by A. J. Lape
I sighed then signed back, “I know.”
For a brief time this past summer, Rudi had a boyfriend. Unfortunately, it was Jon Bradshaw. She might as well have been talking to a dead dog. The biggest obstacle wasn’t the language barrier. The biggest obstacle was Jon masochistically wanted girls that didn’t want him. Rudi looked unusually sad for a relationship that was doomed from the start. That was life of the teenaged girl, though—we just wanted “somebody.” I barely completed the thought when Vinnie—flanked by Jon and Trudi Hatchett—barreled through the door, yelling, “Where’s the pizza?”
Talk about rubbing your face in it...
Rudi warily eyed Jon, probably wondering if he’d found his true love match...and well, wondering why she wasn’t good enough. Vinnie’s face lit up with an instant sympathetic recognition the minute Rudi flushed and primped her hair. I gave Jon my patented you’re-an-idiot look; unfortunately, he was so into Trudi it sailed right over his head.
In top-to-bottom gray cotton sweats, Vinnie gave us half a wave as he tried to sign, “Hello.” His fingers must’ve twisted, because as God as my witness, he fingered out, “Hooters.”
I bit the side of my cheek to keep from laughing. Embarrassed, Rudi blushed and zipped her black hoodie up to her chin. After a few more failed attempts at communication, they both went to the Break Room to fetch the pizzas and left me with Jon and Trudi.
I’d rather swallow a grenade...
Jon turned into a totally different person when he had his girlvision on. Normally, he was all male, opinionated, hard-to-approach, but Trudi had him dressed exactly like her in matching Valley High tshirts. His attraction to her, my guess, was one of desperation and loneliness and maybe a case of opposites attract. Trudi was designer everything; Jon was bargain basement closeout. Apparently, that brief relationship they had last week was back on. They were hand-in-hand making googoo eyes, and for a boy that was always brooding, it was definitely an upgrade in behavior. But with Trudi? Trudi reminded me of a wild boar.
Problem was, she felt she was more beautiful than she really was. Her nose jutted out over her chin, her eyes sat too close together, and her hips were slightly wider than her shoulders. Plus, she had man-hands. But looks were a funny thing. When you had enough dough, you could camouflage what Nature didn’t give you with top-of-the-line accessories. Trudi’s father was an executive at Procter & Gamble. She probably bathed in one hundred dollar bills.
She pursed her thin, red lips together in a tight smile. “Hi, I’m Trudi. T-R-U-D-I.” Trudi spelled her name with an “i.” Last year was “y;” before an “ee.” Guess she was trying to find herself. Thing was, every time I saw her she introduced herself. She either had early onset dementia or honestly considered me so unmemorable she forgot.
Not that I cared…
After I begrudgingly reintroduced myself, I looked Jon square in his dumb-butt eyes then smacked him in the back of the head. “Wha-why?” he griped.
“That’s for being a face-rubber,” I said on Rudi’s behalf, my lips curled up in an accompanying snort.
Jon rubbed his head, grumbling, “You need a personality transplant,” but I did see a light bulb moment of guilt. He honestly hadn’t even considered Rudi or her feelings...men.
As everyone polished off the remaining pizzas, I hoisted myself up on the counter, remoting on the TV hanging from the ceiling. After an hour of Cupcake Wars, Jon finally acknowledged me when Trudi went to the restroom. I was glad for the Trudi-reprieve. I just about barfed as she fed him, in between massaging his biceps and fluffing his late-on-a-cut hair.
“How are you today, Walker?” he cooed—cooed, for God’s sake. “Things good in your life?” I cocked my head to the side, thinking so hard it hurt. The boy had either found his soulmate and was riding the happy train, or was channeling Dylan in his everyday conversations.
I hopped down, standing next to Vinnie who was leaning up against the counter eating—you guessed it—a moon pie. “Hunky-dory,” I told him. “Did you just talk to Dylan?” He gave me a shrug. “What exactly are you getting from this arrangement, Grumpy? You’re too nice, and nice doesn’t fit your normally barbaric brogue.”
“I’d like to know that, too,” Vinnie gruffed. “I’m basically working for free, and let me tell you, it is work.”
I elbowed him in his blubber gut. One day I was going to shove that moon pie down his throat and choke him, I swear it.
As I was wishing I’d poisoned the pizza, the silver bell rang on the entrance, a gust of cool breeze bringing in Jagger Cane and Ivy Morrison. Oh, God, just when you thought the PDA couldn’t get any worse. I couldn’t tell where she began, and he ended.
Yucky.
“Hellooo...anybody home?” Jagger said underneath Ivy’s lips. She had his head between her hands literally in a mouth-to-mouth rescue fashion. I rolled my eyes and imagined myself in nun school. Watching those two together made me almost swear off the opposite sex altogether. It was too sticky, nauseating, and frankly, unclean. While she still attacked his face, he mumbled out the word, “Pizza,” as Vinnie pointed to the last of the crumbs.
Jagger, dressed in his crimson-usualness (made me think he liked blood), peered out from behind Ivy’s fake, white fur. It was springtime, for God’s sake. We weren’t living in the Arctic Circle.
My glasses were smudgy. When I cleaned them on the edge of my t-shirt, Jagger met my eyes as I slid them back onto my nose, his jerkaholic tendencies begging to be unleashed.
“I’m in love with a librarian,” he flirted, dropping Ivy’s arms, and taking a step toward me. Wow, how sleazy.
Ivy flipped her snow-white blonde hair in a swirl, her blue eyes firing like hot laser beams. “Shouldn’t you be at visiting hours or something?” she said to me. “Oscar doesn’t have many days left before, you know…”
She waved her right hand in a sarcastic bye-bye motion. You’d think she’d yell at Jagger for flirting with someone in front of her. Maybe she didn’t care, or maybe she felt he was doing me a favor. Either way, I was tired of her shortsighted, blatantly harsh, and unsympathetic comments.
The room grew quiet. All you could hear was the faint hum of Mr. Belinski snoring and the crinkle of Vinnie’s now empty moon pie wrapper he’d started to lick. When he finished, he pitched it over the counter toward the trashcan. “What are you going to do about that, Dolce?” he whispered.
I mentally pulled the sharpest arrow out of my quiver and shot it straight through her heart. When her smile unfortunately widened, “You look like the Abominable Snowman” came out of my mouth. It wasn’t the best comeback in the world, but evidently, Vinnie liked it because he smacked me in the rear. I braced myself for Ivy’s head to spin or shoot off poisonous darts, but in a rare moment of humanity, she only gave me a glare then flipped her hair, storming out into the cool, night air. No Ivyness, no nothing. Jagger chuckled and made a kissy mwah sound in my direction, turning on his heels strutting after her.
Standing next to me, Rudi signed. “They’re so dysfunctional.”
“Yeah,” I knocked out in a fist.
“I wish I had someone dysfunctional,” Vinnie groaned.
I surprised myself when I said out loud, “Me, too.”
The three of us stood there for a few breaths wondering why none of us had a significant other. I suppose all of us had one valid reason or another, but I had a feeling both would find their true love long before I did. When the reality became uncomfortable, Vinnie broke the silence. “Want to go to a movie?”
Jon and Trudi had that we’d-rather-be-alone thing going on, but when Rudi quickly signed “Yes,” I told her to “Have fun,” and I’d close the place.
While she hurried to get her things, I grabbed Vinnie’s chin with one hand, squeezing hard. “She’s a good-girl, Vinnie. You’d better be on your best behavior.”
Vinnie was Vinnie. In Vinnietown, her saying yes was tantamount to let’s-get-married-and-procreate. He opened his mouth to say something but settled on a
bigger smile.
Fastard...I’d better not find out he’s a fastard.
“We’re out of here,” Jon said, turning to me. “Two hours of teenaged angst is too much to handle.” Whatever. I didn’t want to spend time with him anyway.
It was half-past eight when everyone left. I logged onto my Facebook account and saw that Juan Salas, Jinx King, and Justin Starsong, all three, accepted my invitations to be friends. Everyone except Adam Neeley, but in my humble opinion, he just took up space in the equation anyway. As I cleaned up the mess, I texted Dylan, talked to Murphy who was running late, laid Mr. Belinski on his side in case sleep apnea choked him, then closed out the register. By then it was minutes until nine o’clock.
My phone rang. Expecting it to be Dylan I answered with, “I miss you, Stud. My life sucks, and I really, really miss you.”
There was panting, rustling, and what sounded like a low growl. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out it wasn’t Dylan. After a few more seconds of staring blankly into the air, I was greeted with a digitized, “You’ve ruined my life.”
Crimeny. It’s one thing to encounter Darth Vader in the comfort of your own home. When you’re alone at work on a dark night, it’s invariably another. Chills rippled down my spine, and it took everything in me to keep from yielding to gravity and splintering to the ground.
One might wonder why I didn’t disconnect when my body clearly wanted me to, but it’s like the common sense bled right out of my brain. Stupefied, I did what I do best...I played the dumb blonde card. “I ruined your life? How so?”
“Everything was okay until you started sniffing around.”
Ah, this was definitely regarding Oscar, wasn’t it. Perhaps even the fact I saw them kick the crap out of Adam Neeley. Could it be Adam? I had left him a message.
I said, “Last I checked Oscar Small’s the one with the ruined life, whoever-you-are.”
I’m not sure what was said next. It’s almost like the person was having a conversation with themselves on what they should do...and how they should do it. Even though the voice didn’t sound human, the menace was undeniable. This wasn’t teenage melodrama. This was hair-raising, blood-curdling, kill-you-in-your-sleep type of insanity. This person wasn’t even close to playing with a full deck.
Pulling a white Valley hoodie over my head, I turned the placard on the door to “Closed” but made the mistake of peering outside. Staring back at me—meaner than a drool dripping tiger at feeding time—was Jinx King.
20 NEWTON’S LAWS OF MOTION
I WAS UP to my eyeballs in stark, raving mad.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping when I opened them he’d be gone. He wasn’t. I thought dimly in the back of my mind it wasn’t a good idea to provoke someone like him; in fact, it was inordinately stupid, but it appeared it was a little too late for regrets. Had Jinx been speaking with me, then decided for the more personal approach?
My breathing kicked up a notch as my pulse pounded in my veins. When I came to myself, my fingers nervously fumbled for the lock, but Jinx muscled his way inside—the little silver bell jingle-belling on overdrive from too quick an entry. Startled, I stumbled back a few feet catching myself on the counter with my right hand, wondering what his plans were. My question was answered all too soon when the deadbolt clicked like a bullet meant for my head.
His hands jumped out faster than I could stop them and clamped down onto my shoulders. When he dug his fingertips in deeper, I gasped when my clavicles strained against my skin. What was he going to do...shake me to death? Gazing at his face, I couldn’t tell. His eyes were obsidian black. It was like falling into a bottomless well, and unless you felt comfortable in dark waters, you’d better be clawing for the surface.
My resolve and bravery unraveled by the seconds. I could scream and get backup from Mr. Belinski, or I could try (stupidly, I might add) to switch this around to where I was back in the driver’s seat. Against my better judgment—and the sense of survival I didn’t seem to have—I decided to spur things along. I straightened my spine, looked him square in the face and smiled, “Hello, Gavin.”
He looked at me like I’d grown a new head.
Heck, maybe I had, or I’d reached a whole new level of stupid. “Wh-what?” he stuttered.
“I said hello Gavin,” I replied even slower for emphasis.
I heard the evil bwahaha in my brain. In my experience, things were either bad or worse. This might qualify as catastrophic. All of a sudden, Jinx was a merciless predator, moving blindingly fast and frightening. He latched hard onto my wrists, and, as no surprise, muttered a threat. “I’d suggest you look for an epitaph for your tombstone if you keep walking down this road.”
I think I peed my pants. When exactly are you too young for incontinence? If I were smart, I’d bust-a-uey and head straight for the door, but somehow I managed a tight smile and kept standing.
“What’s your motive, Darcy?” he barked. His breath fanned my ear, but I willed myself not to shake.
“I have no motive,” I answered. Okay, maybe I had motive...so there. I let that statement hang in the air, knowing my silence was going to make him angrier and angrier. I had two theories on how to deal with psychopaths: make them angry so you could find a chink in their armor OR calm them down so you could talk them out of the unspeakable. I’d decided on the first theory probably a little too quickly. “Why are you here, Jinx?” I finally asked.
His eyes flashed furiously. “You sent out a text about free pizza, remember?”
Dumb, Darcy, dumb. “You’re not in my address book,” I said. “That means Juan must’ve told you.”
He gave me one of those smiles that crazy people have. The smile that said there isn’t a soul inside because they’d lost it amongst all of the bad they’d ever done. My thoughts toward this human being are unspeakable. I wished bad on him, and I’d never wished bad on anyone. Okay, maybe Ivy Morrison, but she was so soulless I don’t think it counted.
As hard as it was, I held my chin high. I tried my best to give him my bored voice, as though he had no effect on me whatsoever. “You know one thing I just figured out, Jinx?” I said. “You’re an errand boy. The real mastermind wouldn’t come for me personally. He’d send someone else, but I guess that still leaves you on the list of murderers. And we are talking about murder, right? This isn’t only about copper.” No admission, no denial, just more of those crazy eyes. “So, how is the copper business, Jinx? Did your father bring his business home and you got the bright idea to get in on the action?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you know about my father?”
“I know he’s in forensics with the Valley Police Department. So, if you think you’re smarter than me, I’m two steps ahead of you. My guess is Alfonso Juarez wasn’t. Did he cut into Northside’s profits somehow?”
He snorted, “AVO was already here, and they didn’t like to share.”
Bingo, I yelled in my brain. I just filled up my whole, darn card.
I would call that motive in the good old-fashioned American way of getting rid of your competition. For a brief moment, I saw Jinx psychologically pull that statement back into his mouth. He’d just given up something he wished he hadn’t. If Alfonso was already in the business, though, then that meant he—or someone in AVO—was stealing copper before Northside. Red said word on the street was a rival gang murdered him—could the police have meant Northside? Northside was new—at least to my knowledge —and the only gang she’d ever mentioned was River City Smugglers. Only way to know for sure was to rule out River City, and the only way to do that was to get on the inside.
Oh, jeez, this kept getting more and more twisted.
I didn’t like to be pushed. I really didn’t. But I didn’t realize how stupid I clearly was until the next statement left my lips. “You just established motive, Jinx. I accept that gift on Oscar’s behalf.”
Jinx was undeterred. “Consider this your last warning, Darcy. What comes next might not be reversible.”
>
“Like the blood on your hands?” His jaw tightened. The image of him rubbing his hands up and down his pants the day of the murder flew into my mind. Jinx literally had blood on him then. No one could convince me otherwise.
“I have no blood on my hands,” he said not very convincingly.
“Oh, you have a lot of blood,” I snorted, “and I’m positive I can add Annie Hughes to the mix.” His eyes flew wide, then quickly narrowed. “That’s right,” I smirked, “I know all about Annie, too. I’m not sure why Annie’s life was shortened, but maybe you’re the type that doesn’t need a reason. Maybe you’re the type that’s just evil. Did you kill the man downtown, too?”
No answer.
After some threats that left my blood cold, Jinx dropped my wrists, then literally shoved me down into a chair. I watched his chest rise and fall with emotion, his eyes darken with intent, and when his mouth opened, I innately knew he was considering something heinous that would permanently alter my life. I never got the opportunity to beg, “Please, or at least, make it quick,” because next thing I knew, he suddenly turned and bolted out of the building in an emotionally unpredictable squall.
I sat there for a few stunned seconds, convincing my arms and legs they actually had a job. After I fumbled to lock the front door, I ran to the bathroom, bolted myself inside, then slumped down the wall in a heap. I felt violated. I wasn’t your normal teenager. I should be pining away for boys that weren’t good for me—Liam didn’t count; that was only a part-time pine. I should be going to the movies with Vinnie and Rudi and signing about hooters all night. I shouldn’t be tearing myself up inside because of threats I’d basically asked for myself.
I didn’t remember getting into the car with Murphy and I didn’t remember the ride home, but I’d never forget what came next.
Newton’s Laws of Motion says, For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. What did I expect to happen? An invitation to their next birthday party? A fruitcake for Christmas? No, I wasn’t so naïve to think we’d all be holding hands, singing campfire songs. I knew exactly what I was doing shooting that cannon across the bow, calling Jinx by his real name. What I didn’t know was the return cannon would be one dead squirrel—skinned and gutted—on my front porch...along with the number 12 written in blood. My God, it was Marjorie’s squirrel—had to be.