Grade a Stupid

by A. J. Lape

  It was Monday afternoon, and we had about ten minutes left on lunch period. I was huddled between Dylan and Rudi, who was picking at a salad, convincing my taste buds the mystery meat inside the tacos was actually ground beef. All in all, it was another NCIP day, until Justice opened her mouth.

  She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “I swear it, guys, and I don’t like to swear, Eddie got bit by a bleep rat last night. She had to get bleeping stitches and a bleeping rabies shot in her bleeping stomach.” Justice claimed she didn’t like to curse but had four instances that she might want to check on the cursing chart. “It was the best news of my life,” she laughed. “She then dumbly came to the, bleeping dojo, so I kicked her in the bleeping abs when she was distracted.” Make that six instances; but hey—who’s counting?

  Rudi and I cringed, thinking that was slightly high on the mean-o-meter. The guys at the lunch table shrugged, thinking anything less would be spitting in the universe’s face that so kindly served her up to you.

  My Spanish book was open next to me, and in between listening to nothing in particular, I translated a few paragraphs to English so I wouldn’t have to do it tonight. This was the new and improved me. Multitasking, on-the-ball, in-charge, and in-control. Someone asked how landing Liam was going (seriously, I thought I was being subtle), and a bite of taco got caught sideways in my throat.

  Rudi read whoever-said-its’ lips and pounded on my back like a jackhammer. I coughed into my napkin, stuttering out, “Whh-aat?”

  Jon chuckled, “You blew that, didn’t you?”

  I felt Dylan’s gaze like hot, molten lava. I looked at him and had one run-on thought, Whatdidyoudotome? He smiled that bloody enigmatic grin, his face showing nothing but best-friend-ever rolled up into the all-American boyish smile. For all that boy-next-door stuff, there was a part that was dark and forbidden. That was Dylan, though. One moment he was the consummate gentleman; the other, he liked dangling a carrot in front of you, just to yank it away—masochistic, if you ask me. He winked and took a bite of his third taco like nothing odd happened at all. Maybe talking into someone’s lips wasn’t odd for him; maybe that was the problem.

  I frowned. I didn’t have a reserve of past experiences to call upon. The fact of the matter, my dating life was a barren wasteland. My reserve of past experiences was from trashy magazines and romance novels I hid under my mattress. And even then, I didn’t understand everything that was printed.

  “Whatever it is you’re thinking about, I’m your answer, babe,” someone said.

  I’m not sure what my face was doing, but I’m pretty sure Jagger Cane wasn’t the answer to its confusion. Dressed in his usual studliness, he was standing overtop me with a dark grin that shouted things so indecent I said, “Forgive me, God,” for him.

  Anger sliced the air, and Dylan jostled in his seat. I didn’t move. No one moved. It was like being around a venomous snake you were afraid would strike if you breathed the wrong way.

  Dylan’s voice was low and tight. “Hit the road, Cane. Everyone was fine here until your stench killed our appetites.”

  Jagger ignored him, stooping down at my feet. Jagger was dumb. He really, really was dumb. Reaching out with his hand, he rubbed his thumb along my jaw. “What’s wrong, babe, you seem tense?”

  I looked in Jagger’s inky-black eyes and wasn’t sure what I saw. Lothario, con artist, mixed with a little bit of genuine concern? That was too many competing questions to take even a friendship further. Before I could lie, blow him off, or even tell the truth, Jagger cupped my face in his hand and pulled me within inches of his lips. “Come on, babe, talk to Jagger. We’ve gotten really close lately,” he said with a wink, insinuating something immoral.

  I slapped him in my mind.

  Dylan was out of his seat so fast you’d think his butt was on fire. I heard a gasp, a grunt, and the beginnings of an apology. Jagger’s arm was drawn up between his scapula straining to the point of needing an MRI to check for permanent damage.

  There was jawing on both parts, and when I looked at Jon, he was shooting daggers at Jagger, his mouth painted into an angry scowl. I got the distinct feeling the situation with Dylan and Jagger was a continuance of something that happened earlier. I may not know a lot about the opposite sex in general, but when it came to Dylan, I could see someone crystal clear. Jagger hated him; so much that it gave me a feeling of disquiet.

  And it should…

  Why? Whatever Jagger felt for me was eclipsed by his desire to be a permanent burr in Dylan’s derrière. It’d been that way since junior high, and my guess was it wasn’t changing any time soon.

  The attention embarrassed me. I slumped over my tray, ignoring whatever conversation anyone tried to have with me afterward. When I finished what I was going to eat, I lost myself in the crowd and stole off to the library. I was in desperate need of some me-time and wound up on the second floor of the Media Center. Completely worn out, I struggled to keep my pupils from going all fixed and dilated. Folding my arms on the desk, I lay my head on top of them, crossing my fingers the bell would wake me for next period. I only shut my eyes for a few seconds when I awoke with a jump.

  I knew who was running Northside 12 and how I was going to stop them.

  “And folks who put me in a passion

  May find me pipe after another fashion.”

  The Pied Piper

  30 SORE LOSER

  MAYBE IT WAS right, maybe it was wrong. Whatever the case, I did it anyway.

  I left a message for Rainn Webster, the roving reporter that came to my home to telecast the miracle of the Jesus Cookie. Rainn complained this town was too clean, that there wasn’t enough suburban news to keep him happy. Well, I had news for him. Some news that might spur Oscar’s situation along if you had a nosy reporter asking all the right questions.

  Since he was a reporter—and supposedly of sharp mind—I decided to phone him on Jubilee’s cell phone. I’d left mine last period in the gym in my backpack. Don’t ask me how that was even possible. Fifth period was English for me—not Gym—yet, I found myself walking through the gym just to—confession time: watch the guys in short pants. It worked out well because I didn’t want to chance Rainn figuring out I was Darcy Walker, and as smart as Jubilee was, this was too far off the chart of normal behavior for her to fathom. If he ever called her back, thankfully, she was a genius that operated on a lot of dumb.

  I heard what sounded like mice in the radiator, squeaking and cheeping and doing whatever it is that furry, little vermin do. I shook it off, counting my blessings they were behind the cinderblock walls and not marching out in the open.

  Time was growing short. The teachers had an impromptu meeting in the Media Center, and I had to confess, when nature called I went to the restroom of my own volition. I desperately needed to get back to class but had one more phone call to make that was more important than Rainn’s.

  I huddled in the bathroom stall, whispering into Harold King’s voicemail. I couldn’t leave well enough alone. The reason? It was simple. I felt like I’d lost the challenge, and I was a sore loser...so sue me.

  “Mr. King, I know you don’t know me, but please know I’m coming from a pure place. Something’s going on at Valley and your son, Jinx, is involved. Jinx is mixed up with Juan Salas and Justin Starsong...maybe Adam Neeley. They admitted to me they had information on the murder of Alfonso Juarez. They were competing in the copper business and obviously something went south...like way south. I’m a nobody, Mr. King. I have nothing to gain from this other than seeing an innocent boy go free.” I paused taking a breath, telling myself again this was the right thing to do. “I’ll call you back in a few hours, and I’ll testify to anything...but I want anonymity. I know how they did it, and my name is...Jester.”

  I hung up and repeated the exact same message to Odell Whitmeyer, Oscar’s attorney.

  The commode in the adjacent stall flushed, the water swirling fast and loud as the sound of frantic footfalls hit the tile.
The bathroom door slammed open then shut, the jolt echoing inside my over stimulated brain traveling all the way down to the tips of my toes. In my heart, I knew someone had heard, and that I’d said too much—why did I think that would come back to haunt me?

  Drawing and Painting was shaping up to be a period of me-time. Our teacher hadn’t showed, and twenty minutes into class I’d polished my toenails neon green and sneak-texted Dylan. It appeared we’d been graced by the gods, but then Mr. Rafferty—my Spanish teacher, for God’s sake—slouched in to sub for the student teacher we’d had all year.

  If only there was a dart gun around…

  Chewing on a red apple, he looked me square in the face, rolling his eyes with a groan. “No, I don’t know anything about drawing and painting, and no, I don’t want to be here. This is my planning period, but evidently, the-powers-that-be think it’s a good idea for me to fill in.”

  Sitting right in front of the teacher’s desk, I bust out laughing while those behind me groaned even deeper. Mr. Rafferty wasn’t Teacher of the Year by a long shot. We did, however, speak the same language. It was called: get me out of here.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he munched, walking behind the wooden desk and bending over it. Rummaging around, he flipped open the lesson plan for today, ran a stubby finger down the page then ultimately looked outside. “Seems we’re going to take a little field trip. Get out your sketch books and pencils because you’re going to do a drawing of the human anatomy.”

  Ah, the human anatomy. I’d forgotten. A permission slip went home before Spring Break to be signed by a parent it was “okay” for your child to see a shirtless male. Murphy might’ve had the ink pen in his hand, but I’m pretty sure I’m the one that actually moved it.

  Opening my backpack, I removed my sketchpad and quickly sharpened three pencils. Like a brownnose, I enthusiastically skipped to the front of the line. Mr. Rafferty chucked his apple core into the garbage then pushed his way to the door.

  “Numero trece,” he said in my ear, “you’ve got to help me out. I have no clue what I’m doing. AP Unger was supposed to cover, but he’s obsessed with why the phones have been down all day. Holy cow,” he groaned, “it’s sixth period. Give it up and try again tomorrow. At least I’ve got two models waiting in the field out back. What you don’t finish today, you can tomorrow.”

  Two models, I reminded myself, that’s right. A female was joining us in what I knew, without asking, would be some sort of sports bra or tankini top. No way in the world would she be shirtless. This was Ohio, for Pete’s sake.

  We walked down the stairs to the first floor, took a right and headed for the rear entrance. About twenty feet from the door, Frank came out of the cafeteria doors, and when I gave him a big smile, he gave me a bristling half a “Hey.” Irritated I’d even addressed him. My face fell. I wasn’t sure what that meant. I felt like we were friends, and I’d just spent the last fourteen days or so trying to free his brother. Something about him was out-of-kilter. His eyes were bloodshot, his nostrils flared, and his normally hairy self had crossed over into woolly mammoth. This wasn’t a boy that was worrying; this was a boy trying to talk himself out of doing something. Shoving both hands in his pockets, he angrily brushed past me, but when I turned to inquire, I received a disgruntled noise from Mr. Rafferty.

  Interpretation? Keep moving.

  Mystified, one way or another I was going to make a point of speaking with him before the day ended.

  Once outside, we passed the football stadium and baseball fields, balls whizzing over the plate where 6th period Gym was in session. A group of guys and disinterested girls were huddled in the cinderblock dugout. About 400 meters away, we headed for a field on the edge of the property, next to a creek. It held promise of a beautiful future watercolor, but right now, the pastel buds were intermingled amidst last season’s hay-like grass.

  Today, I’d worn red flip-flops to match my Adidas shorts and shirt. As we pushed our way through waist high foliage, my skin screamed that had been a behemoth mistake. I itched all over. When we finally made it to a small clearing where the grass had worn bare, I sat down in the dirt and crossed my legs in the Lotus position, immediately looking at the only subject present...the shirtless guy.

  Cue the drooling lips.

  I grinned at Mr. Rafferty and mouthed the words, “Thank you;” he rolled his eyes.

  Seated on what looked like a wooden apple crate, I studied him the way a coroner would a corpse. He was magnificently built with a physique that was either a gift from Heaven or came from working out while everyone else was munching fries. Arrogance was in the expanse of his shoulders and a raw sensuality was in the curve of his spine. Power rolled down his arms that were resting on his knees and sleek muscle trailed to his trim abs, stopping at the waistband of his worn-out Levi’s.

  I caught myself nibbling my lower lip...sitting up straighter...shoulders back...chest out...trying to impress him even though I was at his back. I couldn’t take the daydream further because Mr. Rafferty took a glance at his watch grumbling, “Seems we’ve been stood up, kids. We’ve got about fifteen minutes, so do your drawing of the young man here, and we’ll call it a day.” He crossed his arms over his white short-sleeved shirt, snorting to himself, “Figures. I wouldn’t have picked that girl to model if my life depended on it.”

  Whoever the “she” was, I’m glad she ditched us. No way in the world would I have been able to peel my eyes off of Mr. Broad Shoulders. “Who is he?” I heard a girl nervously say.

  Mr. Rafferty scratched his bald head then shoved his drooping black glasses up onto his nose. “Where are my manners? Say hello to Liam Woods.”

  I had a moment of incomprehension then the ripple effect took over.

  I coughed, snorted, and giggled all at the same time. Then I blushed; my torso feeling like it had a third-degree sunburn. A look to my right showed the girl who’d asked literally fanning her sweaty face with her sketchpad. Two guys behind her rolled their eyes sticking their chest out as if to say, He ain’t all that.

  But he was all that...that was the problem.

  Liam didn’t turn around. In fact, he was almost motionless, and when I glanced at his ribs, they weren’t rising and falling with respirations.

  Unease settled among the crowd. Mr. Rafferty narrowed his eyes and took one cautious step forward, like he was sidestepping smoldering coals. “Liam? Son, are you alright?”

  When Liam didn’t answer, a distant voice in my brain put its hand on the panic button. Something was wrong. Before Mr. Rafferty made another move, I anxiously dropped my things and rushed to Liam’s side. When I touched his shoulder with a soft, “Liam,” he slumped over to the side and sprawled into a lifeless mass onto the ground.

  My God, was he dead???

  It was instant chaos: prayers, gasps, and oh-my-Gods filling the air. In a matter of seconds, Mr. Rafferty reigned in the ensuing panic then dropped into a crouch beside me. As though he was breakable, we carefully turned Liam over, limb-by-limb. I’ll never forget what I saw. His mouth was moving, but no words came out. Blood bubbled in the corners of his lips as his eyes glazed over empty. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t do anything except battle some form of catatonia.

  Mr. Rafferty examined Liam, his fingers on his neck and wrist, putting his ear to his chest and nose for breaths. “Call the office and 911!” he yelled to anyone that had a phone.

  Frantically patting myself down, I checked and rechecked my shorts until I finally accepted the fact I had no pockets and no phone. Four other cell phones were immediately dialed, but after several tries, we realized we were so far down in a valley we’d reached a dead zone.

  “Nothing,” someone muttered.

  “I’ve tried three times,” a guy desperately groaned.

  “Didn’t you say the phones were down?” a girl asked anxiously.

  “Maybe I’ll just run back to the office,” still another added.

  Mr. Rafferty di
dn’t have the chance to respond or even consider the requests because whizzing past our ears was what I immediately knew was a bullet through a silencer. It sounded like a Pfffft—a very loud release of steam coming from the west.

  Mr. Rafferty and I gaped at one another and yelled, “Down!” at the same time.

  Tackling me to the ground, we both tried to shield Liam underneath us.

  I was in shock.

  If I wanted to strike “getting shot at” from my Bucket List, I could check that off today. A part of my brain wanted to think it was just Frank and Oscar doing Frank-and-Oscar stuff—Oscar brought a BB gun to school last year and shot up some road signs—but then I reminded myself Oscar was in a 6 by 9 foot cell surrounded by metal bars. And Frank was, well?

  Frank wasn’t speaking to me.

  When we heard another Pfffft, everyone went deadly quiet. It was another gunshot...this time from the north. My heart jumped around uncontrollably. Honestly, I felt like I was having a heart attack. What were the signs? Chest pain, nausea, shortness of breath? I wasn’t sure what to do, where to go, whom to run to, and by the mortified look on Mr. Rafferty’s face, he didn’t have the answers.

  I stopped the sob threatening to erupt by biting my wrist, trying to will away the panic. Murphy always said, Nothing’s accomplished with panic. It robs you of valuable seconds that can change a situation. What would you do, Murphy? I muttered several times. He’d say, Harness your fear into something useful.

  I needed to get a grip if I was going to survive or at least help others survive.