A Taste of Utopia

by L. Duarte

  “Who is that?” I nodded to the guy, my eyes never deviating from Andrew.

  “Oh, this is my boy, Caleb. He moved here over the summer.” Andrew’s arm flung to the guy’s back, propelling him forward and making introductions.

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. During transactions, the less emotion on display, the better. But I couldn’t resist the urge to examine the incoming boy. I bit the inside of my cheek as my eyes zoomed in on him, tracing his face and body. He was a typical all-American boy—sharp jaw, green eyes, full lips, disheveled dirty blond hair—in a dire need of a cut, perhaps it was the new trend—broad shoulders, and narrow hips (such a cliché description, I know, but I’m just stating the facts). To add offense to his good looks, he had an unnerving and mesmerizing smile that promoted him to the poster child for the term “golden boy.” Did I mention the dimple? Yep, according to popular belief, an angel had kissed his left cheek at the time of his birth.

  Not that I was cataloging him, or anything, I wasn’t. Did I mention that I was an observant person? I was. Besides, the idiot might be a potential future client.

  “You know that’s not how I roll.” I adjusted the strap of my bag. Shit, I was counting on this transaction. Cash. Good cash. But I also valued my freedom. Jail had no appeal to me. Unless I did a background check on my clients, and anyone observing the transaction, I didn’t deal. There was always another junkie waiting on my endless list.

  I circled Andrew, making haste to leave. But Andrew’s boy was faster than I was, and sidestepped, blocking my path.

  “What’s the hurry, love?” he asked, with a deliciously husky voice. The cocky smile hadn’t left his lips. (P.S. his lips looked soooo kissable).

  I shook my head, discarding the hideous thought. What’s wrong with me? For the record, I was a hardcore, badass, and bitchy teen. I didn’t do attraction to cute, dimpled boys. That idiotic thought was just a lapse in judgment.

  I took a hard look at him, my eyes roaming over his body in a contemptuous stare. Had I not known better, I would classify him as handsome with a genuine soul. But I knew better. He was just another spoiled rich boy. Kids like him often came to me, looking for a fix to make their pathetic lives more exciting.

  I ground my teeth, another bad habit I knew better than to have. In an attempt to mask it, I inhaled deeply. Big mistake. His male scent, mixed with sweat and some expensive cologne, hit my nostrils and filled my lungs. I felt dizzy—giddy, even. But irritation rescued me from momentary lust, and brought me back to reality. In a span of a couple minutes, Andrew’s boy had managed to break two cardinal rules: Invasion of personal space and, the most abhorrent of all, calling me an endearment.

  “It’s Luna,” I growled through clenched teeth.

  Andrew took a step in our direction; his hands raised, his tone pacifying when he said, “Luna, listen, we’re tight. You know me. I won’t screw you over.”

  My eyes, never wavering from the infamous new guy, narrowed.

  “C’mon, Luna.” Andrew’s voice pitched higher. He was nervous. Good, let him squirm. It would teach him a lesson.

  “Later, Andrew. I’ll be late for class.” I took a sidestep to walk around Andrew’s boy.

  That’s when new boy broke the holiest cardinal rule. His long fingers wrapped around my arm, halting me, and he said, “Listen I—”

  Before he completed the sentence, I jerked my arm free and had him in with one arm locked behind his back. (I neglected to mention earlier, but I have a junior black belt in karate). I snatched a pocketknife from my bra. With the blade of the small knife pressed against his neck, I spoke with a calm and menacing voice. “I’m easygoing, Andrew’s Boy, and because I’m in a good mood, I won’t discard a future relationship with you.” I shifted the blade up along his neck. When it reached his jaw, I pressed it, purposefully nicking his skin. “However, it’s imperative that you refrain from touching me, and never, ever, call me by a pet name again.”

  A small drop of blood trailed down his neck. “Am I clear?”

  “Gotcha,” he said.

  With a rush of blood carrying the sound of my heartbeat to my ears, I drew the knife back. Whenever I did a delivery, I was fully armed for warfare, a scowl on my face, a lie on my tongue, and a weapon hidden somewhere in my body. I wiped the blade against my jeans, snapped it shut, and returned to its safe nest between my breasts. Taking a few steps back, I placed a safe distance between us. With a wink and a smile, I said, “Good-bye, fellas.” I turned on my heel and headed to the back door of the school building.

  A rush of adrenaline coursed through my body. My legs trembled weakly as I trudged through the halls in search of first period.

  If I were in the business of self-deception, I would tell myself that the reason my heart fluttered inside its cage was the confrontation. But nipping Andrew’s boy was only part of the theatrics. Those two were just harmless amoebas. My little attack on Andrew’s boy was just a way to safeguard my reputation. I hadn’t felt for a moment that I had been in any real kind of danger.

  No, having my knife against Andrew’s boy’s neck didn’t raise my heart rate. His scent and his strong muscles beneath my fingers were what had me frantic. The skin on my arms where he had touched me burned as if it had been branded.

  I shook off the feeling and examined my list of classes. First period was Social Studies.

  I entered the class and zoomed to the last seat in the back corner. Yeah, you guessed right. I chose the seat strategically so I never turned my back to anyone. Junior year I had dropped Spanish class because Mrs. Consuelo insisted I sit in the front row. Not happening. Yep, another cardinal rule.

  As the class filled, exulted babblings about summer vacation hummed through the room. They tossed out phrases like “a village in Italy,” “weekend in Paris,” “Fourth of July on a yacht,” “resort in Tahiti,” and “golf in Hawaii.” I remained sitting, slouched, with my legs spread out, and hair falling around my face in a protective curtain. My hand idly doodled on a blank page of a spiral notebook. But contrary to my careless and withdrawn appearance, I was alert to my surroundings. Habit of my trade, I suppose.

  To any teacher looking at me, I was the perfect picture of a slacker, skin-tight, ripped jeans, combat boots, heavy makeup, facial rings, stripes of blue and pink highlights in my hair, and tattoos. It was only after I aced my tests, and completed all assignments promptly and thoroughly, that teachers gave me a slight bit of respect. Contrary to what teachers and peers chose to believe about me, I was smart. And I knew it.

  “Hotness alert,” Jessica, the cheerleader squad leader and daughter of Mr. Westfield’s Mayor, whispered in a not-so-discreet tone. She sat two chairs up from me. Her best friend Megan sat next to her.

  “Is that the infamous Caleb Cahan?” Megan inquired in an even less discreet whisper.

  “Yeah, the one and only. The son of our new judge.”

  From my hooded eyes, I spotted Caleb standing by Mr. Bank’s table, handing him a paper.

  Shit, we had a class together. I wanted to die.

  “Oh, my, you were right; he’s hot.” Megan flipped her blond hair. “I call dibs,” she said in a singsong voice.

  “Sorry, he’s taken,” said Jessica.

  “Oh, how do you know?” Disappointment dripped from Megan’s voice.

  “He is having dinner with me Friday,” Jessica bragged.

  “Huh?” Megan’s blue eyes widened like saucers, her jaw hung open. “And you kept it from me?” Megan asked with an accusatory tone.

  “Well,” Jessica said, “My family is hosting dinner for his family. You know, welcome them and all.”

  Oh, how touching. The mayor’s family would welcome the judge’s family. Shoot me. I couldn’t endure purgatory any longer.

  I sighed. Dear Lord, grant me the strength to endure what I cannot change, or deaf ears during this period of tribulation and mind-numbing boredom. Amen.

  “You bitch,” Megan squeaked. “OMG, he is coming our way.” />
  “Be cool. Neediness is a major turn off.”

  My head remained facing down when I heard someone plop in the chair next to mine. At first, I was surprised. My classmates avoided that seat. I had a natural repellent that kept them away, not that my merry mates needed an incentive to keep their distance from me. Adolescents are proficient . . . Scratch that. They excel at the art of shunning rejects in high school.

  The familiar scent that had made me all hot and bothered earlier stroked me again. Except, in an enclosed space, it was ten times more potent.

  “Hey, Luna,” Caleb said, ignoring the other girls.

  Megan whispered behind her hand. “Social suicide on the first day? Can’t he tell she’s bipolar or something?”

  “Shush,” Jessica hissed.

  Rolling my eyes, I reminded myself that only one more year in purgatory, and I’ll be atoned for a lifetime.

  “Hey, ah, I think we got off to a wrong start. Sorry about earlier,” Andrew’s boy said, leaning toward me.

  My fingers continued with the steady sweep. I had put a knife to his neck, and he was the one apologizing. Are all white people this stupid? Yeah, I was aware I was white, too, but it made me feel superior to separate myself from the herd.

  From the front of the classroom, Mr. Bank was introducing himself and calling class into session.

  “Listen, I might have come across as a jerk, but I didn’t mean to,” he continued, apparently not appalled by my silence. The boy was confident. I admired the trait.

  “Let me make it up to you. How about dinner and a movie?”

  Now there is a fine line between confidence and stupidity. Andrew’s boy had just crossed it. I slowly raised my head and narrowed my eyes. Gorgeous green eyes met my fulminating gaze. Did you ever hear the expression twinkling eyes? Yeah, the sentence made me want to throw up too, but that’s the only way to describe his eyes accurately.

  “Do you have a death wish?” I scrunched up my face.

  Before he answered, our teacher, Mr. Banks, said, “I see our new student is already socializing. And with our social butterfly, Luna, no less.”

  That’s when I noticed that the class was quiet, and we were the only ones talking.

  “Sorry, Mr. Banks,” Andrew’s boy said so obnoxiously polite that I threw up in my mouth a little. White folks, so respectful and perfect all the time. Except when they came to me for a bundle. I looked at Andrew’s boy disgusted. Horde of hypocrites!

  Andrew’s boy must have caught my contempt, but he proceeded to say, “I’m just trying to convince a lovely girl to go out with me.”

  “How’s it working out for you, Caleb?” Mr. Banks asked in a playful voice.

  “I was about to get an answer when you interrupted us.” Caleb grinned. “But it was looking good.”

  All eyes were riveted on me. I wanted to crawl under my desk, a feeling I wasn’t familiar with. For years I had successfully managed to remain inconspicuous. I had a reputation to maintain, and being unapproachable had been my most effective tactic. Maybe I was getting compliant, or Andrew’s boy was more stupid than I had first thought.

  In life we all have special aptitudes. In my case, I was either gifted with, or forced by circumstances to develop, a valuable skill. I could think fast under pressure. I made a quick assessment of the faces turned to me. They all waited for me to kill Andrews’s Boy. I have to admit, my mind was churning, trying to find a way to get away with murder. Again.

  “Pick me up Friday at seven,” I said, adding a sweet smile for good measure.

  A cacophony of gasps and murmurs erupted throughout the class.

  “Seven it is . . .” He grinned, and as an afterthought he added, “Love.”

  No one who followed the laws of logic would have repeated that endearment after this morning. I was livid. I couldn’t understand his insistence on trying to get himself killed.

  With a forced, docile smile, I said, “Only one small request, sweets. I’ll choose the place.”

  “Anywhere,” he answered smugly.

  Mr. Banks clapped his hands. “Okay, class, please divert your attention to me, your Social Studies teacher . . .” He went on, but my mind was fully focused on plans for the upcoming dinner. Andrew’s boy wanted to play with fire, so I would give him one hell of hot night. Pun intended, blazing flames included, free of charge.

  The bell of freedom rang. I stood up, ready to flee hell. However, Andrews’s boy blocked me, again. Invading my personal space, he smiled and cocked his head. This boy had a serious issue with boundaries.

  “Out of my way,” I said.

  Ignoring me, he reached into the front pocket of his jeans and grabbed a piece of paper.

  I gripped my notebook, summoning all my self-control to resist the urge to kill him before eyewitness.

  “There, love, now you can text me your address.” He pushed the small paper in my clenched hand.

  Without a word, I shoved his shoulder, forcing him out of my way, and stomped out of the room.

  Didn’t my reputation precede me any longer? Or perhaps he wasn’t mentally competent.

  My cousin Jake was waiting for me by the lockers.

  “How did your date go?” he asked. Dating was code for drug transactions. Together, we had a good partnership. Boys were my clients and girls were his. It raised fewer suspicions that way.

  “Not too hot, we had a disagreement.” I opened my assigned locker and pushed a few notebooks in. “Fill you in later.”

  “Cool.” We strolled toward my next class.

  Here’s where I insert some flashbacks into my story. Bear with me, back stories can be boring, but I promise there are some important points that are necessary to give you a better understanding of how I morphed into this cold and heartless bitch.

  ***

  Once upon a time, there was a girl named Luna, who lived with her father in a lovely cottage in the woods. Her father, a zookeeper, had two passions in life: His daughter and birds. For the sake of story flow, I’ll only say that her mother was an evil witch and the people from the nearby village had hung her. (Truth: She abandoned us when I was an infant.)

  “What’s up, Dad?” I greeted him with a smile, dropped my backpack on the floor, and kicked off my sneakers. “You’re home early. Everything okay at the zoo?”

  “Come here, sweets.” He pulled me into a tight embrace. My arms went automatically around his waist. The urgency in his voice alarmed me. My smile faded.

  “What’s wrong, Dad? You sound weird,” I said with my face pressed against his strong chest.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” He disentangled me from his embrace, held me at arm’s length, and sighed. We were too synchronized to one another. Therefore, he knew I suspected something was off. “Come, let’s build a birdhouse.”

  We went to the garage, where we had a workshop. He’d already sawed the wood, which meant he had put thought into this project. We had built dozens of birdhouses and birdfeeders and placed them in the woods surrounding our house. Every Saturday we refilled them with bird food and peeked inside the birdhouses to check for eggs. It was our hobby.

  I inhaled the rich smell of freshly cut wood and rested my hip against the workbench to choose a color for the birdhouse. With a familiar camaraderie, Dad and I sanded and nailed wood together.

  I had a pressing feeling that something was off. This project wasn’t just about proving shelter for birds. It was about the two of us, to be more specific, about me.

  “Remember when I told you about my memory lapses lately?” Dad finally asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I had a seizure at work earlier this week. The ambulance took me to the hospital.” He put a lever on the inside of the house. That was weird. We never built anything like it. “According to the CAT scan that I was given, I have a tumor the size of a golf ball in my brain.”

  His words held an unconcerned tone, but I knew Dad, it was taking all his strength to sound so casual. I stared at his firm hands as they a
ssembled the birdhouse.

  My eyes narrowed, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “Dad, how serious is it?”

  “They don’t want to do a biopsy. So we don’t know whether the tumor is benign or malign. But I have a surgery scheduled for next week.”

  He inserted a doubled floor to the small birdhouse. “Remember when I told you always to have a second plan?”

  “Dad, I know where you’re going with this, but you’re gonna be fine. I know it.”

  “I called your Aunt Lace. She has agreed to take care of you.”

  “We hate Uncle Robert. How can you even suggest that I go there? Besides, who will take care of you after the surgery?”

  “Well, Robert left home a few months ago. Lace and Jake are alone. And the arrangement is for you to live with them if anything happens to me. According to the surgeon, there’s a minor risk during the surgery.”

  “Dad don’t say that. . . .”

  “We have to have this conversation, sweetheart.” He pulled the hidden lever and then opened a secret compartment inside the house. “If anything happens to me, can you keep a secret?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I have a good life insurance policy, this house, and some investments that will guarantee you don’t lack for anything. I’m meeting with Mr. Bakosi later on the week to write up a will. However, I need to know you’ll be okay. See this secret compartment?” He pointed to the intriguing doubled floor. “I’ll put our savings here. It’ll be your second plan.”

  “Dad, please,” I said with tears and fear choking me.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. But I need this peace of mind.”

  We finished the project in silence. I couldn’t dislodge the dread taking root in my chest. Later, I learned that feeling was called premonition.

  I painted the entire structure a deep sky blue. On the roof I drew a burning sun, floating clouds, and flying birds.

  Seven days from the day we built the birdhouse, with Aunt Lace on one side and Jake on the other, I buried Dad.

  I kept his secret.