by A. J. Lape
Needing a starting place, the only person who could point me in the right direction was Tito…but I didn’t want him to have my real number. I could use my phone and *67 the call, but I’d recently heard there were ways around the code for people who knew what they were doing. That might be a truckload of BS, but Tito seemed like he’d know the skill if it held merit.
About that time, my little sister, Marjorie, walked into the room with—thank my lucky stars—the disposable phone Murphy purchased to basically shut her up.
The Lord works in mysterious ways, I smiled to myself.
She had almond-shaped brown eyes and wavy hair colored fire-engine-red. Marjorie had been nicknamed M since she was a baby, for obvious reasons. Who wanted to learn to spell an eight-lettered name? But my little sister was smart. She’d mastered it by age two and made all the other parents feel like they’d birthed morons.
“Did you have a good day?” I asked, smiling down at her.
She frowned and the freckles on her nose scrunched together. “Well…” she pouted. Ugh, not a good sign. Starting a sentence with “well” never ended in a condensed version; it was more like a dissertation.
My patience was wearing thin, so I blurted out, “Let’s switch phones for the night. You can play on all my apps and buy new ones without getting approval. Here’s my password to the Apple Store.”
I recited this with a huge smile.
By the way her face lit up, you’d think I’d offered a lifetime supply of naked Barbies. Finn had given me my life back. When my iPhone screen spider-webbed on Saturday, I bought a repair kit on Amazon, had it overnighted, and Finn replaced the glass in less than fifteen minutes after basketball practice.
As Marjorie skipped over to sit on Murphy’s lap, I stole away to the bathroom, punched in Tito’s number, and sat on the toilet, my legs pumping like they ran on a treadmill. I’d never once considered he wouldn’t pick up, but on ring number four, it felt like a boxer wailed away on my gut. When he finally muttered a “Tito,” I said, “This is Jester, I’ve got two names who might be your guy. Get ready to be impressed.”
Huh, his silence led me to believe he hadn’t taken me seriously. The nerve, I laughed to myself. He was quiet—bordering shock, no doubt—then repeated, “Two names.”
“Two names,” I verified. He paused, probably wondering if I were an idiot; I paused, hoping he’d never get definitive proof. “I need to know what kind of connection they have,” I told him, “because it’s something other than all the bad apples being found at the bottom. And let me tell you why. Did you see the news tonight, Tito? My guess is these guys vandalized Nowacki’s Videos, and to already have cleaned out his bank accounts, signifies an overwhelmingly organized operation.”
He released a jagged sigh. “There’s theft and vandalism all over the city, Jester. What makes you think this is my guy?”
My gut. “Deductive reasoning,” I answered confidently. “Anyone can rob a place, but to systematically wipe out the owner’s account like the reporter suggested? That’s a little too close to your situation without investigation. Listen,” I paused. “I get it. You don’t trust me. Blah, bl-blah, blah, blah. But you’re out nothing, and this ain’t my first time to the rodeo, cowboy. I know how to get things done…take that to the bank.”
“So if I get this information for you…Jester,” he paused, slightly sarcastically, “then you’ll provide me with information on who stole my personal identity?”
A mirror hung in the three-by-five foot hardwood bathroom surrounded by two wall sconces that gave off as much wattage as the North Star. I gazed at my reflection, reminding myself Jester and I were one and the same. If I wasn’t careful, I could lose sight of myself and the still small voice of reason that occasionally surfaced. In my mind, I sang, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
“If I promised,” I declared, “then I’ll deliver. Here are the names…”
Whoever said the eyes were the “window to the soul” knew exactly what they were talking about. If you took the time to look—or more specifically if you were allowed to look—you could figure someone out. The eyes rarely lied, and the truth appeared even more pronounced with my father. In one instance, his eyes could be warm and sensitive, and in another, they could leave a grown man girl-screaming like his cojones were in danger. Murphy was either all up in your business playing drill sergeant, checking cell phone logs, auditing the history on your computer, or he was so hands-off you called the shots in your own personal disasters. That lack of pretense, however, was the only predictable thing in M’s and my world of uncertainty. Even though we knew he was a teddy bear at heart, it was hard to get past his tough bear exterior to find the “teddy” part. And all of the toughness was due to the fact he was a man still desperately in love with one woman.
I sighed at the thought.
Life sucked…and Christmas didn’t always bring miracles, now did it.
Murphy was seated at the foot of my white wrought-iron bed while I stood in my closet, staring at my clothes. He’d dusted my painted white desk and chest of drawers, absently scrolling through the channels on the VIZIO flatscreen mounted on the wall. We weren’t rich. Like everything else, I’d saved my money and then increased the annual sales of Costco.
Murphy and I met eyes, and my beating heart told me to brace myself. “So I got a call from Dylan today. He was dribbling a ball at practice, kid. What on God’s green Earth did you do at the Valley of the Shadow of Death now?”
Murphy called Valley High, the Valley of the Shadow of Death…how freaking apropos.
My guess was Dylan went into disaster mode and gave Murphy a head’s up about Mr. Himmel. Murphy had two rules: try your hardest, and tell the truth. Sounded simple enough. Trouble was, that last one came back to bite me in the bum today. In order to save time, I spit out the facts. “I told Mr. Himmel I didn’t want to be in his class.”
Murphy gasped, “Shouldn’t you have lied? And for the love of God, call him Doctor Himmel. You don’t disrespect someone’s wishes and tell them you don’t like their class followed up with an ‘oh goody,’” he said sarcastically.
Well, well, well, when Dylan gave a recap…he certainly gave one heckuva recap.
I thundered out of the closet, giving him a belligerent, “It’s Christmas, Murphy! Lying on Christmas is like Biblical plague stuff.” And I needed God to answer my prayers for two miracles even though I wasn’t sure I ever really prayed.
Murphy snorted loudly. “Your sense of rationale, as always, is without equal, kid. What about this science project?”
“I’ll come up with something.”
“You’d better, but I’m calling him tomorrow…Jesus,” he muttered.
“You’re calling Jesus?” I laughed.
“Dr. Himmel,” he grumbled. “Jesus I’m going to talk to tonight about how I can get Dr. Himmel fired.”
When he finished, I mumbled, “He won’t change his mind.”
“Jesus?” Murphy asked.
“Mr. Himmel,” I told him. “I mean, Dr. Himmel. He doesn’t like me.”
“Well, I can assure you Dr. Himmel’s going to hate me.” No kidding. Murphy loved hard; hated even harder. By the time Murphy was through with Mr. Himmel, he’d probably like an infestation of bed bugs better.
Murphy dropped his head, clasping his hands in prayer. He mumbled, “Sweet, Lord. Please do something miraculous with my firstborn child.”
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Pray along with him? Tell him it was futile? Mr. Himmel made people think they were stupid. Plus I was pretty sure if we shaved his head, the devil’s mark might be in his crown. In my opinion, outing Himmel as a jerk fell under the premises of a community service project.
When Murphy ran out of gas, he stared off into space. There’s a good chance I would’ve failed th
e semester anyway. Now it was all but an eventuality.
While Murphy stalked off, I fed my lovebirds, Churro and Chimichanga (my latest impulse purchases), which were probably two more headstones for the pet cemetery in my backyard. God help me, I’d killed every pet I had. Afterward I collapsed on the side of my bed. I felt like I’d been skydiving and the ground was coming up quick…what was the next move? My to-do list was seven continents long. One, I needed to find out who spray painted Coach’s car. Two, I needed Tito to consider me the Messiah. Granted, I’d already given him the names of Slapstick Wilson and Damon Whitehead, but embarrassingly, I couldn’t give him the third because it wasn’t legible in Coach’s file. And three, I needed to return the social security and bank cards to their owners before I died of guilt. Question was, how would I get information before the morning bell? Additionally, I could add a number four. I still needed to speak with Vinnie about any leads he had on the Yellow Dodge Charger man.
Crawling under the covers, I rolled over and checked my phone one last time. No texts. No voicemails. Nothing but a picture Vinnie had sent of the crease in his forearm…it looked like a hairy butt crack. That was five days ago. Vinnie had been unusually quiet, and that made me want to crawl right out of my skin. I loved Vinnie. It was a different kind of love than what I had for Dylan, but it ran just as deep. He was beautifully flawed and neurotic and had as many cuts on his heart as I did.
“Call me, V,” I muttered when I got his voicemail. “You’re worrying me, buddy, and you owe me an update. And I want to know if you had anything to do with spray painting Coach Wallace’s car today. I know it’s a stretch since you’re out of town, but I’ve got five hundred dollars riding on finding the culprit. So let your fingers do the walking and make nice with Jester.”
Pitching my iPhone back to the nightstand, I pulled the down comforter to my chin and lay on one of many white pillows. My down comforter was so comfy, it begged you to dive in and lose yourself. It was ten o’clock. Normally, I didn’t fall asleep ’til somewhere between eleven and midnight, but my eyes grew heavier than a lead weight.
I dozed off into never-never land only to be jolted awake by my cell phone blasting. I fumbled around, brought it to an eye, and saw Dylan’s smiling face. I didn’t even say “hi,” “hello,” or “hey;” I think he got a grunt.
“Talk dirty to me, sweetheart,” he chuckled.
“Scabies,” I mumbled.
An even naughtier, deeper chuckle. “I tried to SKYPE, but you must’ve fallen asleep. I received a text that the team has a six-thirty meeting tomorrow morning. Do you want to come early or grab the bus?”
Occasionally, the cosmos throws you a bone. If I tagged along, I could stakeout where Coach parked to see if the perp returned to the scene. Maybe there’d be a correlation; maybe that was wishful thinking. No matter what, I had to do something.
I decided not to blast him for ratting me out to Murphy. His intentions had been good, and currently I needed a ride. My voice purred, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” God love him, he assumed the purr was because I couldn’t be without him after the sweet nothings I picked up through the phone.
I mouthed, “Thank you” to Heaven, wondering if I really should be thanking Hell.
“Where the freak have you been?” I hissed. It was five o’clock Tuesday morning when Vinnie returned my call. I’m not sure why I snapped in a beeyotchy voice—either because he’d blown me off or the fact my body fought through some sort of shock at the early hour.
“Dolce, you’re never going to believe it, so I’m going to jump right in. I’m an actor.” Vinnie had called me “Dolce” for years (Italian, for sweet), because of our mutual love of sugar. My over indulgences so far hadn’t caught up with me. Vinnie’s, however, gave him a permanent spare-tire gut.
“What do you mean you’re an actor?” I sighed.
“You know, hit your mark and smile for the camera. I’ve been filming an indie flick when I’m not in class.” Vinnie gave me the particulars, and I seriously smacked myself to make sure I was awake. Evidently, he’d filmed a low budget flick called 100 Proof Stud (instant classic, I’m sure) and was living off fifty large.
“Someone gave you fifty thousand dollars to be the love interest in a movie called 100 Proof Stud?” I laughed.
“100 Proof,” he flirted.
“Subtle.”
“My middle name.”
Only Vinnie could find instant success in a low budget film, but I knew he’d blow through the cash by the end of the year. Whatever the proper responses are in life, Vinnie’s were the opposite. Socking some away for a rainy day probably had never entered his mind.
I attempted to rein him in. “Okay, V. We’ll talk about that later, but right now you need to get your head out of the clouds. First off, did you vandalize Coach Wallace’s car today?”
Vinnie took a beat to let the accusation take shape. “No,” he eventually answered, expelling a big, roguish laugh. “I was making out with a redhead, and we…”
La-la-la, I sung to myself. Vinnie’s words were the most descriptive, disgusting, play-by-play of what males and females did together—things I called the shama lama, ding-dong. I attempted to bleep him out, but a few choice scenarios seeped through. I found it best to not pass judgment since I currently harbored the stolen identities of three different individuals. Individuals probably scared poopless over their lost cards. I’d return them today. I’d give them to Tito, show him I had a fountain flow of information (which I didn’t), and salve my morally bankrupt self at the same time.
I spoke above his laughter. “What about the Yellow Dodge Charger? I need to know who he is. He acted like he knew me, and I have a feeling it means something in the circus I call my life.”
Vinnie’s voice took on a serious tone. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Dolce. I’m home this weekend for a short trip, and I’ll get back on it.”
The moment I think Vinnie put the “d” in dumb, he spouts out an idiom about Rome. Problem was, my nerves traveled the speed of light whenever I thought of Dodge Charger Man. Let’s hope I found him before he found me. I had a dark feeling I needed to be one step ahead.
Tito and I had a conversation first thing at ten minutes until six o’clock. Two cups of coffee later, he claimed Wilson and Whitehead had done time together this summer in Juvenile Detention. They also lived in the same foster home for two years when younger. Can you just say, Ding, ding, ding. Darcy won the first round? Get this, their foster parents were in the printing business. Ah, this got better and better. Maybe they learned some tricks of the trade and could manufacture look-alike ID cards.
My current plan was to hang out in the library, Coach Wallace’s office, or any other place that’d make me appear anonymous. I had plenty to think about from a recreational point of view, but from an academic point of view? Even my subconscious tried and failed to work out the mess. Last night, I dreamt I played Red-Rover, Red-Rover with Mr. Himmel and the Mother Mary. Mr. Himmel had on a ratty bathrobe, and the Mother Mary wore a football helmet along with low-cut shirt that said, “Equal Rights for Women.”
Leaving that to incubate, I shut off the shower and quickly pulled on black, lacy boy shorts and my matching Miracle Bra. The Miracle Bra promised a cleavage for every unfortunate soul who bought into the hype. One look in the mirror made me want to take up the whole miracle concept with the Creator. My boobs were flatter than the plains of Nebraska.
Why the black lace routine? In several moments of stupidity, I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss with Dylan. I wanted to feel girlie. And desirable. And sexy girl underwear was supposed to bring out your vixen. Next were gray cable-knit tights, a jean mini-skirt, and long-sleeved t-shirt with four Native Americans holding rifles on the front.
Caption was “Homeland Security, Fighting Terrorism since 1492.”
Obviou
sly, I had an identity crisis.
I swiped my lashes with mascara and combed my tangled hair, covering my damp head with a gray toboggan that had a big white pompom on top. Not my usual commando-black gear for sleuthing excursions, but by God, this was daylight, and I needed to blend in. I hopped down the steps pulling on sand-colored UGGs, lifting Murphy’s binoculars and compact camera from the hall closet.
As I munched a doughnut, I stole a look in the hall mirror reminding myself time was my enemy. But I was prepared. Binoculars? Check. Toboggan? Check. Camera? Check. Maniacal laugh? Check.
The sky was battleship gray, fog-heavy, and spitting snow like a ticked off camel. I shielded my eyes and jumped over a slushy puddle in the front yard, making my way to the Beemer, butchering the song “Jingle Bells.” When I opened the door, Finn popped out and slid in the backseat, allowing me to ride shotgun. Finn’s a blue-eyed Scandinavian blond, about six feet tall with a wide receiver’s long and lean body. He was the type you dreamt about but didn’t dare touch because you’d incinerate with the heat. He had chin length tousled hair and thick black eyelashes with that Mumford & Sons thing going on—tweed pants, a white oxford rolled to his elbows, and a matching tweed vest. Bowler hat.
Finn was suddenly single as of last night. His blink-and-you’ll-miss-it relationship with sophomore, Gucci Grayson, was kaput. Finn happened to be fickle, so a longtime relationship for him ran about five weeks. All I knew was Dylan said he’d be riding with us “indefinitely” because something had “accidentally” scratched Finn’s black Kia Forte. My guess? Gucci’s ego and/or car keys. But what did you expect, the girl’s name was Gucci.