Grade a Stupid

by A. J. Lape

  A Spring Break movie was playing where piranha eat teenagers. I sat down in front of the TV and watched two feet get gnawed off until a mammoth explosion from the pool stole my attention.

  Something was broken, or somebody just died. Maybe both.

  Apparently, Dylan was roused, too, because he grabbed my hand, urgently dragging me into the glass-enclosed room like we alone were the emergency medical technicians. The boy had a hero complex; someone needed to talk to him about it.

  Once inside, it was difficult to not get overcome with the place. The blue pool was totally lit on the bottom. It made the track lighting on the walls and overhead almost a waste of money. A mahogany finished metal table with four matching chairs anchored every corner; two basket-weave chaise lounges lined the sides.

  Eight guys were rough-housing in the shallow end, red plastic cups spilled under several chairs, towels were floating in the pool, and honest to God, a pair of orange swimming trunks and white bikini top were wrapped around the diving board. Hazarding a look up, I saw the bikini bottom hanging from a fake ficus tree.

  Frankly, it was impressive.

  Dylan scrubbed a hand down his jaw then rotated it around to run through his hair. “Oh, God,” he gasped. “Dad’s going to kill somebody.”

  Dylan’s father had three rules: he pays, no booze, and clean up after yourself. Those last two were in question. The pool area looked like a tidal wave had a play date with a funnel cloud. Dylan told me on the phone earlier his dad was finalizing some make-up deal with a European conglomerate to invest in Go Glam! Cosmetics...he was an Executive VP there. That was when he thought there were only four people present. All I knew was, he needed to invest in some body bags once he got a load of his lower level.

  Sydney was squatting down in the middle of a group of people, cleaning up broken glass, wearing a red string bikini that had the word “kiss” on her left bum cheek, the word “my” on the right. Right there in big black letters.

  Not able to contain the laugh, I was hoping to find a suit that said, “find” on one boob, the word “my” on the other.

  Seriously, we really needed a search party.

  Like Dylan, she had jet-black hair but the refined face of her mother with eyes like coal. Plus, she was teeny-tiny. Two inches shorter than me, she was stacked upstairs with a sway back that tipped her derriere out so far it practically hit her in the back of the head. If the body wasn’t enough of a shock to the male population, she had a rich contralto voice. In fact, she sounded hoarse all day long. And when you sound like you’d just rolled out of bed, I think it gave guys ideas.

  Stepping around some of the mess, we snatched the wet towels out of the pool and hung them on nearby chairs to dry.

  Forgoing a greeting, Dylan belted out, “Has Dad seen your suit?”

  Sydney dumped the shards into a trashcan, rose up smiling and said in a gravelly brogue. “Hello, little brother. Hey, Darcy.”

  I returned the sentiment; Dylan sort of grunted.

  She ignored Dylan’s question and touched the guy’s shoulder next to her. “This is Bronx Allister, Darcy.”

  Extending my hand, I tried my best to not act shocked, but honestly, there was no other way to react to her new boyfriend.

  About my height, Bronx was her newest paramour who by the disinterested hint in her voice was about to become old news. From New York, he and Sydney had dated for the past three months, but in Sydneyland, three months meant she was now bored.

  With brown hair and eyes, Bronx was preppy in that Nantucket sort of way. His pants were pink and peach plaid with a yellow oxford underneath a fuchsia velvet jacket, a paisley ascot wrapped around his neck. To top off the bizarre, Bronx was leaning on a mahogany wooden walking stick with a gold-encrusted top.

  Dylan looked at him, blinked three times then shook his head, basically calling him an idiot. “Dude, that’s just wrong.”

  Bronx laughed, not sounding wounded at all. “Sydney likes it.”

  Dylan muttered, “Sydney’s brought all kinds of idiots into the house, but I have to say, you bring a whole new level of weird.”

  He gave a small shrug. “Get used to seeing it, Dylan. I’m going to be around for a while.”

  “Um, good luck with that,” I almost said out loud. Sydney liked the chase; she didn’t like the prey once it was caught.

  Dylan did an exaggerated eye roll. “Well, you’re not only weird, you’re dumb. Sorry, man, but three months is about the longest relationship she’s ever had. My guess is you won’t even make it past the weekend.”

  Bronx’s grin grew so big I thought he’d break his face. “Ah, Sydney said you’re the possessive type...with every female in your life.” Bronx stole a look at me like I’d know what he was referring to. Sure, I knew what he was referring to. Dylan liked to keep Sydney and me closer than his own shadow. I didn’t like anyone busting on Dylan, though—especially when I knew the true reason he was overprotective. A part of me wanted to explain away any confusion that existed on the topic. Another part knew if I got really detailed, I’d be revealing parts of my personality and family I’d learned to protect.

  For some reason, that comment made Dylan territorial. Pulling me to his side, he grunted, “How did the two of you meet anyway?”

  Bronx smoothed down the crease in his slacks. “We have an eight o’clock business class together.”

  Dylan burst out laughing. “Sydney getting up before noon is tantamount to a seeing the Yeti. You hear it could happen, but no one’s ever around to document the case with a camera. My guess is you’re lying, and that’s the story you’ve concocted to impress my father.”

  Trying not to laugh, I snorted loudly then launched into a coughing fit. I bent over as Dylan pounded on my back in between laughing at his own wit and the way I was reacting to it.

  As I coughed like a sputtering car, Bronx literally pushed himself between Dylan and me. “Let me help,” he said urgently, “I’m premed.”

  “Premed,” Dylan snorted. “How many classes?”

  “One and a half,” he told him, proudly. “Allergies?” he said to me.

  I gave him a coughy and sneezy heck-if-I-know look.

  He moaned sympathetically. “Tis the season.”

  As Dylan and Bronx debated his credentials, my sneezing subsided, but Fate gave me another reason to hyperventilate. When I stood back aright, from the corner of my eye, I saw a string-bikini-clad Brynn Hathaway making a beeline through the sand for Dylan.

  Oh, God, I prayed, she’s got a cute butt.

  Dylan turned right about the time she wrapped her arms around his waist. She didn’t just wrap them; she splayed her fingers and groped in a sight so evocative my jaw dropped wide. His eyes flew open, like they do when life throws something at you that you weren’t expecting. I got a feeling this sort of greeting was a commonplace occurrence.

  Trouble was, her pink bikini had ruffles on the backside. Honestly, it reminded me of those little bloomers you put on baby girls just because they’re cute. As he awkwardly hugged her back, I tried to console myself with the fact that at least he didn’t fluff her ruffles.

  Once she was through with the goo-goo eyes, she gave me a tight, “Hello.”

  Jeez, she didn’t even say my name, almost as if it were anathema to her lips.

  That meant more than Dylan probably wanted to admit. Bronx seemed to get it. He tapped me with his cane, whispering, “Ooh, watch out for that one.”

  No kidding. A bad situation just got really worse. She’d added blonde highlights to frame her face, and a look at her toes showed the exact shade of pink as her makeup and suit. It just wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t. I honed in on the rhythmic wave of the water, gently lapping against the sides of the pool and the nearby bubbling of the hot tub. Relaxing sounds. I tried to distance myself from their conversation—taking in the elements—but no element was bigger in my universe than wondering if I was going to have to hold hands with Brynn Hathaway at the holiday table.


  Watching Dylan interact with her and Sydney’s friends made my heart thud irregularly. It wasn’t like I was excluded. When I’d try to pull away, he’d gently pull me back in, but the whole deal was overwhelming. I was beginning to understand there were parts of his life we didn’t share. They were telling familiar jokes, reminiscing about shared experiences, making me feel like the fifth wheel. Maybe that’s what I deserved since he knew nothing about me at the moment.

  Successfully stealing away when the crowd grew larger, I meandered through four people shooting pool, said “hey” to three people I’d never met, when my gaze fell on someone sifting through the CD collection.

  Collin Lockhart, Brynn’s ex-boyfriend. Yeesh, weren’t we just one big happy family.

  He wasn’t wearing beachwear—just a nice pair of jeans, a blue and white golf shirt, and sneakers. Made me wonder if he crashed the party, or perhaps he was self-conscious he didn’t have a tan.

  Call me a glutton for punishment, but I walked right up with the intention of asking what was going on in his personal life. Translation? Was there something between Dylan and Brynn I should know about? The closer I got, the bigger the chicken I became. That’s right...call me Darcy-bock-bock-bock-Walker. Collin was sad. The kind of sad that sucked the good humor out of the people around you. I had a job to do tonight, the last thing I needed was an emotional distraction.

  Right as I was bolting, he looked up with half a grin, his sky-blue eyes tormented and confused. Jeez, now I felt obligated. “Why aren’t you inside with the fun?” I fake smiled.

  “It’s a little crowded,” he mumbled, pitching a nod toward Dylan.

  Well, it is his party.

  Dylan’s black t-shirt was stretched to capacity, drawing my eyes down to his slim waist, black board shorts, and long and powerful legs. While he casually stood in all his Dylan-ness, he seemed like he was an ocean away on another continent. Closing my eyes, there was no question how this was going to play itself out: Dylan plus beautiful girls equaled a lonely Darcy.

  Swallowing down the dread, I opened my eyes with a sigh, finding Dylan’s eyes instantly, like we were tethered together by our subconscious. I swear, it’s like he knew, because his eyes softened and he winked, his hand touching his heart. Taking one step toward me, Sydney grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back into the dialogue. I waved him off, like I’d be okay by myself for a few (big lie, but oh well). Drawing his left hand to his lips, he blew me a tender kiss.

  Funny, I felt like the little wife at home.

  After five minutes with Collin, I started looking for a cyanide capsule. The clinking and clattering sounds from the outside patio captured my gaze, diverting my interests from the let’s-fondle-Sydney’s-little-brother thing going on and Collin’s list of regrets. I focused on the tiny silhouette of a ponytailed female hunched over the grill. Peeling off her black track jacket, she looked to the sky, grumbling toward it. Like she was praying or asking it to strike her down. Two males with their backs to the french doors were holding platters as she dumped massive amounts of hamburgers onto them.

  Dylan’s mother. About 5’8” tall, she had his same amber eyes with delicate features, tawny hair, and an air of class and timeless sophistication.

  I headed straight for the coat closet for my jacket and pajama bottoms. They were nowhere to be found; God only knew what that meant. Shrugging it off, as soon as I stepped into the barbeque pit my nose hairs singed, and my hair blew back in an instant frizz. Coming up behind her, I circled my arms around her waist, giggling, “This is stupid.”

  That’s all it took to light a fire to her mouth.

  Slamming the lid shut on the grill, she turned and snapped, “Let me tell you how ridiculous I feel. I’m grilling when there are two inches of sand in my house to keep my daughter happy and the two-dozen people she invited home when it was only supposed to be two. Where am I supposed to have these kids sleep? And why do parents think it’s okay for them to spend the night here anyway? Isn’t anyone concerned about anyone’s virtue anymore?”

  Probably not, but then there was Murphy. He had me dressed like an idiot. My virtue was not in question tonight.

  She gave her head a quick shake, holding her chin up proudly, finally locating her West Coast debutante breeding. “Excuse me, Darcy,” she murmured, motioning to the two boys that turned around. “This is Jinx and Juan. They volunteered to help me.”

  Shoot, shoot, and sonovagun shoot. Most people walked down dark alleys to find the bogeyman, all I did was go outside to flip burgers and found two. If I was afraid my text was going to get me nothing, I could rid myself of that thought right now. Both boys, dressed in black shorts with red bandanas hanging out of the back pocket, had gone straight for the lady of the house. She was nothing but smiles, when theirs held nothing but secrets, lies, and the promise of more abominations to come. Trouble was brewing. If they wanted to score the first point, let’s just say they were dangling me headfirst over the ledge with no intention of pulling me back up. In silence, we helped Dylan’s mother load the next course of food onto a platter while I fleetingly wondered if I was dessert.

  My mind flooded with thoughts of Oscar. I’d never been behind prison bars, but I’d lived behind metaphorical bars for a large portion of my life. When you find yourself imprisoned like that, you withdraw into yourself as protection only to find you’ve alienated people and responsibilities because you’ve lost blocks of time. In reality, it may have been a matter of weeks or months; for you, it was one continual 24-hour period that was never the end of day or night. When you have something that strips you of your will like that, you either come out a fighter or an eternal victim.

  Every day, I reminded myself to not be a victim, but being the hero wasn’t exactly a piece of cake either. Some say heroes are born, others say they’re made. Right now, everything in me wanted to cut and run but that would leave people I loved with one, possibly two murderers. I might be a lot of things—first thought a bona fide fool—but coward in the face of danger wasn’t one of them.

  That didn’t mean I wasn’t quaking in my shoes.

  After we deposited the food on the counter top, Jinx and Juan followed me to the right side of the basement where a basketball floor/weight room was located. They’d been partitioned off for the evening—in other words, “stay out”—and when we went inside, I flipped on the lights.

  Olympic size barbells, leg machines, a treadmill, and dumbbell weights lined a mirrored wall on top of gray mats. A red punching bag hung from a chain on the ceiling. A bench press sat in the middle. To the left was a fifty-foot by fifty-foot hardwood basketball court. Four basketballs were lying in the middle of the floor. I wasn’t sure where to stand. I’d never called an impromptu meeting with my enemies before, and that’s precisely what this was. If things got out of hand, I figured I could hit them with the dumbbells. It probably wouldn’t cause any lasting effects—considering I could throw it with some force—but, at least, it would buy some time.

  Walking next to the rack, I purposely stood next to the ten-pound weights and turned to face them. My blood pressure shot up a few points. I didn’t want to be speaking with them in my swimsuit—I felt like they could see clear through me—but somehow I kept my face blank even though I was scared stiff. I wasn’t going to give them my fear; I just wasn’t. I wasn’t going to wait for them to address me either. This was my show, and I honestly needed to put a period at the end of the sentence...no matter what.

  I slowly expelled all of my suspicions, starting from day one. “That’s what I think,” I told them, after I admitted I followed Jinx outside. “I think one of you killed Alfonso Juarez over the copper business, and Oscar just happened to find his body and put his fingerprints all over the place. You then got together with your stories and ratted him out to the authorities. My guess is that was you, Jinx, since your father works for the Valley Police Department. Were you trying to score some points with dear, ole Dad? God knows you need them. And while we’re on the sub
ject, what do you know about Annie Hughes and that other guy? Their blood’s on your hands, too.”

  27 OF MICE & MEN

  YOU’D THINK JINX would be the one offended, but it was Juan’s face that nearly exploded on his head. It scrunched up and went the color of bright cranberries. “Shut up!” he screamed.

  I gave him a shrug. “Why the surprise? You sent Jinx to scare me the other night, didn’t you? Couldn’t face me yourself? Or was that when you were putting the dead squirrel on my front porch. By the way, you owe my little sister a squirrel, moron, and I intend to collect.”

  Both looked at me like I was dumber than a box of rocks, their heads jacked to the side like they couldn’t quite put their finger on the subject matter. If it wasn’t either of them, who was it? Up until now, both had kept a respectable distance at about eight feet away. When I insulted Juan, however, he closed the distance and was breathing in my face at about one foot. The air around him vibrated with anger. I looked over his shoulder to Jinx; he wasn’t moving. His expression was unreadable, his black eyes guarded. Was that regret, or was he simply aware that he and Juan were confronting me in someone else’s home? If anything, I would’ve expected Jinx to provide the knife to “off” me...not Juan.

  Juan expelled a breath, stepping even closer. His lips twisted into a snarl, and when he opened his mouth, I couldn’t tell whether he was going to speak or bite. Before either happened, Justin Starsong’s voice bellowed to “Stand-down.”

  C’mon...I mean, really.

  He was here, too?

  My heart was about to beat right out of my ribcage. Justin came out from the shadows of the basketball court, stalking slowly like a large cat ready to pounce. He’d been listening, and how in the world did I deliver myself up to the person I instantly knew was their leader? Dressed in flowered board shorts and a blue pocket T, he came prepared to blend in. Made me think he was the smart one when the other two were holding onto their identities. Other than the day in UDF, I’d never been face-to-face with Justin—let alone had a conversation—but the way he slowly moved across the hardwood, he held himself in a high regard. It was obvious when Juan immediately backed away that Justin was the play-caller. My mind reminded me that’s what Oscar suspected anyway. He said, Jinx wasn’t the type. Adam was a “no.” Juan was a “maybe,” and Justin was a “most definitely.”