by A. J. Lape
Well, join the club...so was I.
When he started to grin devilishly, my heart began to hammer. Self-conscious, I quickly turned away and took another swig of chocolate milk, reminding myself that manners said you shouldn’t stare. I stupidly looked up again, and his grin was even broader. I blushed. Whenever I got nervous my neck turned into bright red splotches. It was a trait I’d had since childhood; unfortunately, the melanin in my skin wasn’t up for negotiations.
“Does that sound good?” Dylan asked me. Heck, I didn’t know what in the world we were even talking about but said, “Uh-huh” anyway.
Dylan’s voice lowered an octave. “That’s my girl.” Dylan had called me “his girl” since eighth grade. It insinuated we were more than best friends. I knew it, he knew it, but his actions, however, did not.
Halfway looking at him, I made a kissy mwah sound as he said, “Goodbye.”
“Yeah, when I get back, why don’t we try that on for real?” Dylan inched his head over my shoulder, speaking that last sentence into my ear, circling his well-muscled arms around my neck in a hug. The flirt in Dylan knew no bounds. I shuddered embarrassingly, as I hugged him back. I was codependent, people. No one had to shove a psychology book in my face. Come morning I was going to miss him, but right now he was making me look—well, taken.
I thought he was gone, but then I heard him yell from behind, “You know I love you, don’t you?” I wanted to crawl inside a hole and die. Dylan and I always said we loved one another. If I said it first, he responded—always. If he voiced that trio of words, then I replied in kind. I know it was confusing to everyone since we weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, but not to us. It merely was the extent, or should I say depth, of our relationship. But sometimes he spouted out those words as effortlessly as the weather report...made me think it wasn’t special.
I sheepishly turned, glancing over my shoulder, but he wasn’t looking at me at all. His eyes burned like boiling butter as he bore a hole in Liam’s face the size of the Grand Canyon. Hand to God, slobber practically dripped from his rabid jowls. Dylan put his fingers to his eyes in the old, silent “v” pointing them angrily in Liam’s direction. In other words, I’ve got eyes everywhere.
The nerve.
First thing I did (other than contain my bladder) was glance to Liam. He hadn’t moved an inch, his face sort of expressionless. Dylan’s face, however, just made him a eunuch. I circled my hands around my mouth, loud enough for only him to hear. “You’re not the boss of me, Dylan,” I hissed.
What did he do? He chuckled—chuckled, for God’s sake—a mixture of humor and know-no-bounds cockiness. “Just wrapping up business before I leave, Darc, and yes,” he chuckled deeper, “I am your boss.”
He turned and strutted off, his shoulders squared like he was the king of the world.
Justice closed her eyes, gushing, “The first thing that comes to mind is sweat, sheets, and wild-animal-barking-at-the-moon sort of passion.” I smacked her in the back of the head just because I knew her daddy would want me to. Justice was undeterred. “Please, tell me Dylan’s in love with me,” she begged. “Please, please, please. I want him, and he’s just my size.”
Justice was over six feet tall, a size sixteen with an eleven-and-a-half foot. I’m not sure what she considered her size, but I knew he had to be the unintimidated type. She had a black belt in karate, and attracting a guy when you could kill them ten different ways was asking too much of the male ego. Come to think of it, Dylan was probably perfect for her. God knows he had the real estate to back up a threat.
“What do you think, Darcy?” she gushed. “Isn’t he just dreamy?”
For some reason, I heard stripper music playing. I didn’t know if that was in reference to Liam or my best friend. I slumped down in my seat. Well, as far as my seat would allow, but obviously, I misjudged what should be a normal task. This was the moment things went horribly wrong. This wasn’t going to be the setting where I told my children their parents fell in love at first sight...it just wasn’t. I fell backwards onto the tile with a clapping smash; my head snapped back and my chin finished forward, boomeranging off my chest. I chucked my teeth together. I didn’t see stars; I saw stinking meteors.
Somehow Justice’s People magazine wound up covering my face in a tent, and my feet were straight up in the air, practically over my head. I thought it was over, but then a barrage of Potato Starz crashed down on top of the magazine. Justice alternated between coughing, hissing, picking them off, and talking herself out of laughing. Typical. Just typical. My gaffes were usually laid out for public consumption.
After a few moments of disbelief, I cracked open an eyelid. My face had to be beet red because my butt felt like I was sitting in lava. Justice helped me back up, picked off some dust bunnies, flicked Oreo crumbs out of my hair, and set me aright. “I don’t think anyone noticed,” she lied. “Are you okay?”
I’m pretty sure I might’ve cracked my coccyx. A hush filled the room as everyone processed what just happened. You could file this episode under Why You’ll Never Get a Date with Liam Woods. I didn’t want to look at him. In my brain I knew that would be a big mistake, but I found myself glancing to his seat, searching him out anyway. He and Ivy were already walking out the door.
Talk about a stake in the heart. Hand in hand, I watched them step around a group of three males who appeared to be mercilessly arguing right in front of the cafeteria entry. There was head bobbing, a little bit of chest bumping, and a whole lot of faculty not noticing. One had his car keys gripped tightly in his hand as though he were about to skip out or was simply returning from somewhere. The other’s jaw was moving so fast it could’ve broken the course record at the Indy 500. It wasn’t readily apparent what the dispute was about or who they were—the two arguing I could only see their profiles—but getting the brunt of it was Jinx King. No shocker there.
Jinx was around 5’7” tall, dark-skinned, with hair shorn so short it was merely a shadow on his head. He had a two-inch scar that ran down his right cheek, and his brown eyes were deep-set and hard, like he’d seen more than his fair share of trouble. I didn’t know much about Jinx other than he’d joined school in January and always had this red bandana hanging out of the back left pocket of his jeans, his jeans that were practically at his knees. I guess if I had to sum him up, though, the first words that came to mind were “damaged goods.” Something was wrong, or maybe a better word was “irreversible.”
Jinx kept looking at his hands, obsessive-compulsively wiping them down his dark jeans as though he were removing something sticky. For some reason, I was reminded of that phrase in Macbeth, “Out damned spot, out!”
Looking panicked and confused, he nervously turned and scanned the room like he was searching for a trap door. After several futile seconds, he finally landed his eyes on mine with a disarmingly intense stare. I felt frustration, despair, and a helplessness so huge it nearly choked me. I’m not sure if that was by accident or intention. For that matter, whether they were his emotions or mine. All I knew was Jinx put the “anti” in antisocial. He went out of his way to avoid eye contact as well as relationships he felt unnecessary. He was premeditated in everything he did. What would someone like Jinx want with someone like me?
2 ICYDK
ICYDK IS NETSPEAK for In Case You Didn’t Know. It’s a phrase that Internet chatters popularized to save keystrokes. Basically, it’s the preface used before you dispensed needed information, in many cases—gossip.
Valley High is big...and when I say big, I mean campus-to-a-small-college, three-thousand-students-big. So, there was a lot of ICYDK going on. Right now, my cell phone was blowing up with What went down today, Did I miss anything, Was there any blood? I typed back “nada” to seven people I barely knew, laughing to myself they’d assumed I’d have the lowdown.
My day started out with US History 102 then Anatomy, Spanish 3, Geometry, Lunch, English 102, Drawing and Painting, rounding out with Human Sexuality. Justice and I bugg
ed out of lunch early...can’t imagine why...and were standing at our lockers getting ready for fifth period.
I’m not sure how, but Dylan finagled it around to where our locker assignments were side by side: numbers twelve and thirteen. Being superstitious enough, I insisted he take number thirteen because no way in the world did I want to invite any more bad luck into my life. Apparently, that whole number thirteen is the devil’s number thing was a crock. Some of the curse bled over onto twelve. Well, you know what, sometimes Dylan had great ideas, other times he was an idiot.
Point of fact: Couldn’t he have picked a place that wasn’t within earshot and eyeshot of Ivy Morrison? Unfortunately, the majority of my classes this semester were with Ivy. Every once in a while fortune falls on your side; others, it kicks you in the gut.
Trying to drown out her voice, I lifted the metal handle and immediately fell in love. My locker door was covered in headshots of my friends and butt shots of professional athletes. I called their glutes a “boom boom, hoo-hah.” Not many people were graced with an exceptional gluteus maximus, but I felt it important to celebrate the ones that were otherworldly.
Once I mentally wiped the drool, I determined my locker smelled like wet dog hair. Like everything else in my life, my locker was either pristine or prison bathroom-worthy. If I was happy, Messy Darcy was in the driver’s seat; if I was stressed, Domestic Darcy could blow through the mess like a tornado in a mobile home park.
The smell was sewer-rank, and I was stuck somewhere between laughing and losing my lunch. Squatting down, I rummaged around under notebooks, my gym bag, a few old tests, and discovered it was a wadded up yellow footie. Like a moron, I drew it up to my nose then dry-heaved and snorted.
Yep, it was the footie.
While Ivy addled on, I underhanded the sock over to where it landed at her feet. When she did nothing but amp up the chatter, it was like a knitting needle in my brain. I already had a knot on my head that was a beaut. Falling out of your seat at lunch sort of did that to you. Add Ivy to the mix, and it was like turning the screw.
Pulling my English book off the top shelf, I tried my best to drown out her high-pitched words.
She gave her hair a flip, anxiously looking up and down the hall. The hall was crowded, like cattle going to slaughter. Shoulders were bumping, and people were either hustling to their next destination or didn’t give a rat’s rear end and were delaying the inevitable.
I pulled an orange lip-gloss out of my pocket and rolled a circle around my mouth. Not once had she voiced Dylan’s name, but as expected, she paused to grin lewdly at his locker.
Eeeuw.
She halfway whispered, halfway moaned, “You know, I could have him anytime I want him. It’s just not the time yet.”
Only Ivy and her unbelievable sense of entitlement would have nerve enough to breathe those words. To answer her question, “No, I didn’t know” she could have him anytime she wanted. Surely that wasn’t true, was it? Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure Dylan was going to ask my opinion when he decided to take on a Mrs. Hottie.
When I didn’t respond, she snorted, “Guess what I heard about you?”
All the air left my lungs...and I dropped my lip-gloss.
Ivy had the corner on gossip and liked nothing more than spreading it along the grapevine. I called her Poison Ivy because she just made you feel icky.
Even though I didn’t want to give her the pleasure, fear rushed through my veins like a river jumping its banks in a storm. Picking up my lip-gloss, I walked right into the middle of oncoming traffic, bottlenecking the hallway. “Wh-what?” I stuttered.
Ivy was like a wind-up doll. Whenever she talked, it was a constant run-on sentence and never with a period. “People are saying you’ve got a thing going on with Oscar Small and it’s been going on for a while and they’re saying he’s getting tired of the games and wants it all out in the open but you know I tried to defend you but when the evidence mounts up there’s only so much a person can do but I tried, I really tried.” Big breath.
I burst out laughing. I proudly belonged to a group of peers that had never had a boyfriend or girlfriend. Okay, maybe proudly was a strong word. It was more by default than by design. But with Oscar? At Valley, Oscar Small was a name synonymous with dipshit. It’s like he had one of those red blinking signs over his head, and even if you were a non-curser like me, your mind couldn’t help but tumble into the crudeness.
I swear, right then Oscar walked by sort of waving, sort of acting like he had something scandalous to hide. Oscar was always working some kind of scam, so that wasn’t unusual, but he definitely was a little more sketchy than normal. He glanced over his shoulder, ducked down like he was dodging a bullet then wiped both hands down his jean legs, managing a greeting. “See you tonight,” he mumbled then darted off down the hall like he was outrunning the devil. My word, it sounded like a date. Our three-worded conversation was going to be top of the gossip food chain by 7th period.
Oscar had been in love with me since third grade, or so he thought. Thing was, Oscar was a picker. A picker’s someone that drives around at night and picks through everyone’s trash. Tonight was trash night on my street, and Oscar and I had struck up a friendship over the years. Hard to imagine yourself “forever after” with someone who thinks your rusty bicycle and old milk jugs are the best things since sliced bread. It’s not that I wasn’t flattered; he just wasn’t my type. Oscar was sloppy, always in flannel, and came out of the womb looking like a man. He now was middle-aged and balding with wayward hairs coming out of his nose and ears. Plus, he wore coke-bottled glasses, one thicker than the other. Half the time I didn’t know who to have a conversation with.
I looked at the thin one and gave him a wave.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in English class listening to Mr. Woodward remind us of a term paper due the day after Spring Break—which was in fifteen days. Fear is great motivator, people, it just is. Panic filled the room like wildfire.
But then there was Jubilee Mueller. Jubilee was African American and the smartest sophomore in school. She was Justice’s cousin on her father’s side, and if Dylan wasn’t around, I went to her when I needed a quick tutorial on what was expected (you know, when I wasn’t paying attention).
As tall as Justice, she sat in the front row with her fingers threaded together smiling, bouncing her leg up and down in skinny jeans and a red cotton blouse. My guess was hers was finished and either in the editing phase or already turned in.
Continuing to discuss the term paper and carrying a stack of last week’s test, Mr. Woodward stopped right in front of my desk. I swear, we either had a mild earthquake, or he kicked my chair. “Check your syllabus, boys and girls. It’s right there in black and white.” I was speechless. I couldn’t recall getting a syllabus let alone remembering what it said.
My hands were quivering with a cold dread as I unzipped my navy and gray plaid Jansport backpack, searching through the clutter of the last eight months. I had a habit of losing whatever it was I needed at the time—right now, it seemed to be my dignity. There were movie ticket stubs, Target receipts, a pencil drawing of a crumpled Coke can, no syllabus anywhere. All I could think was I had plans to do nothing next week—well, nothing academic, at least—now, this might be the longest, ugliest week on record.
“You, kids, need to take your lives seriously. These grades count.”
I was aware of that; unfortunately, I didn’t know how to change it.
Mid-fifties, slim build, with black hair graying at the temples, Mr. Woodward rifled through his stack of papers, mumbling to himself. When he found what I was assumed was mine, he threw it on my desk with a thwack and a deep frown he didn’t even try to mask. We met eyes. “You can do better, Walker. You and I both know it. Heck, God knows it.”
My word, please don’t bring God into the picture.
My Liam-high took a nosedive. Right there in red ink was a D-minus. Disappointing? Yes. Shocking? Not exactly. English 102 is designe
d to teach you argumentative and research writing. Evidently, I wasn’t a good arguer, and no matter how hard I tried to act like it didn’t hurt, every bad grade chipped away at my self-confidence. I blinked to keep the tears from falling.
My grades were horrible. I didn’t see many As, but when I saw a B or even a C, it was an occasion to break out the best china. I felt my t-shirt tighten around my neck and gave him my best one-could-hope face.
It wasn’t easy for me to study, let alone multitask. I was distracted easily and was so hyperactive that trying to hold my attention was like wrangling a greasy pig. It wasn’t for the impatient or faint of heart. What exactly did that look like? You told me to do two things, I did one. You told me to finish four, I did one and a half. Day of the test? I thought it was tomorrow. In most cases, it wasn’t because I was lazy, it’s because I was thinking of other things, and in my mind, those things were always more important.
What really threw teachers for a loop was when I aced something...something hard...something that tore apart the brains of the other overachievers. That happened last week. We had a pop quiz on the imagery, symbolism, and metaphors in The Pied Piper since it was the new production put out by the Theater Department. Our assignment was to read it over the weekend (I didn’t), and I hadn’t laid eyes on the story since grade school. The average grade was a 69 percent. I scored 110, picking up the bonus worth ten points.
Evidently, I had a high intelligence quotient, the very reason you’d hit one out of the ballpark occasionally. Like all parents, mine thought I was born a genius, so at age four I had an IQ test, and the child psychologist informed my parents I scored 160. A 160? I laughed in his face. By definition, the average score is 100. I told him he was smoking dope then my parents had to explain why I knew about dope in the first place. That fault lay with my Grandfather Winston. Winston was of the opinion that ignorance was worse than having knowledge-too-soon. So, when Winston unloaded all of his knowledge about illegal narcotics, I likewise unloaded all of it onto the psychologist. Needless to say, any delusions of grandeur for my bright future were replaced with a confidential letter of concern that made it to grade school before I even arrived.
