Grade a Stupid

by A. J. Lape

  He informed me I was late...well, no kidding. To get some brownie points, I responded in Spanish. “Lo siento.”

  Mr. Rafferty snorted an echo. “Lo siento.”

  “Si,” I repeated, “Lo siento.”

  “Suck up,” I heard someone say four seats up. “Can’t you just say you’re sorry in English?”

  Unfreaking real.

  The voice of negativity sprang from Eddie Lopez, Justice’s arch nemesis, and in my opinion, just this side of sociopath. Obviously of Mexican descent, Eddie didn’t need this class, but one credit short from graduation, she was allowed. That was wrong in my book, but no one cared to ask my opinion.

  Eddie shot a dark look over her shoulder that nearly rattled my bones. Her black hair and eyes were honestly as faded as the cranberry-colored hoodie she was always wearing—like something internal was sucking up all the brightness in her body. Eddie wasn’t in danger of unseating this year’s Prom Queen favorite. Maybe if they were having a prom in Hell, but not here.

  I gave Eddie my version of a smile then met the blue eyes of Finn Lively, in seat número uno. He sat by the door in most classrooms because he couldn’t wait to get out. He must’ve heard Eddie’s barb, because if looks could kill, she’d be wearing a toe tag. Eddie was an equal opportunity bully, occasionally beating up and ragging on the boys. She hadn’t been treated with the implied respect society gave females since junior high.

  A few seats back in seat número cinco was...drumroll please...Juan Salas. Like Jinx, Juan had been absent since they’d drug off Oscar to juvie. I heard a nasty cold virus was going around, and by the way he was wiping his nose on his white hoodie, he might’ve been a casualty. I took the time to appraise Juan. He had nice clothes, light brown hair, medium height and build, and all Honors Classes that totally didn’t fit his stereotype of the well-known hoodlum. Academically, he was some sort of electronics genius and the reigning Science Fair champion.

  I couldn’t have scripted this better. Seat five was across the aisle, one seat up. Remembering Jagger said Juan had the answers, when Mr. Rafferty stopped to answer the phone on his desk, I figured no better time than the present.

  “Psst,” I whispered. “Juan.”

  Juan turned around, his brown eyes all allergy-puffy, and well frankly...mean. Good thing to know some things never changed. “Yeah?” he said suspiciously.

  I decided to play the ditz card, twirling the end of my hair. “Did you hear about Oscar Small? Aren’t you two good friends?” As far as I knew, he and Oscar weren’t even acquainted, but I needed an icebreaker even if it were a dumb one.

  “I heard, but no, we’re not friends.”

  I made my eyes wide and gossipy. “Do you think he did it?”

  “And why would you care what I think?” he retorted coldly.

  Firstly, I wanted to say, Shut your blowhole; secondly, I was beginning to remember why we never talked; and thirdly, when I was fishing I’d throw my pole in anywhere.

  Juan’s voice was tight and hardly friendly. I wasn’t a confrontational person, but somehow found a what-the-heck face...adding on some unspoken profanity.

  Juan backtracked on the bad attitude. “Listen, I think it’s a real shame, but Oscar always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. All I know is, he’s a kook.”

  “Takes one to know one,” I mumbled. Somebody needed to put me down...before any irreparable damage occurred.

  Juan gave me that death stare like he wanted me six feet under. “I tell you what,” he offered, “give me your number, and if I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know. But here’s the thing...that information isn’t going to be free.”

  Most days I considered myself a fairly smart person. I took a vitamin, choked down some veggies, and drank thirty-two ounces of fluid, albeit mostly sweetened and caffeinated. But in matters of self-preservation, I might be the biggest idiot that was ever a twinkle in some daddy’s eye. Cutting a deal with Juan Salas? He’d sooner kill me in my sleep.

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  I swallowed hard, wondering how in God’s Name he started steering this conversation when I’d started it. Still, I found myself exchanging digits, nodding “Sure,” wondering what sort of future consequences that might bring.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind that still, small voice told me I might’ve gotten in too deep. It wasn’t unlike the deal I’d made with Finn, but I knew what I was going to ask of Finn, (although currently unclear) wouldn’t involve selling my or his soul. Why would Juan—who’d never really spoken to me before—be so ready to cut a deal? Did Jinx perhaps tell him of my unquestionably stupid threat? If they were connected, reason would say that’d be the first thing he’d do. Before that voice could grow any louder, I ran into Fisher Stanton at the water fountain on the way to Geometry.

  My mind did the mental rewind of my conversation with Jubilee last week. She said Juan, Fisher, and the Small brothers were the ones AP Unger had run-ins with the day Alfonso Juarez was found dead. I’d spoken with Juan, I’d spoken with Frank, all that left was Fisher who was practically standing inside my body.

  Fisher was wearing red Bermuda shorts with little blue whales on them, a white oxford rolled to his elbows with a pale pink sweater draped and tied around his neck. Brown loafers. He looked like a dork—his inner Hampton lover totally out of place in the Midwest.

  He ran a hand through his sandy, blonde hair; his baby blues getting his flirt on.

  “What’s up, Darcy?” Jeez, I felt like I needed a bath. Fisher was one of those males that for lack of a better phrase, was an Octoman—all hands and arms. First was the hair, then the back, next the waist, followed by whatever else he could get by with.

  I sneezed—his Polo cologne bordering skunkville. “Hi Fisher,” I sniffed, pulling my notebook to my chest, twisting away. “I was just thinking.”

  “I try not to think,” he flirted. “I’ve found it best if you just do.”

  Thank God, I couldn’t track that dialogue because it would probably leave me decking him. “Anyway,” I diverted, “I’ve been worried about Oscar Small, and I know if there’s anything to be known, you’re the man.”

  When in doubt, flattery works.

  Fisher gave me that step-into-my-office look, his office a corner right outside the school’s theater that was basically a darkened foyer. First thing I thought was, Trapped and nowhere to go.

  I reluctantly walked down the right side of the double-door entry, following the red carpet until it dead-ended into the wall.

  Fisher stopped and whispered, “I saw him with Jinx King.”

  My heart started pounding. “Jinx? When?”

  “Right before fifth period. Jinx was crossing the road coming back to school, so he’d been on that side of the street. Strange, huh?”

  Yes, strange, and even stranger Jinx went to English class, feigned sickness then went back outside where I found him talking to Justin Starsong.

  “Oh, well,” Fisher shrugged, his brief stint with sympathy gone, “he was a nice guy. Weird but nice.”

  “Is, Fisher,” I frowned. “He’s not dead.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Just the wrong verb tense.” But that wrong verb tense meant everything. It was the difference between seeing a future or trying to outrun the past. No one understood the pain of talking about people in the past tense more than me. The wound was so fresh I didn’t even have to fake a mourning face.

  I shoved the emotion down. “Anyone else?”

  Fisher slowly blinked with a naughty smile, and it struck me of that saying, Come and get it. Oh. God. Help. Me. I sooooo did not want anything Fisher had to offer.

  When he lapsed into some sort of testosterone heavy trance, eyes hovering at the neckline of my shirt, I literally grabbed him by the elbow and shook him. “Spit it out, Fisher.”

  He shook his head hard. “I swear, I looked into your eyes and got lost in the sea of green.” I almost gagged. He wasn’t looking at my eyes. “Okay,” he chuckled.
“It was that tall guy.” Gee, how profound. Fisher put his hand above his head, mimicking someone around 6’2” tall or so. “I think he’s an athlete.”

  “What sport?”

  “Does it really matter?” he said silkily. “I think we’re making some sort of cosmic connection.”

  “It’s probably just indigestion, and yes, it matters.”

  Once again, he gave me that wide-eyed, glazed over googoo crap. “I’m spazzing out again.” Then he put his hand over his heart, like he was delivering a soliloquy.

  Doubt thou the stars are fire;

  Doubt that the sun doth move;

  Doubt truth to be a liar;

  But never doubt I love.

  “Hamlet, Act II, scene ii,” I said. Beat the heck out of me how I remembered that, but I’d bet my life I was right.

  Fisher grabbed me around the waist, dipping me to the ground. “I love you.”

  Jeez, Louise. I gave him a totally saccharine smile. “Did you tell anyone what you saw?”

  “Funny you ask because my parents told me I should call the prosecutor’s office.”

  “I would agree that’s a good idea.”

  “How about a kiss?” he grinned.

  Talking to Fisher left me exasperated and frankly unvirginal feeling. “How about not?”

  Fisher stood me aright, suddenly perturbed. “You’re no fun. My parents and I called the prosecutor and told AP Unger. End of story.”

  We exchanged numbers, and he promised to call if and when he remembered anything else. But even with this information, did that mean I could cross Fisher off the list altogether? Why would Fisher want to kill a hitter for AVO? For that matter, why would Oscar, Jinx, or Juan? The longer I thought about it, the more I realized I still was running on suspicion.

  After an unusually boring bout with Geometry, I met my normal gang for lunch. I bought an order of beef nachos, chocolate milk, and two cookies just to make sure I got my day’s supply worth of carbohydrates.

  When I sat down, all I heard was gossip, more gossip, and you guessed it...gossip.

  Our table was NCIP—No Crap In Particular.

  Right when I scooped some nachos in my mouth, Rudi pinched me on the arm while Justice elbowed me in the ribs. Standing overtop me, breathing down my neck was...shock of all shockers...Liam Woods. No one had to broadcast his name; I could smell the fastard on him. Fastards had a distinct smell. It oozed sugary sweet with a hint of dark, peppery undertones. Two competing tastes that left your nose overstimulated, begging for boring.

  Instantly, I lost all body control. One moment I was shivering, the next sweating like I was standing on the face of the sun. Heart hammering, I grimaced backwards. Oh, Lordy, Liam looked super smoochy. His hair was a mass of brown curls, and his Coldplay t-shirt and dark, relaxed fit jeans looked…? Well, my mind couldn’t find the words. At least any that weren’t utter filth.

  “This seat taken?” he murmured, pointing to the one on my left.

  You know me; I just sat there like a moron.

  Jon grumbled, “It actually—”

  “Isn’t!” Justice yelled over top him.

  Liam slid into the empty space, carrying a tray of two slices of pizza with a salad drowned in ranch dressing and lots of cheese. “I’ve been trying to contact you,” he murmured. Then he stopped unexpectedly—focusing on my mouth—like lightning jolted him. “Somebody pinch me. You got your braces off.”

  I heard a noise, then feared I was panting. My word, it wasn’t me; it was Justice. She grabbed Rudi’s napkin and dabbed her forehead.

  “What do you need, Woods?” Jon exhaled.

  “I’d like to ask Darcy a question…”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jon interrupted.

  Liam frowned, one dark brow arched inquiringly. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, or if this conversation was one he wasn’t used to having. He almost acted nervous. “Exactly what are the terms between you and Dylan Taylor? Your relationship’s the biggest are-they-or-aren't-they game Valley’s ever seen.”

  “Really?” I said surprised.

  “Really, rumor has it he’s crazy with jealousy over you.”

  Jeez, not the sort of opening dialogue you wanted from someone you might (okay, did) have a crush on. This was the second time he’d asked me about my best friend. Note to the wise: Don’t talk about another male or female when you’re trying to impress someone else. He just lost a point with me.

  Dylan tangled up my insides regularly. The only answer that made sense was, “He’s my best friend,” and I hoped that was explanation enough.

  Liam popped the top on his white milk, drawing it to his lips for a slow drink. I don’t think any of us did anything; the girls, at least. We just watched his mouth, wishing we could change places with the carton. “Listen,” he finally said, “I’m going to cut to the chase. Your best friend doesn’t intimidate me. In fact, he’s sort of made you more attractive.”

  Jon chuckled, stabbing a pear with his fork. “I’m not so sure that’s a compliment, Walker.”

  I wasn’t either. Theirs was more than a healthy rivalry. Both were named Athletes of the Year in their respective sports, but the story about Dylan only being a sophomore received top billing all over the tri-state. My guess was Liam’s ego didn’t take too kindly to the slight. Like Dylan, he wasn’t only on the cocky side, he possessed a short fuse. Notoriety said he welcomed the occasional scuffle when crossed. He wasn’t the type to start it, but he did enjoy finishing it. Oh, well, the good ones usually did have a vice.

  “Bradshaw,” Liam laughed, suggestively, “I have nothing but praise where Darcy’s concerned. Taylor has girlfriends anyway, right?”

  Did I hear him right? “What—are—you—talking—about?” I asked. I cocked my head to one side, directing the question to Jon who all of a sudden buried his head in his plate. He gave me no reassuring words, no sympathetic glances, nothing but gee-look-at-these-great-nachos-on-my-tray. So, what in the heck did that mean? Dylan and I told one another everything...within reason, of course. What I presently was doing was in my own private life and didn’t affect him. Maybe that was a drastic, one-sided spin of the truth, but I couldn’t rationalize it otherwise.

  When I didn’t say anything, Liam grinned, “Are you in an arranged marriage or something? Isn’t that so 17th century?”

  Thing was, Dylan didn’t want me with anyone. He didn’t want me, but he didn’t want anyone else to have me either. As much as I was all tunnel vision with Liam, the thought of a marriage with Dylan stopped me cold—he’d be stubborn, controlling, and out-and-out old fashioned wanting the little wife safely tucked away at home. You know, sort of like he was now. But then there’d be the love...the kind that just might leave you dead if you weren’t strong enough to take it.

  I swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed, wondering if I’d like to try it on for just one day. One day wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?

  Nah, too messy. “So?” he pushed again.

  Liam was fishing for information on Dylan, and he wasn’t going to get it from me. That was the one rule we insisted upon. Everything between us stayed under lock and key, until death do we part, blah, blah, and everlasting blah.

  I gnawed on my pinky nail, blurting out, “Take me home after school?”

  Who in the world was piloting my mouth? Maybe I’d learned the fine art of manipulation, or maybe it was nice for someone to want to spend some quality time with me. Or, maybe...maybe, I wanted to get back at Dylan if he had some deep, dark secrets I didn’t know about. At any rate, I was pushing the envelope here, people. A week ago I was riding the bus, then it was Vinnie behind Murphy’s back. Now that Murphy was surprisingly aboard the Vinnie train, I added a fastard to the mix. Murphy would die. Let me amend that, I’d die if Murphy ever found out. Right when I almost retracted the statement, Liam’s smile quirked up toward his dimples. “My pleasure,” he said.

  I mentally put my tongue back in my mouth.

  Jon dug the heel of his sneaker into
my flip-flopped foot, spearing me with a pain so sharp I mouthed, I hate you. His eyes were fixed and dilated, reminding me of a corpse that died in its fright. Sheesh, he genuinely acted frightened for me. Was there something about Liam my friends had never told me? This wasn’t a look where you just didn’t want your friend dating. It had something else more diabolical at its core.

  14 THE NAKED TRUTH

  I WAS SO hyper today I had a bad case of the God-help-me-before-I-jump-off-a-cliff or something. I’d checked my watch at least a dozen times and watched the hands tick closer and closer to 2:39PM...the end of the day. When the bell rang, I jumped out of my seat and hightailed it to my locker, hoping I didn’t chicken out with Liam, hoping even more he didn’t stand me up.

  Shoving my English and Geometry books in my backpack, I threw my Lucky bag over my shoulder and started pacing up and down the tile. You couldn’t miss the relief on the majority of faces—let’s make that 99.999 percent of people present. I was that other miniscule percent that was troubled, feeling like I had a short amount of time to make a difference in the fishbowl called Oscar’s life. If I didn’t? Let’s just say he’d better get used to not seeing a lot of sunshine on a regular basis.

  The moment I gave up and headed for Vinnie, Liam came sauntering toward me. I got goose pimples; the hair on the back of my neck standing straight up. Liam had that primo supremo, knock-your-socks-off thing going on. When he painted on one of those heart-stopping grins, my chest thudded and my courage shriveled up and died. He was smooth, relaxed, and everything I wasn’t. This was where I was supposed to appear genuinely interested, but I honest to God didn’t know how to flirt or give guys the appropriate signals. I lowered my lashes demurely morphing into Little Miss Needy, then mentally smacked myself, because it felt too unnatural.

  I barely got a smiling, “Hey,” out of my mouth when Ivy—dressed as a dang snow bunny—came out of leftfield and practically threw her body on top of his. Huh, maybe she and Jagger broke up again, or this was one of the reasons they were constantly fighting. Liam’s muscled arms stiffened as he kept eye contact with me and peeled her arms from his waist.