Seven Deadlies

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Seven Deadlies Page 9

by Gigi Levangie


  And I wonder . . .

  The End

  Adorning the vast front lawn in front of Mark Frost Academy was a statue of a quarterback. He is carved of sandstone, his arm forever reaching back from his shoulder in a throwing motion, the stone football grasped lightly in his large, sure hand. His eyes are searching, his curls poking out from under his helmet, as hypnotic as Medusa’s pets—his entire visage so human and so fluid that you find yourself looking ahead for that perfect spiral.

  (Yeah, I know my first-and-ten from my Hail Mary. My mom and I have watched NFL football since I wore Raiders diaper covers. Try being a 49ers fan in my neighborhood—won’t happen, my friend. And if it did, it—and you—wouldn’t last.)

  The first day I attended Mark Frost Academy, there was a press conference on that same lawn. Camera crews from all the major networks (CBS, NBC, ABC, TMZ) were there. The entire school was out in force—from the little ones in their uniforms to the older kids in their . . . shorter uniforms. My mother, the inestimable Yelena Maria Gonzales, had dropped me off in her Toyota Camry before heading off to the hospital, and as I made my way up the long cobblestone walkway, I knew I was screwed. My skirt was regulation length, just past the tips of my fingers. The wealthy girls with their shiny hair and platinum watches didn’t pay attention to skirt regulations.

  Rich girl eyes bore holes in me through oversize sunglasses, coldly assessing my newbie adherence to the rules. Despite my pride and my natural reluctance to thigh flashing, I pulled up at my waistband.

  Not enough to be a Kardashian, but it was a symbolic gesture.

  I glanced around the crowd, trying to be as incognito as possible (which wasn’t easy—I didn’t see any brown faces, except for the security guards; I could always count on the security guards). I saw a boy who looked safe. He was wearing glasses, and when he opened his mouth to breathe (be still my heart!), I could see a mouth full of metal. All he needed was a squeaky voice and he would score the nerd trifecta.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him.

  “You didn’t get the e-mail?” Score! His voice could shatter glass. I smiled despite my nervousness. “Connor Superbiae’s statue is being unveiled this morning.” He adjusted his glasses.

  “Oh, that’s cool,” I said. “Who’s Connor Superbiae [pronounced “Super-BEE-YAY”]?” I figured he was a big-shot donor.

  The boy looked at me as if his mom told him he couldn’t go to Comic-Con this year. “Is that a joke?” he squeaked. His breath smelled like eggs.

  “No?” I wasn’t sure. I’m not a natural joke-teller, but I like to think that I have a sense of humor.

  “Connor Superbiae is a National Merit Scholar.” The boy’s face turned red and he sputtered, as though I’d insulted his family dog. “But that’s not all—oh, no. Not only does he have more hits on YouTube for his band, Connor and the Superbiaes, than Nicki Minaj and David Guetta combined, more followers for @TheConnorSuperbiae on Instagram (and the only eighteen-pack captured on record in X Pro II) than Madonna and Jessica Alba, but at the tender age of fifteen and three quarters (as of today), he is already the greatest high school athlete to ever li—”

  Mr. Trifecta was cut off as a giant roar went up in the crowd. I felt like I was caught in a human tsunami. News crews burst to life as cameramen hustled past the pulsating throng. All around me, girls screamed and boys wept. I saw a gray-haired woman in a long skirt burst into tears. I watched a bearded man wearing a straw hat wipe his eyes with a handkerchief, then wave it frantically in the air. I couldn’t see what was happening up onstage, but I’d already lost Indignant Nerd Boy, who held his iPhone above the melee to record the event a thousand bobbing, weaving heads away. I was reminded of soccer games in my mother’s native and beloved Mexico, where spectators were crushed and asphyxiated as fans rushed the stadium. I feared I was going down in a sea of short uniforms, AmEx Black cards, and pimple cream.

  A microphone whistled sharply. A voice pierced the pandemonium.

  “What’s up?” the voice asked.

  More screaming. The gray-haired woman fainted. The bearded man passed out right after her, onto a group of kindergartners. People were rushing the stage like cockroaches fleeing a flashlight’s beam. I stood my ground and prayed.

  Would this be my end? Who would save a scholarship student? We few were merely the faces holding up the totem pole.

  Sorry, no lifeboats for you, chica.

  “Okay, okay. Everyone just calm down. I’m only a normal kid, right?”

  More screaming.

  “Okay, I’m kidding, obviously. My name is . . . Connor Superbiae.”

  I caught a fleeting glimpse of a gleaming figure at the podium, standing in front of what appeared to be a sculpture covered in silver cloth. Upon hearing his name, the crowd went wild again and I lost sight of him.

  Bieber Fever had nothing on the Connor Virus.

  “This is so cool, to be honored with my own statue. I’ve worked my whole life for this.” (He was, er, fifteen?) “I want to thank my sponsors, Nike, vitaminwater, and Red Bull.”

  I wasn’t even allowed to drink Red Bull.

  “His own statue?” I repeated to myself, though I couldn’t hear the sound of my own voice. I glanced around in disbelief. Every single person was stuck on his every single word. Some held their hands together, as if in prayer. If he told us to run across traffic on the 405 at rush hour, there’d be no one left on campus.

  Not me, honey. I like me some me is what I say.

  “Impregnate me, Connor Superbiae! I want your babies!” screamed a girl running past holding a poster with Connor’s giant face plastered across it. Security pulled her off to the side as she begged to bear his children.

  We never had anything like this at my last school. I started missing normalcy: the sounds of gunshots, the occasional stabbing.

  “Ha ha. Okay. You’re going to have to ask Taylor Swift about that one,” Connor said. “We met once, she’s a nice girl, that’s it! I have no idea what that song was about! Oh, and, speaking of rumors, I’m sure you’ve heard them on ESPN and Fox, NBC and CNN—and Bravo and the Food Network. I just want to announce that I definitely am not signing with the NFL before I graduate high school. I mean, I would never miss senior prom!” (More SCREAMS.) “And that goes for the NBA, too, guys! God bless you all, and I’ll see you at the game this Friday. Go Mark Frost Academy-slash-Wild Pockets Banking, Ltd.-slash-Sony Badgers!”

  “Take me to the prom, Connor!” a woman who appeared to be a mother screamed. “I’ll wait for you!” She tore away from her identical, screaming daughter and ran up onstage in white jeans and studded heels. A security guard picked her up like lint and carried her off as she spun in his arms, clawing to get at Connor.

  The crowd separated the slightest bit, and at that moment I was able to feast my eyes upon the myth, the legend, the . . . boy? Connor was blowing a kiss in the air, then “shooting” it with his index finger.

  The kid was corny. He was ridiculous.

  He was magnificent.

  “That’s his signature!” someone screamed. “Superbiae me!”

  “No, me!”

  “ME!”

  A girl toppled backward onto me. I dropped my book bag and caught her and watched her eyes flutter in her head. “Superbiae me . . .” she mumbled. I fanned her face and yelled out for help as the crowd grudgingly started to disperse.

  At least she was still breathing when the nurse showed up.

  My first day. I wasn’t bargaining on having a girl almost die in my arms.

  And I never would have bargained for Connor Superbiae.

  I have to admit, I think I, Perry Gonzales, am good at a lot of things: science, math, history, soccer, reading people’s emotions, playing the clarinet, and cooking arroz con pollo. Point of fact: My small hands have never made a bad batch of arroz con pollo.

  But Connor Sup
erbiae was good at everything. Too good for his own good, you might say.

  Think about it. What if you were always the best? I don’t just mean trigonometry functions or spelling the word Teutonic or the simple fact that you can eat more pancakes than your three older brothers combined—I mean, EVERYTHING.

  Especially sports. Any sport. Name it. Basketball, baseball, lacrosse, soccer, tennis, paddle tennis, cricket, handball, both American and Canadian football, volleyball, hockey, golf . . . and that sport with the birdie.

  Ah, yes. Badminton.

  There’s a Connor Superbiae at every school, even yours. Our Connor was tall and strapping. Strapping means, like, he’s hot. Even I, who am made of titanium and granite and centuries of bloody warfare (are you familiar with the Mayans?), even I could see that. He was destroy-your-life hot. Girls had been sent to Connor Superbiae Rehab—there were Connor Anonymous meetings—at Promises Malibu; they offered special mother-daughter rates.

  I avoided him at all costs.

  Connor brushed his dark curls from his eyes when he was fast-breaking on the wood, throwing a touchdown pass, or just languidly stretching out at his desk during a math test. His curls had their own Twitter account (@RealConnorsCurlz). Their own Facebook fanpage. I saw teachers sink into a waking coma when he strode into a room with those long legs of his (that I didn’t notice at all). Mrs. Swann, our seventy-year-old English teacher, forgot what she was saying in the middle of a sentence when Connor raised his hand. She stuttered, stammered . . . even giggled. Sometimes I watched her staring at him when he wasn’t looking.

  I know he sometimes asked her questions just to see her reaction.

  Poor Mr. Rottmayer, our science teacher. He wore a signed jersey from Connor every Friday for Connor’s games, and I know for a fact he sometimes did Connor’s homework for him. I bet he would have taken the SAT for Connor if he’d asked. I’ve heard his marriage broke up because of his obsession with Connor. He told his wife he didn’t have enough room in his life for both of them.

  No. Seriously.

  Connor wasn’t even sixteen, but he drove his own silver BMW convertible with custom rims to school (a gift from Dr. Dre—did I tell you Connor rapped? He was signed by Jimmy Iovine, and he was in a beef with Eminem, who was said to be jealous). Everyone at school looked the other way. After all, Connor was the epitome of the Mark Frost Academy student. He was our apex.

  There was a joke around the school: “What’s the difference between Connor Superbiae and God?”

  The answer?

  “Is that a joke?”

  Or: “Connor Superbiae says, ‘Oh my God!’ God says, ‘Oh my Connor!’”

  Connor was beyond the best athlete in our school; like Trifecta told me, he was also an honors student—a scholar-athlete, if you will. He had never received an A-minus in his life. (Well, there is the rumor of that one time in kindergarten when he received a check-plus but not a check-plus-plus, but that teacher was “encouraged to take a break” [fired] and hasn’t been heard from since.)

  Connor was a phenomenon—and he knew it.

  Did you know Nike sponsored his shoes? The LeSuperbiaes? His dad, Connor Senior, a former Yale quarterback who attended med and law school simultaneously, brokered the deal. Adidas sued, claiming they already had the blueprints for the Connor 360s, but the matter was settled outside of court.

  TMZ once reported that Connor was created in a test tube—that his father had literally created Connor’s DNA before he was even a zygote to include the best traits of both his mother and father. I looked this up, of course—but the post had already been taken down.

  The bottom line is that I didn’t like Connor Superbiae. At all.

  But I will say this: Connor Superbiae made Justin Bieber look like a girl.

  Oh, wait.

  I had a problem.

  A problem I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  Connor Superbiae wanted me to tutor him. Do you understand what this meant? It was a life moment, something Oprah would document on her show. I didn’t even like to look at him, much less have to sit next to him and possibly accidentally touch his perfect elbow.

  So, you’re asking yourself, why would the Connor Superbiae need me, lowly (albeit academically accomplished and all-around great girl) Perry Gonzales, to tutor him?

  I shared one class with Connor—Honors Math. I held a 99.2 average.

  Connor held a 99.1 average.

  And it was driving him absolutely bat-shit CRAZY.

  Apparently, he told his parents about this particular unlivable humiliation and requested (vigorously, so I heard) that I tutor him so he could find out what my secret is (I have none, I just study, and I’ve always had a comfortable relationship with numbers) and beat me. Connor has never come in second to anyone, at any time, anywhere, in any endeavor (and that’s enough with the anys), and certainly is not going to start with my short brown self.

  This is what he said to me after math class.

  “Hey.”

  I didn’t turn around. He couldn’t be talking to me. I’ve only seen him have conversations with tall blond Viking-type people.

  “Hey,” he repeated. His voice sounded like vanilla cream cheese icing slathered over a hunk of carrot cake. I closed my eyes.

  “Hey, Perry.”

  OMG. (First and last time I use that annoying abbreviation.) My hand went to my heart. Connor Superbiae was saying my name. I berated myself for being so obvious. After all, who cares what Connor Superbiae thi—

  “Me?” I squealed, and felt my face burn.

  “Yeah. You’re Perry. Unless that’s changed.”

  It’s like the world was standing still. I heard silly boy-band music and saw butterflies coming out of his ringlets. I wanted to chew on those ringlets. He stood about a foot taller than me. I had to look straight up his hairless nostrils. I wish I could say it was unpleasant.

  I wish I could say I couldn’t stand there forever, forsaking my past, present, and future, staring up his hairless nostrils.

  I couldn’t say that.

  “I am,” I managed. “Me. Perry.”

  “I want you,” was what I heard.

  I didn’t hear, “. . . to tutor me.”

  “Excuse me?” Why was I hearing wedding bells? What was WRONG WITH ME?

  “What’s your number?”

  I became paralyzed, still as that lifelike statue out on the front lawn of Mark Frost Academy. Connor Superbiae was asking for my number.

  This was a game changer. College? Education? Who needed that? Suddenly, I wanted Connor’s babies. I wanted his dogs. I wanted to drive his SUV with the license plate CSHEARTPG on it.

  Connor Superbiae JUST ASKED ME FOR MY NUMBER. Do you understand?

  “For my mom. She’ll call you later.”

  How loud was the sound of a dream balloon popping?

  I couldn’t remember my phone number, of course—so goes my comfortable relationship with numbers—so I opened my flip phone, which suddenly seemed poor and flimsy and I was hating on my entire dismal life and bitterly ashamed of not being an app whore. Could he tell I couldn’t Shazam?

  But Connor didn’t blink. He texted me right there and then. Trust me when I say the entire school was looking over his shoulder.

  And then he turned and strolled away, taking the crowd with him. I swear Connor’s feet never seemed to touch the ground.

  My mother could tell something was up when we sat down to our nightly meal. It was dark outside, and the chatter and noise from the neighborhood children and families and dogs had died down. Sometimes we ate dinner at six o’clock, sometimes nine or ten or later, depending on her shift.

  “Mija, you are humming,” she said as I put my hands together in grace.

  “I’m happy, Mama,” I said, “that’s all. I’m just in a good mood, you know?”

 
I told myself to shut up. I was too chatty. I didn’t want to tell her about Connor. I didn’t even know why I didn’t want to tell her. It’s like I was holding the Hope Diamond inside the palm of my hand, but if I exposed it, it would be revealed as mere dust.

  Ya know what I mean?

  “Bueno. That is a good thing. But I never hear you hum about grades. Or soccer practice. Or a sunny day . . .”

  She had me.

  “So, mija, what makes you hum?”

  Sometimes, my mother was as annoying as the Mark Frost moms, but in a different way. I mean, she never wore anything inappropriate, like skorts with heels. She would never dream of piercing her belly button. She didn’t consider yoga a job. She didn’t have boobs that looked like shoulder pads. And forget injections in her lips (which she wouldn’t need anyway—my mother was graced with a full mouth). She didn’t even color her hair.

  All that distracted other moms from Life (with a capital L) was missing from hers. Yelena Maria Gonzales could see, smell, and feel Truth (with a capital T ) immediately; her senses had never been dulled by fears of aging, or wealth, or fashion, or diet, or where she sat at a dinner party. Possessions meant nothing to her.

  My mom was the Buddha.

  And today, having a Buddha mom sucked heavily.

  “A boy. I mean. Not just any boy.”

  Yelena Maria Gonzales gave me a small smile. “I understand. How wonderful.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Love is a wonderful feeling.”

  “Mama, he’s the most amazing human being I’ve ever met—or even read about.”

  My mother knew I had read the most books of any student in elementary school, and many of them had been biographies. So this was saying something. If my mother was worried, she was smart enough not to show it.

  My Pandora’s box of a mouth was opened—I could not stop talking about Connor.

  My mother listened. And listened. And listened. She listened through chili con queso, through scoops of vanilla ice cream drizzled with honey, and through the moment she put her feet up to watch The Good Wife.

 

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