Grade a Stupid

by A. J. Lape

  Well, surprise, surprise, surprise. Mr. Belinski was one temper tantrum and profane sentence away from winning “Worst Boss of the Year.” By de facto, it had somehow become my job to diffuse him. But defusing a 300-pound man—who liked to argue as much as eat—was like trying to keep a hungry boll weevil from a field full of cotton.

  “He’s mad at Frank.”

  “Frank Small?” I eeked, emotions somewhere a mixture of aghast and jubilation. If I was going to help Oscar, Frank was my best bet at getting him out of jail.

  I eased over to the shelf that held the Popular Mechanics magazine and watched Mr. Belinski rake Frank over the coals for reading but not buying. Frank attempted to speak, but Mr. Belinski had his don’t-talk-to-me face on, his customer service freaked-up beyond all recognition. Plus, I’m pretty sure he might’ve been tipsy on lager.

  I stopped to ponder my lot in life. A smart person would issue their two-week notice; a wise person would confront you and your problem; a dumb person would do exactly what I was doing. An idiot would keep doing it day...after day...after day.

  That was me in a nutshell.

  Frank was...Frank. Where Oscar was prematurely balding, Frank had so much hair he’d make Paul Bunyan jealous. It ran straight down his neck and covered his back in the shape of South America. Adding to the weird, his deodorant never worked, and the rings under his arms rivaled those of Saturn. He also had a mouth of reptilian teeth but could boast the fact that his protective headgear occasionally broadcast 700 WLW talk radio live. Frank was as weird as weird could get with the emotional makeup of a grade schooler. No wisdom, no long term plans, and no skills to leave him safe unattended.

  Like I was negotiating with landmines, I touched Mr. Belinski on the shoulder. When he turned with a frothy mouth, I shucked off the eeeuws, dug deep, and gave him a lot of teeth.

  “What, Walker?” he thundered.

  “I was getting ready to ring Frank up.”

  His anger recoiled a bit, but when he straightened the magazines, Frank felt compelled to help and “franked up” the entire display. He swiped his hand across the top shelf, causing the Vogues to tip sideways, and the Vanity Fairs to tumble to the floor. I quickly bent down to gather them as Mr. Belinski turned on his heels and hauled himself to the back of the store.

  After a few blinks, Frank blurted out, “He was arraigned already.”

  My breathing slammed to a halt.

  I knew arraignment was coming, but hearing it made it all the more real. Arraignment was when the accused stood before a judge and heard the official charges against them. Most usually you pled “not guilty.” If you couldn’t afford an attorney, the state would then appoint one to you called a public defender.

  “What were the charges?” I wheezed out.

  “Murder One.”

  The room started spinning. Murder One was premeditated with the intent to kill. In a nutshell, that meant the killer had to have “laid in wait” to murder a certain individual. An individual you most usually had a “beef” with. Oscar was smarter than Frank, but he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer who could plot out anything more than whose garbage to pick or some off-the-wall practical joke. Where and how in the world would small-time picker, Oscar Small, run into Alfonso Juarez on a day-to-day basis anyway? Let alone lay plans to kill him? That didn’t make sense. Alfonso Juarez was AVO.

  Still I had to ask. “Did Oscar do it?”

  Without hesitation, he emphatically shook his head, “No.” Frank didn’t strike me as an A-list actor, and furthermore, I wasn’t sure he had the mental acuity to reason things out. His conversations were usually one noun and one verb only. Plus, people that lied tended to avoid eye contact and offer up too many details and qualifiers. All he gave me was a negative answer with a cold, hard stare, daring me to say otherwise.

  Leading him to table in the center of the store, we both fell into a seat. Frank played with the hem of his gray t-shirt then rubbed his hands up and down the thighs of his holey jeans. He was nervous, and nervousness of this kind usually meant one thing: you were about to bust out with something that was choking you, or you were going to blow the joint altogether.

  I jumpstarted the questioning. “What do you know about Jinx King? Oscar told Ms. Dempsey Jinx was involved somehow.” Frank stared at his feet as though he was telling them to run. “You can trust me,” I said softly.

  Frank lifted his brown eyes. “We sometimes run into Jinx at night. He’s not a good person.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not nice.”

  “Can you give me an example?” He just stared. I decided on another avenue. “Do you know what sites four, five, and six are on the sanitation run in West Chester?”

  “I live in Valley.” Well, duh, but I thought a picker might know.

  “Would Oscar know?”

  He gave me a shrug. Frank either avoided the question or his brain opted to do something else. Now, he was reciting what sounded like a grocery list. Finally, he whispered, “Who do you think lied on him?” My guess was it was Jinx and the others. Thing was, they must be guilty of something pretty substantial because why even care? What I needed to do was shove a yearbook in Oscar’s face and hope for an ah-hah moment where he could finger them.

  The longer we stared into a silent oblivion, the more I was convinced I was doing the right thing. “I promise I’ll figure something out, Frank. I swear it, I will.”

  “You swear it, you will,” he repeated weakly.

  His eyes glittered with unshed tears. Heaven help me, Frank was looking at me like I was his lifeline. If it were up to me, Jinx would be sporting an orange jumpsuit and ankle bracelet by week’s end.

  11 PINKY SWEAR

  “HOW MUCH LONGER do you want to live, Darcy?”

  Oh, to a ripe old age, I guess? I wasn’t sure how I wanted to play this person. If I even wanted to play them at all.

  Darth Vader was back, even scarier and eerier than the other times. It was half past the witching hour Friday morning, and my iPhone had been doing 360s on my nightstand for several minutes. Once I figured out what it was, I didn’t take the time to check the caller ID. I basically wanted to shut them up ASAP. When I groaned, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the digitized voice of Satan himself literally shaved twenty years off my life.

  I popped out of bed so fast I currently was battling motion sickness.

  “I’d always heard you were crazy with an undeniably big mouth,” they said. “I had no idea the rumors were correct.”

  I almost said, “Look who’s talking, moron,” but didn’t. I opted not to speak, hoping it would irritate them into giving me something more.

  “You’re not so talky tonight. What’s up?” Still nothing on my end. “Are you even there?”

  Afraid they’d hang up, I decided to answer, keeping my voice as neutral and unemotional as possible. “Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always preferred knowing who I’m talking to.”

  I got a hair-raising, “Hmmm.”

  “Obviously, you think I’ve done something to threaten you, why don’t you tell me what that is?”

  “What is it you think you’ve done?” The Good Lord only knows, I thought, but I wasn’t an idiot. Whoever this was wanted me to confess everything I’d engaged in recently, so they could figure out how much information I had. Guess what! Wasn’t going to happen.

  I did find it interesting that someone found me threatening. I wasn’t used to that sort of attention. “Oh, I’m just doing the normal things,” I told them, “but to answer your question I intend to outlive you. There’s no other way for me to take this phone call than as a threat, but that’s okay. I operate on high alert most of the time anyway.” This had to be Jinx. Had to be. Jinx is who I told, I’m coming after you. Strange that I was being direct when he was masking himself as one of the worst theatrical villains of all time.

  “You’re wearing a white sleepshirt. You’re hair is in a messy ponytail, and you went to bed eating a chocol
ate popsicle, talking to someone on the phone. I’m all over you and all around you, Darcy, so I’d watch the smart lip.”

  I felt like I’d been shot right between the eyes. Stumbling to my window, I gave my blinds a quick, hard jerk closed. I’d left them up so I could watch the moon. Big mistake since it appears someone else was watching me. Maybe I should’ve processed the ramifications of this conversation before I started it—such as, you’ve grown an ulcer, you’ll never sleep again, or worse yet, you might die before you kiss someone—but that wouldn’t have made me a verb.

  I gave him a complimentary nervous laugh just to make him think he’d scared me.

  “You’re scared.”

  “No, I’m tired. But tell me something, Jinx,” I emphasized, “why did you want to kill the woman in the dumpster? Her name’s not been released yet, but when it is, I promise I’m going to find out the connection then nail you to the wall.”

  When he said nothing more, I grew frustrated. It was late, people, and well, if he didn’t want to play then I wasn’t going to beat my head against the wall. “Listen—”

  Next thing you knew, I heard a dial tone.

  Dylan’s been the buzzer on my alarm clock for years. In fact, he SKYPED me goodnight and texted me good-morning. Five o’clock wasn’t good-morning time; Five o’clock was I’m-going-to-strangle-you-if-I-get-my-hands-on-you time.

  Groping around for my glasses, I slid them onto my nose and sleepily drew my phone to my eyes:

  SERIOUSLY, UR GOING 2 HURT MY FEELGS IF U DONT ANSWER MY CALLS...GRRR

  Jeez, all CAPS. I hated it when he got shouty. When I inspected my phone closer, I saw the reason for his bad attitudeness...three missed SKYPE invitations around 11PM. I actually fell asleep all by myself, a rarity on its own. It’s a shame Darth Vader interrupted before I fell into REM.

  I texted back, Sorry, you pompous, overbearing, megalomaniac of a best friend, but my hand never had the chance to hit the “send” key. All of a sudden, I got nailed with water torture. I jumped. I jumped so high I could’ve cleared a freaking pole vault.

  When I punched “accept,” he cut me off before I could even speak. “I’m not used to having to track you down, Darcy.”

  “I’m in bed, D. How’s that hard to track me down?” He went silent, a tiny bit of annoyance in the air. “Hello?” I laughed.

  “I’m glaring at you, for the moment.”

  I let him glare while I patted my thumping heart. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for bed?”

  He sighed amidst a sleepily sounding voice. “I just woke from sleeping five hours. I’ve pretty much given up acclimating to this time zone. So, how’s Darcyville?”

  Dylan was the person who coined the phrase “Darcyville.” My guess was he wasn’t going to like the recap of the exciting parts.

  I opted for a safe opener. “Did I tell you Ivy said I was a charity case, and that she and her mom talk about how pitiful I am? She claims they even pray for me. I didn’t know they were the religious type.” I didn’t want to take the time to debate Ivy’s particular relationship with God, but that incident in itself happened on Tuesday. I’m not sure why it started bothering me, but it had. Maybe I should deal with things when they happen instead of shoving them down into my subconscious. Sometimes when they resurface, they’re not always so friendly.

  Dylan’s voice suddenly went clinical. “And what did you say to her?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled. “Well, nothing that really mattered, I guess.”

  He sighed in a rich, deep tone. “Ah, sweetheart, you know she’s been jealous since grade school. You’re flawless and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but I’d prefer it if you’d defend yourself.” Dylan had the best friend gig down to a science. He knew when you were going to laugh, he knew when you were going to cry, and he knew the precise time to say you looked beautiful when you looked like a rat’s behind. So, I was tall and blonde. So what? That didn’t mean a hill of beans if there wasn’t anything substantial between the ankles and neck.

  When I didn’t say anything, he murmured softly, “Are you okay?”

  “I dunno,” I mumbled. I was so un-okay that I didn’t even have a definition for “okay” anymore. Darth Vader was after me, and my insecurity had reared its ugly head. I had a feeling neither was going away without extreme effort.

  “What else is bothering you?”

  As much as I’d like to, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about my cyber stalker. I did, however, give him a rewind of the last forty-six hours, sparing no gory detail. Telling him I skipped school (again) and met Jinx King’s father; how Vinnie had an alias of Guido Galucci; how I was summoned to the Mind Scrub Squad for deprogramming; how Vinnie crashed the counseling session (left out Liam Woods); how a woman was macerated in a garbage truck; and... disaster of all disasters...Oscar took a public flogging and arrest for the murder of Alfonso Juarez.

  All of that tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it, and once it was out, I wanted to shove it back in. Dylan yelled at me. Well, what resembled yelling. It was more like the earth moving, yet it wasn’t termed a quake. That didn’t happen much. Honestly, I couldn’t remember it happening ever. Tiptoeing downstairs, I put him on speakerphone and laid my cell down on the countertop by the stainless steel refrigerator. I had the munchies. Not a good way to start the day and probably said I was going to pile on five pounds simply because it’s out of the ordinary.

  First, I started with a container of orange Jell-O. Next, I ate my way through a bag of blue corn chips, swallowed down some guacamole then licked the creamy center out of one row of Oreo double-stuff cookies. When my stomach still growled, I spread cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin bagel, decided I didn’t like the looks of the raisins, and sucked off the white goop. Still famished, I cracked open a jar of black olives slurping my way through one third.

  By that time it was 5:30AM, and Dylan was still going strong. Officially, I was sick. Unofficially, my munchies weren’t going away until I found something to curb my mind’s appetite. In other words, a lead in the Alfonso Juarez case.

  Next thing you knew, Dylan growled he was hanging up, that he wanted to “see my face,” and was resorting to SKYPE. Not a good idea. I was bloated like a bowling pin with a major case of wardrobe malfunction. My old white sleepshirt was not only inside-out, its hem was completely gone, and guacamole stained the neckline.

  When I accepted his call, I exhaled deeply. He was as beautiful as ever. “Hey,” I said softly.

  Dylan closed his sleepily hooded eyes, murmuring, “Hey,” back. “I don’t like to argue with you, Darc.”

  Sometimes it was difficult to look at Dylan. Even if I was fudging on the truth, he could undress your soul with his eyes.

  I tiptoed back upstairs, listening to Murphy snore and Marjorie talk in her sleep. Walking into my room, I slid once more under the covers. “I wasn’t arguing. You were arguing.”

  Dylan did an exaggerated eye roll. He was shirtless, jet-black hair in disarray, lying in black sheets with one well-muscled arm propped behind his head as a pillow. He was eye candy, I sighed, and I was trying to decide whether to bite or suck on it for a while.

  Note to self: Debate whether that was an inappropriate thought later.

  “It takes two to tango, sweetheart, but maybe I just don’t like the subject matter.”

  “Would you prefer me to lie to you from here on out?”

  Dylan actually stopped to ponder, contemplating that ignorance-is-bliss thing. “You’ve never lied to me, and it would crush me if you did. Pinky swear you’re going to leave this thing alone.”

  Dylan’s and my pinkies had been participating in profanity since age eight. We swore to one another over a split candy bar and intertwined pinkies that we would “always tell the truth, nothing but the truth, so help us God, God willing that the creek don’t rise.” We didn’t know what it meant about the creek rising, but Murphy said it so much it sounded like gospel. After all of these years, we’d held to
that oath. As in anything, it worked in his favor more than mine. I couldn’t lie if my parents were deranged psychopaths inbred with compulsive liars.

  “Darcy?” he pushed. Oh, God, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right?

  I sidestepped the pinky swear. “He didn’t do it, D. You know it, and I know it.”

  “Let it play itself out, sweetheart.”

  Now, I was yelling. “Let it play itself out?!”

  Dylan set his jaw. He was upset—PO’d or about to cry—whatever it was, he was trying to console himself. He had two characteristics that showed his feelings. If something warmed him or moved him to painful tears, he’d touch his heart like he was comforting it. If he was frustrated or needed to compose himself, he’d rake his hand through his hair or rearrange his hat.

  He reached over to his nightstand and punched a red ball cap onto his head, shifted it around then flipped the bill backwards. “Now, you’re yelling, and I don’t like it. This isn’t a good way to start the day, Darcy, it just isn’t.” Well, who started it? And furthermore, why did I feel like apologizing?

  He was stubborn, and every time that surfaced, I found myself acting like a Golden Retriever. As lovable as he was, if he thought he was right—or wanted his way—he’d dig in his heels, and you’d wind up heeling at his size twelves like a well-behaved dog. But I wasn’t going to heel on this one. Short of a lobotomy, my OCD ways wouldn’t allow it.

  I did a complete 180. “My braces are endsville today.”

  He sort of laughed, repositioning the sheets. “Nice shift in dialogue.”

  “We weren’t getting anywhere.”

  Dylan nailed me to the wall with a good hard stare. I gulped, I swear it...gulped. “I have another week here,” he said, “and I won’t be around to untangle another Darcy-related mishap.”

  “An exercise in futility,” I added.

  He blew out a big breath of air, rubbing his forehead like he was rubbing away the thoughts of me in a dumpster. “Let’s switch subjects. Exactly why was Ivy picking on you?”