100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  Some people couldn’t help they were born nerdy. I figured Bean fell headlong into that category and shoved everyone else out of his freaking way. But he could help it he paraded Mr. Pongo around in broad daylight for everyone to gape at.

  “He’s a little under the weather,” he told Justice, “but thanks for asking.”

  Mr. Pongo looked the same as he always did.

  Dead.

  Giving Bean an extra napkin, I motioned for him to cover Mr. Pongo. “Put Mr. Pongo to bed, Bean,” I whispered. “Someone will say something mean to you.”

  Bean held his head high, defiant. “My therapist said I need to embrace who I am.”

  Well, that was definitely one of our therapist’s famed lines, but she did tend to get hit regularly with the stupid stick. “Suit yourself,” I muttered.

  Sure enough, some stranger crowded into line and pulled Mr. Pongo out of Bean’s pocket. Bean squeezed my hand until it bruised. I pointed my plastic spork in whoever-this-guy-was’s face. “Give him back his gerbil, or I’m going to get real nasty. Mr. Pongo has a right to eat lunch like the rest of us.”

  That statement alone made me want to giggle…somehow I didn’t.

  This guy, so average I’d never remember him tomorrow, got flirty-faced. “Please tell me what you have planned includes pains of pleasure.”

  Heck, if I knew, but I assumed it involved a spork.

  We were near to the front of the line; the warm, cheesy pizza smell promising to clog my arteries. Bean’s breathing grew shallow; I could hear it.

  Justice pushed me out of the way before I could find a retort, eye-to-eye with Mean Boy. “Give it back,” she threatened, “or my round-house kick will kick your ass.” This guy actually took a moment to ponder. When Justice laughed darkly, his Adam’s apple bobbed with nerves, and he shakily placed Mr. Pongo in Bean’s hand, returning to line a few students back. Bean shoved Mr. Pongo in his pocket…then turned and hugged me so tight my lungs collapsed. It was one of those hugs where you tried to step inside the other person. It wasn’t about the shama lama, ding-dong. You know, boy likes girl, I’m-trying-to-steal-your-v-card or whatever.

  I think Bean simply tried to be someone else.

  Justice turned to Bean, pointing, “If he bothers you again, let me know. I’ll rip him from limb to limb and drag his body through the streets…something poetic.”

  Bean looked at Justice, stars twinkling brightly in his eyes. Cupid’s arrow must’ve hit him in the butt. “Poetic justice,” he grinned.

  “That’s right,” she smirked. “Poetic Justice.”

  Poetic justice is a just punishment or virtue finally rewarded. In other words, people get what’s coming to them. I’d like to think poetic justice was something that only visited the bad, but that didn’t always seem to be the case.

  Case in Point: Ivy Morrison and Clementine Miriam Rabinowitz passed by on their way out of the lunch line. Both girls’ trays were piled high with calorie-packed pizzas, chips, Twinkies, and ice cream cups. Both were double zeros. Where’s the fair in that? Poured into tight jeans, up top they wore white sweaters with a big black VHS stitched in the middle.

  Their cheerleading outfits…how charming.

  As of second period, Ivy was footloose and fancy-free. Emphasis on the “free” part. She and Jagger had called it quits. Translation? I’m going after Dylan with my peroxided hair and push-up bra.

  “Hello, Darcy,” she sneered, sounding as usual like she’d gargled with helium.

  “Hello poison,” I slipped, “I mean, Ivy.”

  She rolled her eyes, unaffected. “Listen, about the parking lot a few days ago with Jagger. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. Honestly, the thought of you on my side is another insult. You’re such a nobody. And btw,” she laughed, “I heard about your little Twitter problem and made sure to tell Dr. Himmel.”

  Ivy, as usual, scheduled my next date with self-loathing.

  I blanked my face, not wanting to give her the pleasure of seeing my panic. Ivy had recently pierced the right side of her nose and was wearing a diamond-dust earring. On some, the look was total skankville, but dang it, the teeny-tiny size was all kinds of rad. “Did you hear the latest about Dylan and Brynn?” she continued.

  Fear started at my toes and slowly worked its way up my body, like it knew something and afforded me the luxury to get used to the feeling. A lost cause because whenever I thought of Dylan with someone else, it was a direct shot to the kidneys. Did she insinuate they were an item? There’s a possibility, I guess. Brynn Hathaway and her boyfriend were dunzo (locker gossip this morning). And he was like lick-your-lips cute in that aristocratic kind of way. Collin Lockhart was his name. Collin was Student Council President and so silver-tongued he’d either be President one day or convicted for insider trading.

  “Everyone knows they’ve both had a thing for each other for some time,” she explained. “It’s just that Dylan is a slow mover but you know Brynn she’ll make it happen sooner rather than later she’s sort of running scared she knows she only has a limited amount of time to land him.”

  Ivy’s speech was one big run-on sentence—no periods or commas in sight.

  Brynn was a senior, and senior girls were notorious for going after what they wanted. And why not? It was your last year, and you might as well go out with a bang. Brynn, my guess, wanted to go out with a sonic boom.

  She concluded, “But I shouldn’t sell myself short I mean it has to be either her or me that’s what makes sense.”

  Ivy was a stupid, needy, attention whore.

  Yup, I thought it. Thought it, and it was alllllllll truuuuuue.

  I blew out some air, wringing my hands even though it made me look desperate. “I already know, Ivy, and the date was actually in August.”

  I’m not sure who said that. I looked around and saw no one but me and concluded some part of my ego must’ve found the nerve.

  She made a shocked “o” with her lips, covering her mouth with her blood-red fingernails. “Your news might be a little dated,” she whispered.

  I know, I know, this is Ivy—but wouldn’t a sequel have been plastered all over the bathroom wall? I was actually someone that read the gossip immortalized in Sharpie, and I sure as heck hadn’t heard nor read of it.

  She grinned evilly, “You might want to ask him.”

  Wow.

  Huh.

  How interesting.

  “There’s no need to throw shade,” Justice grumbled for me. “I think you’re blowing smoke.”

  Ivy cocked her head to one side, and the rhinestone Hello Kitty choker around her neck caught the fluorescent light. Justice noticed because she laughed, “Nice necklace, Blackbeard. I’m sure you reduced someone’s Christmas inventory with your sticky, little fingers.”

  It was an open secret Ivy stole Hello Kitty jewelry from the mall. Seriously, she was loaded, but she was also dumb enough to confess some of her purchases came complements of the fiver-finger discount. Ignoring Justice, she focused on me. “Why, Darcy, the look on your face is priceless you almost act like he’s cheating on you seriously get a clue.”

  “Trust me, there’s no hanky-panky going on between us,” I dumbly confessed, and why exactly did that bother me?

  “Amazing,” she laughed snarkily. And it was even more amazing that my foot hadn’t made it inside her mouth. “Listen,” she sneered, “Brynn is exponentially way more beautiful than you and so am I.”

  All three were part of the beautiful crowd.

  My ovaries hurt with the thought.

  “Shut up,” Justice warned, flooring Ivy with her eyes.

  I shuffled toward the pizza (still in debate), and sure enough, Ivy and Clementine followed. I knew Grumpy had a crush on Clementine, and unarguably she was cute. She was a few inches short
er than me with tiny bones, dark skin, black hair and eyes. Her face was sort of serene. Like she was eternally happy and didn’t possess a single, bad thought. But the fact she hung with Ivy alarmed me. Heck, it probably alarmed God. She was either stupid-slash-naïve or had a mean streak no one knew about.

  Bean edged up into my ear. “I don’t believe anything she says about Dylan.” Bean had that tone to his voice like he was used to wading through lies. “Just keep moving,” he whispered.

  I did.

  God love her…Rudi didn’t…actually speaking out loud. Something she hated to do because the resulting sound was like she floated underwater. “Leave her alone,” she voiced, hitching her head high. “You’re an evil witch.”

  Wouldn’t you know, Ivy pivoted around and attacked a deaf girl. “Your voice is the most irritating thing I’ve ever heard,” she laughed.

  Ummm, Earth to humanity…that’s offensive.

  Reading her lips, Rudi cringed as if she’d been struck. Justice dropped four curse words on the spot. This was where the tough girl in me demanded I tell her to kiss my you-know-what. In fact, it’s where I was supposed to fight. I think yesterday’s incident proved I had zero fighting skills. So I did what any girl would do—imagine I was beating her up and get upset when I failed to execute.

  Do it! I heard in my ear.

  The best way to describe my thought process was that one shoulder had an angel living on it, the other a devil. The devil ordered again, Do it, Darcy! Do it, do it, do it. The angel whined, But good girls don’t get in fights.

  I could look at this one of two ways. Number one, I could beat the s-h-i-t out of Ivy. I got the feeling I’d never like her, and I pretty much liked everybody. Number two, well, I could beat the s-h-i-t out of Ivy. First thing I wanted to do was knee her between the legs, but then I reminded myself she was a girl. The hair…I’d go for the hair. Nope, that’d make me look too girlie. I set my tray down, knowing that was the only way I’d respect myself in the morning. I curled my fingers into a fist and…

  Someone grabbed my hand mid-punch, murmuring, “Hold on, tiger.”

  I didn’t want to hold on. I’d been plotting that punch for years, and now this person blew my opportunity to be a badass chick who punched the arrogance out of Ivy. Or should I say Dylan blew it because I’d recognize the warm feel of his hand anywhere.

  “You almost hit me!” Ivy screamed, tears pooling under her lashes. “I’m reporting you to the office!”

  Dylan calmly put his arm around my waist, tucking me into his side. “I’d think twice about that if I were you, Ivy.”

  She gave him a hair flip. “You only say that because you’re so stupidly infatuated with her I mean really.”

  Something dark flashed in his eyes. “What I feel for Darcy is far from infatuation, but the moment you breathe a word of this incident, Darcy will go down in urban legend as the girl who almost hit Ivy Morrison and still made her cry. You, however, will be known as the girl who made fun of a deaf girl. Your small group of friends may have your back, but the rest of the school, I assure you, will not. Show’s over, folks,” he growled to those gawking at us. “Have a seat.”

  I stopped paying attention. I couldn’t track the conversation overtop Ivy’s chomping gum. I shakily picked up the salad tongs and dumped iceberg lettuce, croutons, tomatoes, garbanzo beans, and cheddar cheese on my plate in separate piles. I smothered them in ranch dressing. Even though it all went to the same place, when I couldn’t control something, I strategically placed food so it wouldn’t touch, eating in a clockwise pattern.

  Weird, but at least it wasn’t a dead gerbil.

  Dylan snuggled into my side and kissed me on the cheek, smiling in a way that was heart wrenchingly beautiful. Lord, I was pathetic. Even though there was suspicion he rekindled something with Brynn, I still let him have his way with me. “Are you cool, sweetheart?”

  “No,” I mumbled. “We just OD’d on Ivy’s barbs. Someone needs to put methadone on the menu.”

  Dylan chuckled and told me to join him.

  The conversation between Ivy and whoever would listen to her soon collapsed. Now she hung all over Jagger who was paying the cashier. They weren’t slobbering all over one another, but they did look like they’d rekindled the dysfunction.

  Clementine didn’t follow. She simply stood there, mirroring my every step. Maybe it was a resurrection of a little bit of pride, but I blurted out, “I long for the day I don’t take the moral high ground, Clementine. What do you want?”

  She looked at her feet, suddenly self-conscious. “Nnn-nothing,” she stuttered.

  She pivoted and walked away, a little bit of exaggerated hip action on her part. Bean’s eyes bugged out of his head, so preoccupied he ran into my back with his tray. “She’s so pretty,” he gasped when she was out of earshot. A look at Bean’s tray—which I felt positive was half on my back—showed a duplicate of mine. He even left adequate space between his salad ingredients so none of the items touched.

  “You have a crush on her?” Justice sort of laughed from behind.

  He tried to play it down, but his face gave it away. “My therapist said Clementine is like seasonal fruit. I can only like her for one season, and that’s it.”

  I’m sure there was a story there of restraining-order proportions, but I’d tackle that another day. Picking out a grease-dripping slice of pepperoni pizza, I balanced it on the edge of my plate and looked over my shoulder for Dylan. He’d returned to his seat by the windows with Finn and Grumpy. At that second, Brynn brought her tray over and squeezed into the chair that should’ve been mine between him and Finn. My heart peeled back like a tuna can. She placed her hand on Dylan’s.

  He moved it away, but still…

  I wanted to break her fingers. I swear, I wanted to break her fingers and make her eat them. I shoved a bendy straw in the milk carton, downing my chocolate milk, wiping my mouth on my sleeve.

  Finn caught my gaze, his eyes swearing it meant nothing. I’m pretty sure my quivering chin said otherwise. I walked up to the cashier, fished around in my pocket, and realized I’d forgotten my meal card. Each semester I lost something different. Last year was my glasses; this semester it was my smartcard. Figures. The keyword there was “smart.” The only things in my possession were blue-foiled chocolate gelt coins from Rookie. A frown from the cashier told me she wouldn’t accept the candy currency.

  Racist, I almost laughed.

  Our school had a strict rule about smartcard usage. Friends couldn’t purchase grub for a fellow student on their cards, so unless you had cash, you pretty much were SOL. I stole a glance over to Dylan who’d pulled away from his conversation with Brynn. He was deliciously grinning, already waving a bill in the air.

  I loved him, (sniff, sniff.) I hated it, but I still went all mushy when he gazed at me. And he looked yummy. He wore an oatmeal-colored sweater that hugged his muscled chest and served as a nice contrast to his coal black hair. When I parted my lips to say “No thanks, sugar daddy,” someone came from left field and placed a ten-dollar bill in my palm.

  What the…?

  “We need to talk,” this person said. Holy-freaking-moly, it was Slapstick Wilson. I knew Slapstick was big, but standing beside him made me feel like Tom Thumb.

  When I tried to talk, nothing came out but shock. I didn’t know if shock had a sound, but I sure did hear something strange in my brain. Slapstick didn’t stick around. He merely slipped the money in my hand and exited the cafeteria.

  Hold on. Hold on. HOLD! ON! I thought. But still didn’t manage a sound.

  I threw the money at the cashier and ran after him.

  Problem was, I was one slip-slide away from a school-wide embarrassment because my feet had different plans than my brain. I went down on my knees with a clonking thwack, and my tray slid like it had rocket boosters
up its butt. When an accident happens, the first thing you do is grab for safety; secondly, you try to figure out what or who in the heck caused the problem. Since there was no one around, I grabbed at the air, and when a quick perusal showed nothing, the only thing I could figure was the Lord was taking me out. Mmm-hmm, I looked like an idiot. Then I realized I couldn’t feel my legs. I’d either paralyzed myself or my legs were in on the conspiracy. I lay flat on my face with a garbanzo bean from my salad smashed to my upper lip.

  Poetic justice, I laughed.

  A bean.

  My iPhone belted in song where it had popped out of my jeans, laying face-up at my side. Once again, I felt it fitting. I shouldn’t have made fun of Grandma all month long. As I flicked the bean away, I propped myself up on my elbows, glancing at the unknown digits. “Hullo?” I mumbled into the receiver.

  I heard a moan. “How’s the hottest hood ornament ever to grace a car?”

  I knew that voice. Slight British accent. On a really hot, copper-headed, silver-eyed guy my gut screamed was trouble. “Oh, God,” I sighed. “Ben Ryan.”

  “I don’t have time to talk, but I must say you’ve been extremely difficult to track down.”

  I confessed (sorta) I gave him the wrong number off the bat. “I was hoping you could take a hint,” I mumbled.

  Ben chuckled, and I almost felt naked. “Actually, I liked the challenge but knew there was no way in the world to mess up the meant to be.”

  I could’ve sworn he licked his lips.

  Right then, Bean, Rudi, and Justice crouched at my side. “Are you okay?” they all three gasped.

  Nothing that two extra strength Tylenols and a thousand calories of saturated fat wouldn’t cure.