by Joseph Grady
“Oh, Lucy,” said Natasha. “Where were you the other night? I saw your room door was open all night.”
Lucy looked at Natasha from the corner of her eyes, but didn’t turn her head or body away from Scott. Why, thought Lucy, does this cretin need to interrupt my last Scott-moment ever? “I was just out,” she said.
“Out?” asked Natasha, looking kind of excited at the prospect of having a roommate who sometimes stayed out all night partying.
“Y’know… just out at some friends’ house. It was kind of a weird night, actually. I just fell asleep early on their couch and stayed there.” She said this with a tone of finality, and was glad that Natasha didn’t insist.
“Well, anyways,” said Natasha. “Scott and I were just having an argument. He thinks I would belong in Gryffindor, and I agree, but just based on my first impression, I told him he’s probably a Slytherin. What do you think?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m a Ravenclaw myself, so it’s hard to say,” she squinted and kept her eyes on Scott. “But I see what you’re saying. Scott’s definitely got a Slytherin ego.”
“What are you talking about?” he yelled, while turning towards the stove and pushing eggs around in a pan. “I’m definitely in Gryffindor!”
“This is good. In one room, we’ve got Slytherin, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw. We’re just missing Hufflepuff. Speaking of which, where’s Brian?” Lucy asked, suddenly noticing his absence. Brian was always there whenever Scott was around.
“I haven’t seen him today, but he texted and said he wanted to go to class early,” said Scott.
“So then how did you get in?”
“Oh, do you remember how Brian lost his keys last year? We found ’em in my couch last week, and I’m definitely not going to give them back. Finders keepers. He’s got a new set anyways. It’s great, too. Now I don’t have to wait for Brian to come down and open the door for me. I’ve finally got the keys that I deserved two years ago.”
“You’re right, Lucy,” said Natasha. “That’s exactly the sort of egotistical thing a Slytherin would say about himself.”
Scott emptied a frying pan of chilaquiles and eggs onto the empty plates on the table, and sat down. Across from him, Natasha had a cup of coffee in front of her. And in defiance of Lucy’s authority, she was not using her assigned Knights of Columbus mug, but a green and white mug with the word “Wimpy” written across it in bubbly letters.
“You don’t understand,” Scott raised his voice. “I’m Harry! I have to be in Gryffindor. I’m clearly the most important character in the story. Harry. Me. Ergo, Gryffindor. I am Harry.” He considered that last sentence and added, “I mean I’m H-A-R-R-Y, Harry, not H-A-I-R-Y, hairy… or… I guess I’m both.”
“Scott,” said Lucy. “You can’t even grow a beard.”
“Neither could Che Guevara, but that didn’t stop him. In fact, he had one of the most important beards in Latin America.”
Lucy opened her mouth to respond, but paused and decided to take things in a different direction. “All beards aside for a second, there was this one time in middle school when I had to spend the whole summer at this stupid outdoor leadership camp between seventh and eighth grade. The only good part about that summer was that I bought… or… well… I guess there were a few good things about that summer… but the best thing that I bought that summer was this awesome souvenir t-shirt that had a picture of the Montana Rockies in the background, and a cute little otter in the foreground, sitting in a lake and dressed like Harry Potter. The top of the shirt had ‘Hairy Otter, and the Adventures of Montana’ written on the top. I remember the first day of eighth grade, I was so excited ’cause I knew I was going to have the coolest t-shirt that day.” Lucy went silent.
“So what happened?” asked Scott.
“All the boys just laughed at ‘Hairy Otter’ and made jokes about their… well… anyways, the point is, I never got to wear that shirt again.” Lucy sighed. “But wait a second. Why are we talking about Harry Potter?”
“I just met Natasha,” said Scott, “and she claims she’s not English, even though she clearly sounds English. And I know that all English people love Harry Potter.”
“Now if you could really recognize English accents,” said Natasha, “you would know that I’m not English! Absolutely, the schools I attended while growing up in South Africa forced the Queen’s English onto my lips, but if you would listen carefully, you might hear something else.”
“The funny thing about meeting Natasha, though,” said Scott, “was that it was completely normal. We introduced ourselves and made conversation.”
“Oh please,” said Lucy, knowing where he was going.
“No really, Natasha, would you like to hear the story of how I met Lucy?”
“I would.”
“Me and my friend Brian — you know Brian — we went out to the Ikea this one day, and Brian tells me that this crazy girl from his building was going to meet us for lunch. So we’re sitting there, minding our own business, eating our Swedish meatballs in the Ikea cafeteria, and who should show up, but this girl, here. Brian introduces us, and do you know what the first thing she says to me after we shook hands was?”
“What?” said Natasha.
“You tell her, Lucy,” said Scott.
“Nothing,” said Lucy. “I just asked a completely normal question, given the circumstances.”
“Which was?” said Scott.
“I’m not saying,” said Lucy.
“So Lucy sits down,” Scott turned to talk to Natasha. “She sees that I’m Mexican, and the first thing she does is ask me if I own a poncho and a sombrero.”
“A completely normal question,” said Lucy. “It was totally fair game, given my specific needs at that time in my life.”
“No!” yelled Scott. “That’s not something you just ask a stranger. Oh, hey, you’re a white girl, can I borrow a French press and a yoga mat? Can I see your copy of The Notebook?”
“But what was the answer?” asked Lucy. “Natasha, ask him what the answer was. Did he own a sombrero and a poncho?”
“The answer is irrelevant!” said Scott.
“Do you own a poncho and a sombrero?” yelled Lucy.
“You’re white. Does that mean this is fair trade coffee? Can I borrow your frisbee later today?”
Lucy smirked and leaned back, “And anyways… I’m an eighth Cree — ”
“Guys!” Andrew came running into the room in pajamas holding a piece of paper. “Did you see this? I just found an anonymous letter tucked under the door to the servants’ quarters.”
“Who’s it from?” asked Natasha.
Everyone went silent for a second, looking at Natasha.
Lucy gladly took the opportunity to be a jerk, “Anonymous… you know… without a name.”
“Well… right… of course,” Natasha attempted a recovery. “I mean… how is it signed?”
“Here, just read it,” Andrew threw it down on the table and everyone gathered around.
It was a normal piece of office paper, with a letter written on it. The first half was written in letters cut out from newspaper headlines and glued onto the page:
Dear Residents of the Servants’ Quarters,
We are well aware of the situation that all of us find ourselves in, and we are writing you to make sure that you, as well, are aware of what is going on. We all need to be on the same page, so that nobody has to get hurt. In fact, there are others in our family who are in favor of kidnapping and hurting some of you. We have managed to convince them otherwise, confident that you will be willing to cooperate with us. Unfortunately not everyone has cooperated with us, and poor Eugenio had to be killed, but...
The letter then continued in black marker and block letters:
(IT TAKES WAY TOO MUCH TIME TO CUT OUT AND GLUE THOSE LETTERS. WE ARE SURE YOU WILL UNDERSTAND IF WE CONTINUE THIS THREAT LETTER IN MARKERS AND BLOCK LETTERS, INSTEAD. PLEASE DO NOT INTERPRET THIS CHANGE IN FONT AS A DIMINISHMENT OF THE DANGER YO
U FIND YOURSELF IN.) ...WE ARE CERTAIN THAT YOU WILL BE VERY COOPERATIVE AND NO SERIOUS ACTIONS WILL NEED TO BE TAKEN. AS YOU MAY OR MAY NOT BE AWARE OF, EUGENIO WAS IN THE PROCESS OF STEALING A LARGE BIT OF INHERITANCE THAT BELONGS TO US. WE ARE ALSO AWARE OF THE FACT THAT EUGENIO SHARED THE ACCESS CODES TO SAID BANK ACCOUNTS WITH ONE OF YOU JUST BEFORE HE WAS SO UNNECESSARILY ELIMINATED. SAID PERSON MUST PRESENT HIM/HERSELF TO US WITHIN A REASONABLE AMOUNT OF TIME, AND NO ACTIONS WILL BE TAKEN, AND SAID PERSON WILL EVEN BE HANDSOMELY REWARDED. YOU CAN REACH US AT (+39)7202265517.
IF SAID PERSON DOES NOT COME FORWARD, PUNITIVE ACTIONS WILL BE TAKEN AGAINST ALL OF THE MEMBERS OF THE SERVANTS’ QUARTERS. TO BE CLEAR: YOUR LIVES ARE IN DANGER. DO NOT THINK THAT LEAVING ROME CAN BE A SOLUTION. WE ARE A VERY SOPHISTICATED ORGANIZATION. YOU WILL BE FOUND. BUT WE ARE ALSO CONFIDENT THAT THIS WON’T NEED TO HAPPEN.
YOURS TRULY,
THE TRUE HEIRS
Lucy was the first to finish reading. Scott, for the first time in a long time, was quiet. And Natasha kept a puzzled look on her face.
“What on earth does that mean?” asked Andrew.
“I think it’s pretty clear,” said Lucy, casting aside her intentions of leaving without telling anyone. “It means we all have to get the hell out of here.”
“What if this is just some kind of sick joke?” said Scott. “I get it. Somebody here got murdered. But that doesn’t mean you guys have to take this thing seriously, does it?”
“If it is a joke, it’s not very funny,” said Natasha.
“You guys aren’t interested in trying to find out who wrote the letter?” asked Andrew. “You don’t want to figure out what the whole bank account thing is?”
“I could care less,” said Lucy.
“Why? Because you don’t think you could find out?” he pressed. “Afraid of — how do they say it in America? — being a grade ‘7’ investigator?”
“It’s letters not number, you know that. And anyways, I’d make an A+ investigator if I cared,” said Lucy. “I’m not interested in finding out who wrote this. But I am interested in not ending up cold beneath a tarp like that other guy.”
“So you really think leaving is the best thing?” asked Natasha. “Where would you go?”
“Hell yeah, leaving is the best thing! Probably today. And you guys are idiots if you don’t do the same. If anything, we probably shouldn’t tell each other where we’re headed. Did you guys just read the same letter that I just read?”
“Wait a second,” said Scott. “You bum around this town for how many years — scared shitless to move an inch out of Rome — then all of a sudden you read a stupid letter, and you think you can just up and leave?”
This was exactly how her final moments with Scott were not supposed to go. She opened her mouth to respond, but couldn’t find the words, and instead, bit onto her lower lip to keep it still. She almost felt she needed to tell Scott everything, and maybe he could figure it all out. She probably would have, but the others were there. Speaking of which, why did that stupid blonde have to be here to ruin the moment anyways? And who invited the Australian, who was still talking about that stupid letter?
“Really, though,” said Andrew. “The security here is not bad. We just need to keep an eye out for each other. That’s all. But who am I to judge? Go on. Get the F out of here, if you want to let yourself be intimidated by some thugs pretending to be real mafia. Sounds to me like you’d make much more of a B- investigator than an A+.”
Lucy’s face went blank. She stood to face Andrew squarely, their eyes level with each other. “What did you just say about me?”
“Isn’t that how the marks in your schooling system work in America? ‘B’ would be the second best mark, right?” and then — noting her aggressive posture and not wanting to cede ground — he upped the ante. “There’s a few other words in the English language that start with the letter ‘B’, aren’t there?”
“I dare you to say that again.” Her voice became cold and threatening.
Andrew slowly pronounced each syllable, staring Lucy back in the eye, “Bee… minus…”
The last thing Andrew remembered was Lucy’s right shoulder dropping backwards and her fist approaching rapidly at him. For the next week and a half he couldn’t see out of his left eye. When he regained consciousness thirty seconds later on the kitchenette tiles, Natasha was kneeling on the floor beside him, wearing surgical gloves and filling his bleeding nose with Kleenex.
Andrew reached for his face, and Natasha swatted his hands away. With a plugged nose, and a pounding pain on the left side of his head he asked, “What the bloody hell happened?”
Meanwhile Scott stood in the doorframe laughing and hollering down the hallway, “That’s my girl, Lucy! That’s my girl! Yes! Damn, you threw that punch like a bear!”
CHAPTER NINE
LA "B"
The first time Lucy ever got arrested was a Friday in October. Her class had just received their first quarter grade reports, following the first two months as freshmen in high school. Eighth grade, for Lucy, had ended with all B’s and C’s. Freshman year, though, I got on her case, and forced her to do her homework. And when necessary, I guess I might have also sometimes stood next to her during exams and I may have happened to check her work once or twice. That first quarter, all of our grades… I mean all of her grades were much better, except for one math grade. There had been a surprise pop quiz when I was busy taking my usual afternoon nap in the janitor’s closet.
Like most Friday nights during that first year of high school, she was not hanging out with friends, but was in the family’s ten car garage, putting together a Volkswagen Beetle. After she met me, I convinced her to give up playing Legos with her little brother and get into the real thing: automobile mechanics. Her father was happy enough to allow her to use his tools — which he himself never touched — but only if she always put them back where they belonged, keeping them organized in neat rows and even numbers. He did start to get nervous as the Volkswagen neared completion, though, as this would make for an odd number of cars. There were already four parked in the garage. He looked around for a car for Lucy’s older sister, Kelly, who had already turned sixteen. Of course, he was really more worried about keeping an even number of vehicles in the garage, than getting a car for Kelly — who felt she really needed a car and now saw Lucy as the main obstacle to that end. But it was just too hard to decide at what exact point Lucy’s project would no longer be a pile of car parts and start being a fifth car in the garage, thus necessitating a sixth vehicle.
Lucy was beneath the car on one of those rolling boards with a plastic puffy headrest, working on installing a very large and shiny exhaust pipe — that I insisted did not belong on a classy Volkswagen beetle — and talking to me, when Kelly stormed into the garage. She was two years older and taller than Lucy, but was almost the spitting image, just with a slightly lighter hair color and less light in her eyes.
“Blue Bear, can you pass me the number nine? I think the ten is too big,” said Lucy. “Yeah, the ten is too big. Blue Bear? Are you there?”
I didn’t respond.
“Hey!” Lucy yelled as Kelly grabbed her ankle and pulled her out from under the VW.
She stood over Lucy with her hands on her hips. “What the hell are you still doing out here with your imaginary friend?”
“Working on the Volkswagen.”
“God. Why do I have to be the only sane person in this family?”
Lucy shrugged her shoulders.
“We have our performance evaluations in five minutes!”
“That’s not ’til tomorrow. I checked the schedule this morning.”
“Did you read your e-mail today?”
“No.”
“You’re such an idiot, Lucy! There was even a memo posted on the main bulletin board this afternoon. I am gonna kill you! Dad’s board meeting in Dubai got bumped forward. The performance evals are right now, ’cause he’s going to the airport tonight.”
“W
hat? I can’t be there in five minutes!” Lucy face turned to horror. “There’s no time to change. Tell him I’m sick or something.”
“Come on, get your ass upstairs, right now!”
Lucy dropped the number ten wrench, got up, and sprinted out of the garage and up to her rooms, trying to unbutton her overalls and run up the stairs at the same time. Kelly followed, yelling, “Juanita! Juanita! Ven aca, ahorita! Necesitamos ayudo!”78
A stocky Hispanic woman in a smock ran up the stairs after them. Juanita held down Lucy’s arms over the sink and scrubbed off all the auto grease, swearing below her breath at Lucy’s father in Spanish, while Kelly picked out business formal clothes from Lucy’s closet.
“Just so you know,” said Kelly, as she buttoned up Lucy’s blouse, and as Juanita circled around tucking the blouse into her skirt, “I’m not doing this ’cause I want to help you. I just don’t want to deal with another meltdown.”
Juanita and Kelly each grabbed hold of one of Lucy’s arms and stuffed them down the sleeves of her suit jacket. They managed to have Lucy more or less presentable forty seconds ahead of time. They ran down the stairs and lined up beside their younger brother, John, holding grade reports in leather folders and trying not to breathe too hard. Their father opened the door to his study two seconds early at 4:59 and 58 seconds and called in Kelly. John and Lucy waited in silence on the bench outside, for exactly ten minutes. The door opened at 5:09 and 54 seconds, Kelly came outside, took the seat beside John, and Lucy came into the study.