Grade a Stupid

by A. J. Lape

  I lightly touched his lower back, afraid of what I’d unleash if I didn’t tread lightly. “I need to talk to you, D.” When he didn’t respond right away, I added a whispering, “I need my best friend.”

  Dylan slowly and methodically closed the door to his locker, his English book now gripped tightly in his left hand. His jaw ticked a few times while he negotiated with his emotions, probably telling his tongue to stay put and let me do the talking.

  He gave me a tight and exhausted, “Okay.”

  I took a deep breath, wondering how in the world this was going to play itself out. I was interested in Liam Woods. For various reasons. Right now, I didn’t know if it was clearly of the male-female variety or the Darcy’s-really-nosy variety. “Before you say no,” I said softly, “should I go out with him? I’ve never gone out with anyone, and maybe I need to jump right in with both feet.”

  Dylan visibly swallowed, blindsided. Tucking a stray wisp of hair behind my ear, he acted like he was trying to fix something that might not be as perfect as he’d like it to be. His eyes softened. “I believe if you have to think about whether you like someone, it’s not a good sign that it’s going to be something everlasting.”

  Well, what in the heck did that mean? I was a simple person, people. Was he deliberately trying to confuse me? I clarified, “So, I should only go out if I believe it’s everlasting?” Dylan deliberated like he was trying to figure out how to rephrase...or dumb it down. Let’s face it, this was me.

  Dumb was what I did best.

  He grew more serious, raking his hand through his black-as-night hair. “You should only go out if you can’t help but be around the person. There should be a pull. They should be someone you think about all the time,” he murmured, slowly. “You long to hear their voice, you ache to hold their hand,” he said even quieter, “you just want,” he stopped with a whispering shrug, “to be with them.”

  “I should know,” I rephrased.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” he nodded with a wink. “You should know.” Dylan always winked as a way to tell me things would be okay, but this subject was raw, too raw...for both of us.

  I grabbed his right hand, drawing it to my lips, not caring that anyone around could see the depth of our connection. “Dylan, the last thing I ever want to do is hurt your feelings.”

  I might as well have dropped the A-bomb.

  He cleared his throat, eyes wide, visibly surprised and upset. Anger, sadness, and frustration tensed in the muscles in his body. For the life of me, this felt like its origins were of something other than disdain for one of Valley’s notorious fastards.

  Another day, I told myself. A question for another day.

  His eyes searched mine frantically. “Take me out of the equation, Darc. Even if you weren’t afraid of my feelings, never hook up with someone who uses you and their current girlfriend as an insurance policy.”

  I understood insurance. My father was an underwriter. Trouble was, Murphy said you could never have enough.

  “We don’t know that call was his girlfriend, D. That’s merely conjecture.”

  Dylan didn’t say anything for a long spell. When he did speak, he reminded me of the story Justice said about Liam treating his last girlfriend so badly it left her, well...crazy.

  He narrowed both eyes. “Sometimes conjecture is fact. And even if it’s not, it’s something you should investigate before you leave your heart vulnerable. Are you still interested in someone that might be stringing someone else along?”

  Honestly? I was just sort of glad someone noticed me.

  When I didn’t answer, Dylan swallowed even deeper. We faced off chest-to-chest, and breath-to-breath. For once, I didn’t know what was going to happen. A part of me wanted to talk more about Liam; while the other needed a confessional on the messes I’d gladly jumped right into. Still another part needed something I had no words or explanation for.

  I shakily exhaled, wondering why I’d been holding my breath. His amber eyes were like a lion assessing its prey. Contemplative. Strategizing. A look that warmed my insides when I should’ve been running for cover. Dylan’s body burned mine everywhere it touched, and let me tell you, it was touching in a lot of places. We had some wicked chemistry. So wicked, it literally chipped away at my IQ points.

  “D-d-don’t look at me like that,” I stuttered breathlessly, “I can’t think when you do.”

  His eyes looked ancient and pained. “And yet you’re thinking of Liam Woods,” he said softly.

  “Uh-huh.” Well, relatively speaking.

  He lightly frowned, the moment zapped to Hades. Dylan took a careful step back collecting himself. As if touching me would take him to a place he couldn’t control. Stuffing his right hand in his pocket, it’s almost like he didn’t trust it to not betray him in some way. “If he cleans up his personal life, would you still be thinking of him?” he asked. “This is about you, not me. If you’re happy, I can be happy.”

  He said that with a ripe conviction, but we both knew that would never be true in a million years. But maybe that was it. Maybe I didn’t know how to be happy without him, or maybe I could, and it scared me.

  “I wouldn’t even know what to do,” I mumbled.

  It was the end of seventh period. Egads, Jon Bradshaw was gone; Vinnie didn’t even grace Valley with his presence, so that left me...and Bus 150. We hated one another. As I shoved my books into my backpack, Dylan threw a well-muscled arm around my shoulder, walking me outside. Right in front of the Death Mobile, we brushed our cheeks together—our version of a kiss—during our too-long hug.

  “I missed you,” he whispered into my ear.

  Well, I missed him, too, and as no surprise “our little disagreement,” as he’d termed it, was all but forgotten. My brain, however, was on system failure, red lights blinking, all alarms beeping to exit the building. I was trying to stay alive. The word “insurance” made me think of that red bandana the last half of the day. How could I ensure it didn’t mean something catastrophic in the armpit I called my life? In the spirit of self-preservation, I needed to know its message now and not tomorrow.

  “Call me later?” I asked him.

  “Sooner’s preferred,” he winked.

  Taking a step toward the bus, I jolted or maybe I was instantly frozen, because I heard that voice that would forever be in my nightmares purring my best friend’s name.

  “Dylan!” Brynn Hathaway yelled, all sticky and sugary sweet.

  Well, well, well, guess she couldn’t get enough of him either.

  I shot a glance over my left shoulder as he gave her his totally undivided attention. The winds were forty miles per hour today. I felt like I was standing in a wind tunnel that was spitting in my face. For Brynn, it merely looked like a light, cool breeze. It kicked up her brown curls, framing her heart-shaped face like she was riding horseback in a field of wildflowers.

  Hard to complete with a field of wildflowers.

  Why was she here? The answer was simple: she was a junior with her driver’s license. My guess was she was offering to take him home when I was going to lounge in the urine and stale hamster food smell of Bus 150.

  Sooooo unfair.

  I read his lips. He reminded her he had baseball practice where she innocently smiled she’d forgotten (the liar) but didn’t mind waiting. You see, it wasn’t just that she had a crush on my best friend. Brynn literally was the girl-next-door in Dylan’s life—her own private mansion next to his in fairyland.

  Dylan gave me one last smiling wave, but dang it, I gave him a dirty look—mouth all twisted up into a scowl that’d make Ivy Morrison look like an amateur. His head jerked back startled, and we had one of those heated exchanges with high-powered adjectives and adverbs when all we were doing was staring.

  What the heck’s up? I said to him.

  He narrowed his eyes. What the heck’s up with you? I frigging deserve an explanation pronto.

  Can the cursing, I snorted.

  The sentence doesn’t pack
the same punch, he scoffed sarcastically. Answer the question, Darcy. What’s going on between you and two-timing Woods?

  Before more nonverbal verbiage could be dispensed, the bus driver barked for me to step on or step off. After one last dirty look, I stepped on, realizing once again I wasn’t in the driver’s seat anywhere in my life. How in the world was I going to reestablish the upper hand? I could push Dylan to the back burner for the time being. But Northside 12? I wanted to think my fears were 100% bogus, but anyone that had half a brain knew they weren’t.

  Thirty minutes later, I was sitting on the floor in my room surrounded by a semi-circle of empty candy wrappers. Candy wasn’t my first choice. In fact, Claudia made a big batch of chocolate chip cookies. I wanted them more than my next breath, but God only knew if they were laced with elephant tranquilizers.

  This was full-steam ahead time, and if I was going to find out anything about the particular idiosyncrasies of Northside 12, or even AVO, I knew who I had to call.

  Tapping in my most recent contact, the phone rang six times before he answered.

  “Jaws,” he sighed.

  “Jester,” I sighed back.

  A deep laugh. “I absolutely love it that you’ve blocked your number, Jester. There might actually be some brains behind all that stupidity.” I thought of a four-lettered word but kept it to myself. “What do you need?” he asked. “Finally, my day might get interesting.”

  “No more interesting than mine,” I said. “I’m teetering on freaked-out, and I don’t like to be freaked-out any more than I have to be.”

  I swear it, the man groaned. “Freaked-out is not a verb, Jester. It’s slang vernacular that simple-minded people use who don’t have a vast vocabulary.”

  Not this again...I didn’t have the time. “The urban dictionary recognizes it, Jaws, and that’s good enough for me.”

  “We can cover that later. I assume there’s a reason you called?”

  “Why would Northside 12 tie a red bandana on my locker door?”

  He inhaled sharply, muttering what sounded like a prayer. “You’ve been marked.” He then paused, adding quietly, “I’m sorry.”

  Ah, threats and manipulation...when in doubt those always seemed to work. But he acted like whatever was to come was a done deal. Period.

  I started to fidget, a prickle working its way up my spine. “How can I undo whatever I’ve done?”

  Another sharp inhale. “It’s done, Jester. I suggest you skip town or hire some serious manpower to keep breath in your body. But you’re worrying me. I haven’t quite grasped your personality yet. You’re fifteen; therefore, you should be terrified and sucking your thumb. What’s your family like? Your breeding is either with a high sense of morality, or you might be lacking in the brains department.”

  That took a minute or two for my mind to process. My family wasn’t shocked by the occasional threat. That came from being related to two attorneys. When my aunt and uncle put away a drug kingpin last winter, rumor said our family and any close friends were living on borrowed time. Murphy took matters into his own hands along with two of his hillbilly soulmates. They drove downtown armed with a Browning, two sawed-offs, and a Louisville slugger, and busted up a local hangout Kentucky-style. Murphy said God told him to “clean house.” I’m not sure the edict came from God, but Murphy could always walk out of scrapes unscathed when a normal person would be full of bullet holes.

  I picked up a Hershey’s wrapper and licked off the chocolate residue. “I don’t plan on dying tonight, Jaws, so why don’t you tell me what you found out about Northside and AVO? Any names other than the ones I know for sure?”

  I shadowed members all afternoon—of course at a respectable distance—to the bathroom, gym, and lunchroom, but got zilch. I made eye contact with those in class, and they were either better actors, or it wasn’t their bandana. Jinx was all about his homework when he practically beat down the door to Belinski’s last Thursday night. Furthermore, even though I saw Juan in Spanish 3 (before the bandana was discovered), I had a feeling he’d give me one of those psychotic smiles just to make me sweat. All I got was a big, ole goose egg. I even brought up the subject of the dead squirrel and got nothing but “eeeuws” and “grosses.” Frankly, I was flummoxed. We’d developed this relationship of firing cannons at one another then rubbing it in your face that you were the one lighting the fuse. Wouldn’t they do the same here?

  Especially, if it were some death calling card?

  “If I need to remind you, I’m working with a handicap at the moment,” Jaws said, “but my sources cast a very wide net. Be patient, and when I say patient, I mean be straighter than an arrow and try to stay alive.” Jaws paused, chuckling darkly. “I must say, I’ve begun to root for you, Jester. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I like you, but dang, it’s pretty close.” My arms suddenly hurt from digging my grave—shovel after stupid shovel—I knew was sure to come. Jaws then said, “If my manners serve me correctly this is where you’re supposed to say thank you.”

  Well, no kidding, but currently I felt like I was caught in a stranglehold. Jaws, in no way, was an idiot. In fact, he appeared, well...sort of dignified with a higher than average intelligence. Then why in the world did he run with people in the circles that he did? My sense of self decided not to answer that question when I realized I was someone trying to get into that group.

  Jaws promised me “on his mother’s grave” he’d have names by week’s end. Somehow, I needed to acquire his given name before he realized I was Darcy Walker. Anonymity—I’d learned the hard way—was the best vehicle by which to work. I wasn’t going to rat him out, but I’d like to have something to hold over his head if he ever turned on me.

  Regarding Northside, they may have won this round, but I absolutely, unequivocally refused to let them win another. They scored with the squirrel and bandana; they weren’t going to score again. That was the type of egotistical greed we were playing with—but guess what, my ego was bigger than theirs.

  All of that Easter candy was bouncing around in my gut. I had a sugar hangover and swallowed down two, Extra Strength Tylenol with an Alka-Seltzer. Murphy dropped his keys and briefcase on the countertop during the plop-plop, fizz-fizz.

  “Too much sugar?” he chuckled.

  I rolled my eyes, wishing I had more self-control as I slid onto a stool. “Murphy, can I go out on a date?”

  Murphy made some sort of choking sound, losing his smile. He wore a jacket and necktie into work because agents were visiting. Loosening his red tie, he immediately opened the dishwasher. “Your openers suck the marrow from my bones.”

  Well, I had to get his attention somehow. “You never answered.”

  Murphy was surprisingly calm. Taking out the top row of glasses and stacking them one-by-one in the cabinet, he eyeballed an orange tumbler then hand-washed it for a second time. After he dried the glass with a tan, plaid hand towel, he said, “It depends on whom the date is with. What’s your boy say?”

  Dylan actually wasn’t saying anything. It was: Dylan lecture Darcy, me sorta understand, me cave and do what he wants—you know, the usual. Plus, I had the added bonus of watching him one-on-one with Brynn-baby. That was a sight I didn’t care to repeat.

  “In so many words,” I explained, “he said Liam was a fastard, and I’d be wasting my time.” Murphy understood the term. In fact, he laughed so hard when I told him my definition, he ultimately got ticked off he hadn’t invented it himself.

  “I have to agree,” he chuckled, eyes squinting. “It seems your boy’s been doing a lot of thinking.”

  Dylan was always thinking. I couldn’t always keep up.

  I downed the last of my Alka-Seltzer then shivered as the bubbles traveled up my nose. “Dylan’s like a dog, Murphy. Liam even looking at me is like a stray peeing in his yard.” Murphy chuckled a coughing-snort. “Whatever,” I shrugged, “I thought the dating process was when you got to know somebody.”

  “It is, Darcy, but make sure there’s
at least somewhat of an attraction before you lead someone on. That’s not something you want on your conscience. Who is it?”

  I spit out, “Liam Woods,” immediately wishing I could un-spit it.

  The tenor of Murphy’s breathing elevated. “That swim team boy you brought home awhile back?”

  “Yeah, but he has a girlfriend, or at least he did, I think, but she’s still sort of in the picture...maybe.”

  “Uh-huh,” he grunted. “That’s a major red flag and too many ‘I thinks,’‘sort ofs’, and ‘maybes.’ You have to make sure that someone’s worthy of you, kid. I haven’t had time to run a credit check or see if he has any priors. Besides, you’re not sixteen yet and even then, we’ll have to see. Once a cheat, always a cheat, in my opinion.”

  The laugh flew out before I could convince it to stay put. That was a case of the pot calling the kettle black. Murphy notoriously cheated on his girlfriends until he met my mother.

  Unfortunately, his happily-ever-after didn’t last very long.

  “Okay,” he chuckled, “I retract that statement, but take it from somebody that lived it. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a broken nose as an eternal reminder.”

  I really didn’t have time for Liam until Oscar was out of jail and AVO-slash-Northside were out of business anyway. In my fifteen—almost sixteen—years of dysfunction, I’d found I could only handle one obsession at a time. Okay, maybe two at most, but I had a feeling Liam would be a full-time job.

  “It’s Oscar.”

  Oscar, I thought. I was sitting in the middle of the bathroom floor with Marjorie polishing our nails. Putting the lid back on OPI’s Don’t Know Jacque (loved that name), I stuffed a cinnamon roll in my mouth, halfway glad he called, halfway angry he’d left me hanging. The last I’d spoken with him via telephone was Tuesday after I’d emptied my bank account to listen to his sorry butt. Granted, we spoke again Wednesday when I masqueraded as a law clerk, but since then, he might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.