Grade a Stupid

by A. J. Lape

  I heard a commanding, “Turn around.”

  My heart sped up, and I felt the omnipotent presence of Dylan behind me. I only knew for sure when Justice grabbed my hand, growling, “Dee-lish.”

  Hanging a right, I peered at him through my shaggy bangs. First thing I thought was, Swooneth my butteth off. The sight of him nearly undid me. He was wearing his favorite worn-out jeans, black leather flip-flops, and a painted on black T that hugged his muscles so provocatively it was probably against the law in Thailand.

  My eyes squinted, refocusing. “Did you forget what I looked like?” he chuckled.

  Never…

  He was like a black panther. Pretty to look at, but something told you only the trained were safe enough to touch it. Dylan threw off this vibe...99.9% of the time he was sophisticated, gentlemanly, compassionate, and inviting. The other .1%, it left you wondering if he needed a cage. A lot of times when a girl had a guy as a best friend, they weren’t dealing with a male who could be an incendiary device. They were dealing with a guy who didn’t know how to—or better yet, couldn’t—hang with the other guys. Not Dylan, he was totally an alpha, and unfortunately, too delectable for his own good.

  At only fifteen, he was an impressive 6’2” tall, 220 pounds of mouthwatering real estate. His muscles were strong and defined, hinting at an unusual strength. While everyone’s heard of six-pack abdominal muscles, after swimming with him a few weeks ago, I had firsthand knowledge some were gifted with a full case. Then there was the hair—jet-black, totally touchable, that he wore parted and sophisticated or bed-head messy. Everything that spelled he had options.

  With a sigh, I fell into his amber eyes. He blinked them long and slow, raking me over from head to black toenail, giving me time to think about my answer. When my mouth just dropped wide, he added a laugh—his little girl laugh. That was another idiosyncrasy peculiar to him. He had a rich, baritone voice, but when he was happy, he sounded exactly like a little girl.

  In his right hand was a box of chocolate-covered, Hawaiian macadamia nuts. My mouth started watering. I literally ripped them out of his grasp, popped the top off the white box, and pitched three in my mouth, sighing.

  “You’re welcome,” he giggled.

  My word, how good. So good, I lost myself in the ecstasy and sprawled backwards out of my chair, bounced twice, my legs pointing up to the freaking North Pole. My back cracked in three places, and I bit my tongue.

  Wow, déjävu all over again...right there in front of God and everybody.

  While I laid there amongst the muck of uneaten lunches, Dylan swallowed a giggle behind his perfectly white teeth. Squatting down on his heels, he gazed at me as if I were a tiny animal hiding behind a glass at the zoo. “Come here, sweetheart, and let me love on you.”

  Dylan was a lover and a hugger. If I was upset, he’d tuck me under his arm or pull me onto his lap whispering words of encouragement that made you think you were capable of anything. Right now, however, I wanted to ram his teeth down his throat.

  When he helped me back to my seat, there was a glint of humor he was still stuffing down. It was obvious the effect he had on me, and even more obvious, he enjoyed causing the effect.

  I’m not sure what I did. Maybe I stuck out my tongue; maybe I was picking burger out of my teeth. Whatever it was, Dylan grabbed his heart like he was negotiating with a coronary. “Omigosh,” he murmured, “run your tongue over your teeth one more time.”

  I mimicked a spit in his direction. “Guess what I’m thinking, D?”

  A slow smile curved on his full lips, making his dimples implode. “What?”

  “I’m seeing you on a tall building, and I’m pushing you off.”

  He threw his head back in a throaty laugh, giving me a lot of teeth. “Ah, sweetheart, only if you land on top of me.” Murphy thought Dylan was perfect. Be that as it may, Murphy didn’t know about the flirty banter. If he ever suspicioned a single, suggestive word, Dylan would be tongueless, sucking his meals through a straw.

  He reached out, caressing my dimpled chin with his thumb. Then as God and everyone else in the cafeteria as my witness, the boy kissed me so low on the cheek it might’ve been on my mouth.

  Dazedly, I heard an explosion and lusty outburst of laughter. I’d been gripping my chocolate milk so hard, it exploded like a geyser in my hand.

  Dylan’s smile turned smug. “Yeah, you feel it…” Abruptly he stopped, placed both hands on the table behind me, straddling my body with his arms. He bent into my personal space, dragging a long breath against my neck.

  Coming up inches from my mouth, he hissed, “Where’ve you been, and who was it with? You smell completely different.”

  I rolled my eyes. Sometimes he had no manners. I smelled underneath both arms, and realized it might be my sin.

  Dylan not so gingerly yanked me up by the elbow. “Walk with me,” he ordered angrily. When we pivoted toward the door (Dylan pivoted, I was drug along), he got a bellow across the room from Coach Wallace, frantically motioning for him to join him in front of the salad bar. Dylan growled, feeling the tug-of-war. He wasn’t through with me yet, but not respecting those in authority’s wishes was like desecrating hallowed ground. He had too much Boy Scout in him. Lifting my chin with his finger, he demanded, “Stay put, Darcy, we’re going to have a little talk.”

  There was no room for negotiation in his stubborn jaw. When I heard more laughs and whispers, I reluctantly turned to see all eyes on us, realizing we’d become the afternoon dinner theater.

  Dylan’s frustration was palpable. He grunted a loud disapproval, and for any that so much as snickered, he wrote their names down in his I Hold Grudges File in his brain. Don’t get me wrong, Dylan was more angel than anything else, but he never forgot a slight and was going to remember those faces until his heart beat no more. Me, I was an absolute moron. I probably gave people too many chances.

  When Coach Wallace yelled even louder, Dylan gave him a begrudging nod then reached into his back pocket, pulling out a ratty, red bandana laying it on the table before me. “What’s with the bandana?” he asked. I was frozen solid. I couldn’t move, breathe, swallow, or do anything but fear drool was dripping from my paralyzed mouth. “Darc?” he laughed.

  I yanked my t-shirt out from my neck, suddenly choking. “I, uh...where did you, um, get...that...th-thing?”

  “It was tied to your locker door.”

  I needed prayer. I needed someone with a direct line to God, like yesterday. Yes, I went to church on Easter Sunday, but I wasn’t sure that did any good when you darkened the doors only twice a year. Shakily taking it from Dylan’s hands, I watched him saunter over to Coach Wallace, only to turn around and mouth, “Stay put,” with a bossy frown.

  I sat there in helpless fascination, wondering why I had no backbone. My legs weren’t working anyway.

  Next thing you knew, Brynn Hathaway and Trudi Hatchett were standing next to me with smiles as fake as the meat stuck between my teeth.

  I glanced up, suddenly wishing I’d curled my hair. Brynn was so glamorous it was almost bewitching. She had a heart-shaped face with bright blue eyes and trademark chocolate brown waves. Throw in the fact that she was captain of the cheerleading squad, and it was almost too much to bear. Brynn was the It-Girl; everyone else (especially me) was the @#$%^&* girl...do the rhyming yourself.

  Barely bigger than Marjorie, she weighed around 90 pounds soaking wet and less than a zero size. In fact, the white jeans and black sweater she was wearing were probably found in the kid’s section.

  Instead of looking me in the eyes—which your basic politeness called for—they both gave my clothing the once-over. That wasn’t a good sign. My guess was that meant I was out of sync with the rest of the world. Wearing dark, skinny jeans and flip-flops, I’d topped off the ensemble with a blue t-shirt that had two fingers proudly in the peace sign. Funny, since I felt like I was at war.

  Taking the napkin Rudi offered, I wiped my hands then swallowed down some chocolate m
ilk, delaying a response just for the heck of it. “How’s Jon these days, T-R-U-D-I?” I smirked, when I was good and ready.

  Justice laughed out a “Ba dum-tss,” mimicking the roll of a drum-cymbal sequence delivered after a punch line. Believe it or not, Jon laughed. Rude behavior wasn’t the norm for me, but Trudi brought out the rude.

  Trudi started to fidget with a gold bangle, glancing from me to Jon willing him to defend what little bit of honor she had left. When he sat there stoically, Brynn finally found her voice. “We were waiting to speak with Dylan,” she cooed overly sweet. Oh, is that so? I thought. Trouble was, if Ivy had a crush, Brynn was flat-out in love. My jealousy swam to the surface.

  Can we say, Awkward tension?

  None of us were good with awkward tension, I suppose, since our eyes darted back and forth, wondering who was going to cut it. Finally, Finn spoke in a Scottish dialect, answering all those questions we knew Brynn was really asking. Like, Do I have a chance? Is he taken? What’s it going to take to get Darcy out of his life?

  “Doona git in a fankle, lasses,” he brogued, “but the Laird pledged his fealty to the bonny lass years ago. She’ll come first, and the Laird usually gets what the Laird wants.”

  The laird, I scoffed to myself. That meant he was a landowner. My word, was I the land?

  Jon grunted, shaking his head. “Ain’t that the truth. Whenever Walker’s in the vicinity, he’s one step from needing the zoo.”

  Brynn didn’t like the sound of that, sticking her lip out in a pout. Brynn was one of those people normally conscious of her appearance. The type that went to finishing school even though she was from the Midwest and not even close to debutante society. With Dylan—or maybe I should say sans-Dylan—she didn’t even try to mask her resentment.

  She said through gritted teeth, “I need to talk to him.” She added a silent, “Or else.”

  Suit yourself, I shrugged.

  Brynn and Trudi stood there at a wooden attention, only distracted when a faculty member asked Brynn about a paper she was writing.

  Justice took that time to whisper. “Hear the scoop on Brynn-baby?”

  Yeah, try that one on for size, folks. Brynn’s nickname amongst the boys was Brynn-baby. Brynn-baby from Hathawaywood. I added the Hathawaywood—like Hollywood—where all the beautiful people hail from.

  Jon and Finn leaned forward so fast they shook the whole table. “No,” they replied in unison.

  Justice’s eyes sparkled. “Collin sideswiped her and dumped her quicker than a load of bricks. I heard she didn’t take it well. Err, she was a witch—with a b.”

  Brynn dated (or had dated) the Student Council President, Collin Lockhart. I didn’t have any dealings with Collin, but knew he was notorious for being a fast-talking, silver-tongued pretty boy. The type headed for Wall Street capable of screwing the IRS code to the craptastic of levels.

  I finished off my burger, stole a look back to Dylan then nearly died on the spot when Liam maneuvered his rock-hard body in between Brynn and me.

  Once again, another pout from Brynn.

  “Hey,” he murmured. “Best friend back in town?” I gave him a smile. I didn’t know what to do. If I was shooting a rim shot, let’s just say I got nothing but air.

  Jon took another bite of pizza answering for me. “Yes, and word to the wise. He’s jet-lagged and not in a good mood.”

  Liam ran his hand through his thick brown hair. “I’m in a good mood,” he flirted. “So good I’d like to take you out on a date this weekend.”

  I think the world stood still. Liam’s voice was like velvet, melodic in nature. If he wasn’t such a fastard I’d agree on the spot. My face grew hot from a head-to-toe blush. Liam reached out, stroking my cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “You’re blushing.”

  I gave him a whole lot of no-comment.

  “Well, she’s a fool,” Jon grunted. His eyes slid out over my shoulder, his voice unexpectedly belting out a belly laugh. “And so are you. Taylor’s giving you the evil eye, man. My guess is you aren’t long for this world.”

  Liam dropped his hand—not intimidated—just irritated for the intrusion. He smoothed down the hem on his untucked, preppy pink polo that was grazing a pair of worn out jeans with a hole in the right knee.

  “So, what do you say, Darcy?”

  Absolutely nothing…

  Dylan was suddenly at my side, nuking whatever chance of a sweet reunion my romance-lover mind had dreamt up in the past thirty seconds. If you can say “instant entertainment,” it’s like we were in a Roman Coliseum watching gladiators duel to the death. Liam seemed to be aware of the crowd; Dylan could’ve cared less about the crowd. Dylan grunted, Liam grunted back. Liam leaned in toward me; Dylan bumped him in the chest. Liam angrily breathed in and out; Dylan sucked it out of his mouth and metaphorically spit it back in his face. Then Dylan absentmindedly played with a strand of my hair while he hummed (hummed, for God’s sake). No wonder everyone thought we had something going on. Trouble was, neither one of us could define the “something.”

  Thankfully, Liam’s phone rang, and when he pulled it out of his back pocket, I saw that the prefix was for Oxford, OH. The place I was certain the ex-girlfriend was...well, riding the cuckoo express. He declined the call with a blinking frown.

  “How’s the girlfriend, Woods?” Dylan said smugly.

  Liam ignored that statement and slammed the brakes on the posturing when he saw the bandana clutched tightly in my hand. “Our conversation,” he said flatly, “we never had it.”

  “I, uh…”

  When I didn’t respond, he TKO’d me with his eyes. “Later, Darcy,” he snarled. “I’ll call you later.” Then he turned on his heels marching out of the cafeteria, not looking back one time. I couldn’t help it, but I watched his rear end. My word, I was a sick individual.

  Dylan yanked me up by the elbow, and I felt my shoulder go in-and-out in what might’ve been a minor dislocation. He wanted to talk...I didn’t. But Brynn—who I almost forgot was standing next to us—was hellbent on talking even if it made her look desperate.

  She latched onto Dylan’s wrist. “Hi, Dylan,” she said with a wistful sigh. He gave her a tight smile. Brynn looked all dreamy-eyed. Honestly, she appeared a little vapid, if you asked me. I snorted to myself. That was wishful thinking. She was in the Gifted Classes with a goody-goody reputation. No way in the world could I compete with that.

  Case in point, I held hands with a dead man two weeks ago and was holding a red bandana that meant something...something I was sure Liam might know the answer to. “D, there’s something I need to take care of,” I said on an exhale.

  Dylan bellowed so loud it would’ve wakened the dead. “Walkie-talkie,” he growled.

  Aw, crap. I hated Dylan’s walkie-talkies. They consisted of him talking, and me walking around, trying to get away from him. When we were six years old, Murphy bought us walkie-talkies, and in my opinion, they were an electronic miracle that ranked right up there with the toaster. We tromped through the woods, hid inside the house, climbed atop roofs, and acted like we were super spies. Now, the teenaged version was reminiscent of drinking strychnine. Dylan would fish my arm through his, clamp it tight with the other, and I’d listen to every chastising word in a bobble-headed agreement.

  Before I knew it, we were standing at our lockers, my rear end backed up against the cold, gray metal—cornered with no place to go. “What’s going on, Darcy?” his voice boomed.

  I kept it simple. “Liam asked me out, and I was thinking about going.”

  Dylan’s jaw dropped, and he acted like I’d committed some unpardonable sin. “You do not ever speak to him again,” he said low. I nodded like a fool. “You do not date anyone ever without asking my approval.” I moved my head up and down. “In fact, you do not go out on a date period,” he pointed. It was almost like time stopped turning. As he calmly breathed, waiting for my acquiescence, I coughed, gagged three times then my nose ran like someone cranked its spigot on full b
last.

  Only he could provide such a systemic response from my body. I considered spitting in his face but was afraid he’d return the gesture.

  Dylan then lectured me on overall appropriate behavior, what some boys were really after, and what I concluded was proper teeth brushing, and the mating ritual of the peacock. Ten minutes later, he expelled his last breath in discipline. For what, he didn’t know. He was just relying on his gut. All I was thinking was, I needed a new best friend.

  23 INSURANCE POLICIES

  DYLAN ALWAYS FOUND that metaphorical sock to shove in my mouth...and I was dumb enough to eat it. Finally, I got a word in edgewise, and when I say edgewise, I mean edge-to-the-freaking-wise. “You don’t like him,” I said.

  Dylan had his locker door flung wide, slamming books in and out, clings and clangs ricocheting, as he was clearly unusually perturbed. Since our lockers were connected, my Spanish book fell to the floor from the aftershocks. I quickly picked it up, alphabetized, and replaced it on the top shelf.

  “No, I merely understand who he is,” he muttered low.

  “Which is?”

  “The type that takes advantage of girls. They never call again, and they make girls cry and best friends consider homicide.”

  Dylan did, at times, have a flair for the dramatic. Unfortunately, his logic was universal fastard law, and I couldn’t dispute it. Still, I wanted to fight him. “You don’t have to use the pronouns he or they, D. We both know you’re talking about Liam Woods.”

  Another book fell. Completely frustrated, this one he picked up, sliding it back in place—alphabetized and all. “I try to depersonalize him as much as I can.”

  “Depersonalize?” I snorted. “It’s not like some torrid love affair, Dylan. I just like him, that’s all.”

  “I swear, you exist merely to keep me humble.”

  I’m not sure what I heard next—frankly, it sounded like a wounded animal.

  I stopped for a minute and took a look at him, pounding away inside his locker. Had he grown? Or was the anger merely making him appear larger? The tension in his thighs was straining to explode, the power in his biceps begging to pound someone into the ground.