancer of dead pets. I didn’t have firsthand experience of Chichi’s pet raising, but it was something I filed away since I had a tendency to kill things.
While Mr. Belinski practically bulldozed a new customer, I grabbed the trashcan wondering why Maintenance hadn’t been cleaning the place. On the floor were animal droppings of some kind, candy wrappers, and the dust on the countertop rivaled the Gobi Desert. It was the same batch from Sunday, because I’d taken my index finger and written Darcy and Liam inside a big heart.
Ah, Liam, I thought. I don’t have time to think of you now.
Grabbing the broom, I attempted to sweep up the animal poo, but it was stuck to the carpet. Wrapping some masking tape around my hand, I crouched down and “taped” them to my palm then unwound, and tossed the remains in the trash. This was beyond the call of duty, but I’d look at them all night if I didn’t do something. Next, I wiped off the counter with a rag, threw the candy wrappers away, and ambled to the Break Room to grab a snack.
Mr. Belinski’s a narcissist, evident by his decorating scheme. On the ceiling was a replica of Michelangelo’s work at the Sistine Chapel. Beautiful if you were an art lover; nauseating since he made himself the star figure. His face was on Adam, a Cherub, and the most sacrilegious-to-the-human-eye on a well-developed, studly looking King David.
You can’t write this stuff—maybe you can if you’re drunk with one heck of an imagination—otherwise you can’t.
The Break Room was equally eccentric. It had a lime imitation leather couch, a white plastic table with metal chairs, and a rusty washer and dryer. There also was a vending machine that could feed a football stadium. Opening the refrigerator, I found a wi
lted cobb salad, soggy fries, and a pizza box that a lift of the lid showed nothing but crumbs...more animal droppings.
I shivered. Even I had standards.
After I washed my hands, I grabbed some quarters and made a plate of carbohydrates—candy bar, bag of chips, ho-hos, and goobers. Then I went searching for Rudi.
She was behind the Customer Service Desk in the middle of the store.
Framed in wire-rimmed glasses, Rudi had big brown eyes and a bobbed haircut that fell right at the point of her genuine smile. She was teeny-tiny with the physical attributes of someone who should be riddled with date after date, but she was deaf and dirt poor...and too good.
Rudi could speak in that underwater-muffled sort of way but only did so at work. The attention at school embarrassed her. She went a few semesters at a school for the deaf but wanted to mainstream her life and came to Valley. Valley provided her with a signer. Problem was, half the time he never showed. As a result, she sat in the front row and read lips, or I was the signer’s replacement.
Sorry state of affairs, folks, when I was supposed to help someone succeed.
We unpacked and shelved some novels, then got separated as I helped a customer find a book, change their mind on a book, only to leave the store and come back and purchase a bookmark.
The evening was devoid of excitement until she found me once again at the vending machine. I’d eaten through one entire row and had moved on to the second. She grabbed me by the wrist, twisting it anxiously.
“Hey—” I said shocked.
“Do something, Darcy,” she signed frantically.
“About?”
Cocking her head to the side, she looked at me like I must be deafer than her. That’s what sugar did to you, people. It either geeked you up or dulled the senses. I slipped my seventy-five cents back in my change purse, giving her my full attention.
“It’s Mr. Belinski,” she actually said out loud.