by A. J. Lape
“Hey,” I said.
I was immediately greeted with, “I apologize I haven’t called sooner.”
Enter Mother Teresa, because now...I felt sorry for him.
I blew out some air, glad that Marjorie excused herself to play with her Barbie dolls. One thing about Marjorie, she idolized me. Not in a million years would she think my actions were illegal. Even if she did, the kid would have my back.
Dropping the used cotton balls into the wastebasket, I stood up and retired into the privacy of my own room. My ego and heart had taken a beating with Oscar, but I had to cover what was on that videotape even if it ultimately alienated us. Why? I didn’t want to be defending the wrong guy, now, did I.
“What happened?” I asked, sitting down at my desk.
“I got in another fight and lost phone privileges.”
My air thinned, and my blood pressure bottomed out. “Why?”
“Someone hit me first, I hit them back.”
Such a perfunctory, involuntary reaction—but one that could keep him behind bars indefinitely.
“Makes sense,” I muttered.
As he sat silent, once more I wasn’t sure how much money was left on this MoneyGram. Furthermore, it dawned on me these calls might be monitored, but even if they were, Oscar presumably told his attorney whatever it was I was going to pull out of him anyway. I decided to qualify my series of questions first.
“Have you been totally honest with Odell Whitmeyer?”
Not even a pause. “Yes.”
Good, that was a good sign. “Then you need to tell me exactly what was on that videotape. There has to be something that makes them believe you not only killed Juarez, but Annie. What was it?”
If he was loose-lipped when he got arrested, talking to him now was like chasing a schizo coonhound. His conversation was all over the place. He told me he fought because he looked the biggest bully in the eyes. He then made a deal with another bully to have his back, only to find out those two were in cahoots in the first place. He was doing everything I told him not to do. (God help me, how and why did I even know these things?) Oscar then informed me that Frank “picked” a bicycle worth at least $800 last night from Heritage Country Club. Before I knew it, an hour had passed, and I still was nowhere.
Taking my lower lip between my teeth, I spit it out. “Oscar, why do they think you would want to hurt Annie?”
“Because I...I did hurt her.”
My heart flipped over backwards, hit my spleen then settled back somewhere in the middle of my chest.
Question answered: Oscar was the DNA underneath her fingernails.
In my experience, life had three categories: good, bad, and downright sucked. This would be the downright sucked category. Oscar’s earth-shattering, incredibly too-intense-for-words moment left me wondering if I were the worst judge of character ever. I’d never smelled anything nefarious other than your basic deviancy on him—could I have overlooked the worst of the worst??
“Did you do it?” I asked quietly. My voice squeaked like a mouse, worried what his answer was going to be.
“No, Darcy, I was just upset. We fought,” he exhaled. “I shook her by the shoulders when she told me she didn’t feel the same way. She scratched me. That was after I gave her all of my money, and I just—I just didn’t want her to go.”
Ugh, I thought, wincing my eyes shut. Why? Why couldn’t he have just walked away? That confession shook me to the core. I’m going to go out on a limb here, and say that was going to convict him quicker than Juarez. The long and short of it—crime of passion. It wouldn’t be a hard sell. He’d been playing knight-in-shining-armor to a young woman in a bad marriage. How heartbreaking, and how unbelievably torturous the way it turned out.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he whispered. The tone of his voice was of deep remorse and sorrow—so deep it was swallowing him in the eddy of the pain.
I tried to talk but my throat was dry. “I’m trying to think...that’s all.”
Trouble was, I wasn’t getting anywhere. The third body would clear Oscar, but that third body was killed in another city with a different county prosecutor. Did anyone even care they might be related? After a little sleuthing of my own, I narrowed down that John Doe was found off Central Parkway in the parking lot behind George’s Menswear, Roe’s Restaurant, and Pump & Grind Gym (classy name). Were those clues that tied into Tire Town and Valley High? Possibly...possibly not.
I was confused to the nth degree and didn’t know what to do next. There were too many questions and not enough time to find answers.
24 BADGIRL
IN CELEBRATION OF the full moon, I loaded Creedence Clearwater Revival on my iPhone, my ringtone now Bad Moon Rising. You know how they say a full moon brings out the crazy in people? Last night brought out the crazy in Dylan and me.
We had an argument. I think I tried to apologize...I think. I tried, but then he’d say something that made me angry, then he’d try to apologize, and I wouldn’t let him. It really went downhill faster than an avalanche when I asked if he told Brynn Hathaway any of my secrets. Let’s just say we had a cursing-like-a-sailor, domestic violence (not really, but it did get ugly), um, conversation. But there were embarrassing and painful situations about my life only he knew—he wouldn’t break those confidences, would he?
Insecurity was an emotion that was all too familiar, and I didn’t like it coming back with such full force. Especially with him. Call it a gift or call it a curse, but I was a pro at stuffing things down I didn’t want to deal with. I shoved that argument into that compartment of my brain that held all the other scary things I didn’t want to deal with and threw away the key.
What I wasn’t going to shove down was the fact that, oh, I don’t know...I needed to keep air in my body? Top of the to-do list for the day? Liam Woods. I had questions; Liam had answers. How did I find myself here? It all started with the uncontrollable urge to follow Jinx King down that proverbial primrose path. Its root? To get out of class and the fact I’d tanked another test. Who would’ve thought one uncontrollable urge would’ve led me to Alfonso Juarez, then to AVO, Northside, and the eventual framing of one of my friends, Oscar Small. The trouble with a personality like mine was you never knew when to stop; that one next step might be the missing puzzle piece you’d been looking for. Looking for that missing clue, more than likely was going to shove me in the ground where worms ultimately had their way with me.
Before I went to bed, I SKYPED Vinnie to see why he wasn’t at school. He said he’d hurt himself pulling his shorts on, but hey, who hasn’t? When we told one another how sucky our day had been, one thing led to another, and I clued him in on my plans to get close to Liam. Although he didn’t like my particular methods of obtaining information (honestly, it did feel sort of skeevy), I knew he’d keep my secrets.
Just to be sure, I got the bright idea to make him a “brother.” Initiation was simple. Vinnie was injured and feigning an injury myself, I told him to swear on his hurt leg we’d support one another; no ifs, ands, or buts. Then we performed our secret handshake, which was a modified chicken dance. There were two beaky hands, two flapping of our wings, three hip shakes then a chest bump—don’t knock it, it made sense in Cincinnati.
Evidently, Vinnie took his new brotherhood rules seriously because he soon buckled and gave me advice:
You’re too goody-goody, Dolce, he’d said. You send guys the wrong vibes.
I wasn’t aware I was sending any vibes, I told him.
Vinnie’s words to me? Get your badgirl on. I hear Liam likes the bad ones.
I wasn’t sure what that meant but was going to die trying to find her. Evidently, Vinnie felt I’d need help because next thing I knew, he was outside my house bearing gifts. He rolled down his window and threw a red push-up bra at me...I fainted. At least, I think I fainted, but when I looked at my bare feet I was somehow still vertical. That had to be wrong...had to be. Good boys didn’t do this, and God knows, good girls didn’t.
But this was Vinnie—what did I expect? He had two thoughts: females and moon pies. I was sure the earth would open up and bring us back to our fiery homeland, but I was hit with the realization that maybe Hell didn’t want us either.
This morning, I must’ve stood in my closet for fifteen minutes, trying to figure out what look could make me visually compete with Liam’s unnamed and unseen ex-girlfriend and Brynn Hathaway. I didn’t know anything about Liam’s ex, but regarding Brynn it wasn’t even comparing apples to oranges. It was comparing Crème Brule to a pile of shinola. Figure-wise she had me beat; clothing-wise she really had me beat. Other than a few pairs of discounted designer jeans, I didn’t own anything from Italy...the most expensive shoes I possessed were two pairs of UGGS, the majority of my wardrobe from Aeropostale’s, Abercrombie’s, Hollister’s, and Kohl’s clearance racks, the consignment store, and Target.
Deciding on a pair of super skinny jeans, I shoved my feet into fur-lined flip-flops, topping it off with a lightweight, long-sleeved black sweater that made me look like I had boobs. Underneath were some voodoo cream and the red push-up bra—I’d washed it twice then nuked it for 15 seconds in the microwave. I then blew my hair out straight but when my freshly cut bangs curled up into a salute, I pulled on a black headband. In general, my make-up routine wasn’t fancy. It was lip-gloss and mascara. Today, I made it the trifecta and added blush then lengthened my lashes to twice their size, rolling on two coats of Go Glam! red lipstick in—you guessed it—Hoochie Momma.
This was probably the best I was ever going to get, and when I looked in the mirror all I saw was a good-girl-trying-too-hard. Blotting my lips, I decided to own the look and hope that Liam appreciated boring.
I decided to test-drive my outfit. Leaning up against the locker, I swung out a hip and stuck my chest out as far as physics would allow without throwing-out my back. Vinnie looked at me oddly, like I was an alien hybrid or something. When I batted my eyelashes, he figured out my MO. His belly bounced up and down like Santa Claus. “That’s what you call badgirl, Dolce?” he chuckled. “I wish you would’ve told me because I would’ve dressed you myself.”
I looked at my jeans and sweater, ending with a pedicure in Don’t Know Jacque that in my opinion was to die for. I thought I looked pretty darn good, but apparently, I was missing the “bad” part. “What’s wrong with it?” I snorted.
“You were supposed to wear something short and tight that will keep a guy up at night.”
Vinnie and Finn Lively picked me up in the Bug this morning. Finn was using us as human shields against whatever-her-name-is that was a raging whackjob. Hiding behind my open locker door, he plopped a red Twizzler into his mouth, adding, “Low cut. Lots of skin.”
I blushed the color of a raging forest fire. No way in the world would I ever wear something low-cut with lots of skin. First, it would probably nauseate the opposite sex, and second...I guess a part of me shockingly was modest.
There were days when I felt like I had it all under control: I had a plan, I was firing on all cylinders, and nothing’s going to stop me. Those were the days I was sure there was a Divine Plan for my life because all I had to do was think, plan, and execute. Today was not one of those days. Vinnie told me all I needed were a pair of loafers and reading glasses, and I was middle-aged mom shopping at Talbots hiding underneath a Spanx girdle. Who would’ve thought my success today would be predicated on the fact whether Vinnie Vecchione felt like I looked like a badgirl? Frankly, that was a blow to my psyche on more than one level.
The hall was bustling with those running to first period when I literally wanted to pile back inside the Bug and head for a slutty girl store. Finn Lively, God love him, at least was somewhat supportive. He leaned in and said, “Whoever the guy is, be forward, Duckie. That’ll usually work.”
Okay, I was never forward...not with boys at least. I wouldn’t recognize forward if it slapped me in the face then kicked my behind. Like an invisible marionette had my head on a string, I glanced to the back hallway and in strutted Liam Woods. Head and shoulders above everyone, he was dark and handsome, slightly tanned, in jeans and a white rugby. If I were a DVR, I’d place him on pause. One word? Gorgeous. Two words? Off-limits.
Work it, Darcy. More teeth. More teeth.
I cupped my hands over my mouth. “Liam!” I yelled. “I see you, I see me, and a lot of foggy windows underneath the midnight blue sky. I don’t know, throw in some baby-making music, too.”
“Subtle,” Finn muttered, as he left and went to first period. Whatever, I thought. It was a freshman attempt; maybe I’d get better.
Vinnie gasped like someone just clotheslined him in the windpipe. “Dolce! Not everyone’s going to know the real you. Don’t joke like that and expect things to always go well.”
I couldn’t help it. I needed his attention and Liam looked good...like sinfully-delicious-and-bound-for-the-sanitarium good if he didn’t notice you. Vinnie chuckled, “Good luck,” then left me standing, right as it felt like I got harpooned in the backside.
I didn’t even turn around. Dylan’s anger arrived before he did. “Nice pick-up line, Darcy. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination.” With an angry palm, he banged his locker door wide, throwing his books in haphazardly. They kerplunked on the bottom, rattling the locker doors adjacent to his. The guy to his right dumbly gave him a look that Dylan silenced in less than one second with a scowl.
The blood drained from my face. With everything that happened, wouldn’t you know he’d look cute, all faded jeans and gray t-shirt scrumptious? I sneered, “Yeah, you still angry?” He did nothing but narrow his amber eyes. “Well, good, me too.”
“Good,” he repeated even nastier. Heck, I didn’t know how to have an argument with him, but it bothered me I was getting the hang of it a little too easily.
He pivoted an angry foot toward me. “Darcy,” he started.
“Bye,” I said, when out of the blue, a tremor shook me from head to toe. Liam was standing to my left, right arm leisurely and possessively hanging over my shoulder, his smile on steroids. I must’ve been smiling something fierce because Dylan looked like I’d just sent him to the gas chamber.
Neither acknowledged the other...shocking. “We’re going to be late for class, Darcy,” Dylan grumbled. “Let’s go.”
“The party’s just starting,” Liam grinned.
There was a weighty silence.
I glanced at Dylan.
I glanced at Liam.
Then I continued the process two more times considering my options. (A), go with Dylan, preserve my friendship, and be as safe as safe could be. (B), go with Liam, screw my friendship to heck, and more than likely not live to see my sixteenth birthday. Let’s face it, if he had information (which I think he did) I was going to act upon whatever he gave me. The only way to get that information, though, was to be on him like white on rice and (gulp) maybe act like a badgirl.
Be forward, I heard Finn say. I cranked up my smile. “I like parties.” Okay, that was corny, but I didn’t care.
Dylan took two slow, methodical steps forward, his chest practically bumping Liam’s. He wrapped his hand around his arm, removing it from my shoulder, never looking him in the eye once. “You hate parties,” he said to me, twining my fingers in his.
Liam tried to mask a frown but wasn’t successful. He stopped the scowl and painted on one of those killer grins that were the hallmark of the fastard. “Your best friend has this way of blocking any advances I make,” he said smoothly. Translation? Why do you always do as he says? The answer was easy. I heard a lot of noise between my ears and Dylan silenced the noise. It was sort of mandatory for my sanity to keep him around.
“It’s going to take medication and extensive psychotherapy to pry me away from Dylan, Liam. Just ignore him,” I said.
Something rumbled in Dylan’s chest. “Maybe some things aren’t meant to be ignored,” he snapped. Dylan was clenching and unclenching his left fist. I wondered if he thought it was what shouldn
’t be ignored.
Before I could say anything, Dylan drilled a cold, bored, and emotionless gaze into Liam. A challenge was thrown between them as each negotiated with some emotions best kept private. Maybe that was the quandary—maybe neither wanted them private. “As much as it may damage your ego, Woods,” Dylan said snidely, “it’s honestly not been hard to block your advances.”
“I haven’t really tried yet, Taylor. Just wait until I do.”
“I don’t anticipate breaking a sweat any time soon.”
“Cocky, aren’t you?”
Dylan gave him a small shrug, and started speaking slowly. I knew what that meant...he was going in for the kill and wanted to make sure you didn’t miss anything—spoken or innuendo. “I prefer the word confident,” he finally said. “Believe me, I don’t suffer from any identity crisis whatsoever.”
“Is that an implication I might?”
Another small shrug. “I don’t imply. If you inferred that, then you’re obviously insecure.”
Liam smirked. “You sound jealous. Maybe it’s because I’m the better man.”
“Maybe not,” Dylan countered.
“No, I’m certain I’m an absolute.”
A devilish smile painted on Dylan’s lips. “If you’re so absolute, then why’s Darcy still holding my hand?” Ouch. You had to give Dylan props. No one could return a barb quicker than him.
Liam didn’t respond. I must say, he had to wonder. Frankly, so was I.
Now that Liam was literally within arm’s reach, I found myself stalling. Having two, strong virulent males argue over you ought to be a head rush. For some reason, I felt icky and wanted to kick them both between the knees. I’d always heard about those girls that come between males. Murphy told me about them, and I’d never wanted to be someone that found their self-worth in males fighting over them. But they weren’t fighting over my love, per se, and their contempt for one another didn’t hold me at its core. Both were notoriously competitive, and their fascination with me was merely recognizing and trying to eliminate someone that had wandered into their territory.