by A. J. Lape
Child is precocious, needs constant stimulation, lack of guidance may lead to deviant behavior...blah, blah, and embarrassing blah. I only knew about this letter because I...well, because I broke into the counselor’s office and read it.
That fact in itself proved the letter to be at least marginally true.
So, high IQs? They didn’t do any good if they didn’t help you achieve anything intellectually high. Well, something intellectually high that academia would be thrilled about. One thing I had going for me, though, was most girls were nouns. Darcy Walker, I liked to think, was a verb. I needed to walk this off, and as God as my witness, I was going to bust out of here like my butt was on fire.
First, I had to get past Mr. Woodward. He was back at his seat, flicking something orange off his brown golf shirt, but as I glanced up with half a smile, he legitimately gave me a snorting eye roll. He’d taken a seat on the Darcy Disappointment Train.
“Walker, come here,” he grumbled, not even trying to whisper.
I’d rather jump in front of a moving car.
Slipping out of my seat, I attempted to paint on a smile; I’m not sure I was successful. Once I was standing next to him, I expected him to dive into a litany of phrases about hard work, determination, and character, but he was so painstakingly quiet it made my heart jump. Finally he said, “Do you think you can bring up that grade?”
I actually crossed my fingers. My GPA was in shambles. Sometimes I laughed when things were awkward. Right now, I sounded like an insane hyena. “You know, Mr. Woodward, I think this is the part where I’m supposed to find a bottle of booze and chug it,” I joked.
He wasn’t amused. “Can you be serious, Walker? As in ever?” Frankly, the ability to stick my head in the sand was one of my best traits; it’s a life’s philosophy that’s served me well. Apparently, he didn’t share the same opinion. “Child, I’d like to see you succeed. You’re one of the most creative, intelligent students I’ve ever had.”
Oh boy, that lie ranked right up there with the Tooth Fairy.
I had moments of greatness, but nothing that seemed eternal. Since I was barely ten years old, I had this aching need to fill that constantly left me hungry. Problem was, I didn’t know what to fill it with. It wasn’t like I didn’t think about it. What was I going to do, where was I going to be, was I going to be dunking fries in oil, or pushing paper in a dead-end job? Those thoughts alone could launch me into a full-blown panic attack, gasping for air, clutching a paper bag.
As I saw it, my talents were limited. One, I could burp the preamble. Two, I could put on a mean show of sock puppets. Three—and I guess this talent had some promise—I could negotiate and haggle like a gypsy. But guess what, I hadn’t seen many gypsies hanging around Cincinnati lately.
I had the illogical urge to hug him before I spiraled into tears.
Digging my nails into my palms, I’d only clenched my eyes shut for a few seconds when Jinx King blurted out he didn’t feel well. When I glanced at him, he was antsy, like some theater understudy anxious for the lead to crash and burn.
Mr. Woodward nodded, pointing to the door as he gave me some ideas for my paper. I attempted to listen but was fighting the sudden unexplainable need to follow Jinx and see what bad things he intended to conjure up. The crux of the matter was Jinx was a little like me. Without ever really speaking, I knew he was the type that concocted stories to go to another venue. I had a feeling his other venue wasn’t what the school would deem beneficial in academialand. Earlier, though, he’d acted like there was something I should know.
God forbid I should not catch the bone he threw.
My inner-verb started screaming. When I grabbed my stomach with a wince, Mr. Woodward opened his planner, took a Number 2 pencil from his drawer, and reluctantly mumbled I was excused. He knew he’d lost me about three sentences ago. I thought I heard him sigh.
Riddled with guilt, I told him, “I’ll try, Mr. Woodward. I swear to you, I’ll try.”
That might be a herculean task, but I’d try nonetheless.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Jinx immediately whip out his cell phone, frantically dialing someone as he took off down the hall. I stepped out after him, deliberating whether to ask what happened earlier, or simply follow and see what transpired.
I decided on the latter.
We were on the second floor, and the hallway was night-before-Christmas quiet. Very little was stirring and conversations were so hushed, for a nosy person like me it was a total bore.
I followed Jinx as quietly as possible, past locker bays and classrooms, willing my sneakers to not squeak.
I inched closer, hoping to catch a sliver of the conversation. “Is, um...is um—are you sure?” he asked nervously. “Really? That shouldn’t have happened.”
What? I thought. Once again, Jinx wiped a hand down his jeans like he was removing something he just couldn’t get off. He looked at his hand with a frown then stopped and peered out over the balcony, nervously listening to whoever was doing most of the talking. He pivoted left then right, and when I feared he was going to turn into the restroom, at the last minute he quickly exited outside through the second story, side door.
Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it, I said to myself. Go ahead, go ahead, go ahead, my alter ego countered.
The only way I could describe my decision making process was that one shoulder had an angel living on it, the other a devil. Unfortunately, the little devil won out in most battles of the will.
Wearing my beloved Chuck Taylor sneakers, I put my hand on the door then ran down the steps like I was late for a date with God. Chuck and I had walked a million miles. My foot stopped growing in 7th grade, and I’d somehow kept my white converse sneakers in semi-mint condition. All I did was periodically change the laces to my favorite shade of the month and let my shoes keep on walking. Trouble was, they usually led me into trouble. Following Jinx? That might’ve put the duh in dumb.
3 THRILL SEEKERS
EXPERTS SAY THEY may have identified a gene for the daredevil. I think I was first in line when God was passing out that type of idiocy. Maybe I was stupid that way, because cliff diving in Hawaii or parachuting without a parachute sounded like things I’d like to try. There might be a market there—in an X-Games sort of way—but you’re life expectancy was likely to be cut in half. A part of me didn’t care; that’s because in my dream of dreams I longed to be a spy.
I always imagined myself toting a gun, protecting the innocent, constructing all sorts of aliases while I was undercover. If anything, I had an active imagination. That’s probably the downfall that led to this in-class excursion. That, and I was bored.
There were roughly ten minutes before class was over, and the teacher thought I was sick anyway. I knew Justice would grab my books if I was late, so I basically had ten minutes to: one, repent and turn from my wicked ways; or two, do whatever Jinx was doing. When I pushed the door wide, wind blew in my face like a hurricane. Maybe the heavens were angry at the choice I’d made.
Where some cities barely saw two seasons, Cincinnati experienced all four. Our springs sprouted flowers even though there was an overabundance of rain, summers were hot and dry as a desert, autumns turned the foliage an earthy orange and yellow, and winters saw snowfall like the towns up North. Right now, we were in the rainy season. Currently, there was cloud cover and no mist, but a wind that could knock down a sequoia.
Jinx was taking across the parking lot, weaving around cars like he hadn’t a care in the world. He met up with someone I recognized as a senior but had no clue who he was personally. I did, however, always find this male fascinating. Where Jinx looked as hard as they come, this male’s face was almost expressionless, like he was so stone cold, not one emotion ever placed a wrinkle anywhere. That in itself scored way too high on the weird meter, if you asked me. They walked twenty more feet, dodged a blue Escort, and crossed Valley Lane, the street directly in front of the school. A bank was there along with a strip mall
that held a few restaurants like Bad Frog Yogurt, Jett’s Pizza, the Happy Wok, and my favorite, El Rancho Grande. Next to the strip mall was Amity Health Care. Neither made a move to enter any of the establishments. They merely camped next to a dumpster behind the center, briefly looked inside, and immediately started chatting.
I put my stealth on and did my best to navigate through rows of cars unseen. I did a swift jog until I got to the eighth row, my ponytail whipping fiercely around my neck. Finally, I made it to row ten and hunkered down on the pavement next to a black Toyota Forerunner. Rummaging around in my pocket, I pulled out five jellybeans left over from God-knows-when and plopped them one by one in my mouth.
The guy with Jinx was white, a little taller and wearing a black baseball cap with the bill turned backwards. Like Jinx, his rear end was hanging out of his jeans with red and black boxer shorts peeking out over a belt cinched into his thighs—I don’t get it. I really don’t know why some guys think we want to see their underwear. In a white t-shirt, he was also sporting that red bandana in his left pocket. Twin dressers, and wasn’t that just odd for guys to do.
There were a few deep puddles of rain, and the wind left them babbling. I couldn’t make out their words over the noise, but they were talking animatedly, their hands moving almost faster than their mouths. As I inched my way closer, they both turned and looked inside the dumpster again, Jinx then scratched his neck, no-name boy snarled something else, and Jinx’s shoulders fell like they were carrying a two-ton weight.
Then their conversation was over. They did some sort of knuckle bump then no-name boy held his right hand out from his heart, showing five fingers then moving to one, performing the ritual twice. What the heck??? I batted around some ideas of what that could mean—his fingers were cramped, he’d just left computer class, maybe he was just weird—but when Jinx repeated the gesture, it dawned on me it was some sort of signal.
You don’t say…
I couldn’t contain the excitement. I jumped up but cracked my head on the Forerunner’s side mirror and nearly kissed the pavement. I tended to be a klutz. Irony was, I could play sports better than any guy that was first-string. I could sink more free throws and get on the base every time, but there were days I had trouble crossing the floor. Apparently, the universe thought contradictions like that were funny.
When I finally came to myself, it was as if Jinx and no-name boy had vaporized into nothingness. Instantly panicked, I bent down checking for feet, but got nothing but a foul smell the wind carried over.
I fought a gag. The smell was so pungent it reminded me of rotting meat. Against my better judgment, I found myself crossing the street, following the odor rolling out of the brown, rusty dumpster like it was being propelled by a fan. The closer I got, however, the more I had to talk myself out of vomiting.
A small three-inch gap was between the corners on the right side, and like the idiot that I am I still peered inside.
Oh. My. Good. God.
I had to blink a few times before it registered. There was a hand...or fingers...detached from a body, you pick. I cupped my hands around my eyes, trying to drown out my periphery to get the best look inside. All I could make out were bloody fingernails and the initials AVO tattooed on the index through ring fingers. Good God in Heaven, I could die today and say I’ve seen it all. Was this person alive? Dead? Sick, maimed, injured? I felt the blood leave my head and rush straight to my feet. Don’t get sick, Darcy, I told myself. You wanted to know...now you know.
A smart person would contact the authorities; a dumb person would at least get a tetanus shot; an ADD person like me would do a cartwheel and pay homage to the dumpster gods.
The internal argument started. Do I go in? Do I stay put? Looking down at my sneakers, the one thing I knew for sure was I didn’t want Chuck to take the brunt of my decision. I quickly untied the neon green laces, and set my shoes to the side.
The dumpster was your standard 10 cubic foot size from Rumpke, the sanitation company in town. It had stacks of cardboard boxes next to it and some weeds that hadn’t been pulled in weeks. Stepping up onto a box, I placed both hands on the rim, hoisting myself inside in one fell swoop. I scraped my body on entry, my foot sliding over what looked like paper recyclables. My heel got nicked, and when I bounced around for better footing, I stepped in an open container of copier toner. My foot was now a purpley black. Right then, my left hand landed in something brown and smelly, and since a Mexican restaurant was nearby, I prayed it was refried beans, not the waste products of a human or dead animal.
The smell of vinegar permeated the air, causing my tongue to stick to the roof of my mouth. Tossing out empty rice boxes and containers that said FedEx on them, my hands brushed against something hard. Trouble was, I knew that kind of “hard.” It was on something that had once been living. Taking a step back, I kicked aside a green plastic tarp and stared into the wide-eyed look of a dead man. I gulped, then I gulped again, and I swear, I think I passed gas.
Flies were buzzing his face, and my guess was maggot larvae were already breeding.
His face was covered in gray stubble, and white nose hairs were peeking out of his nostrils like needles in a pincushion. He was bald with some Cro-Magnon characteristics, his forehead jutting out over his nose. The swelling on his face and limbs was so advanced the one hand still attached to his body looked like a catcher’s mitt. If this guy wasn’t placed on ice soon, there was a good chance his face might explode...I think. At least I saw that in a zombie movie once, and the sight was so horrifying it made me wish I was in protective clothing.
Stark naked from the waist up, new khakis covered his lower half. Call me an idiot, but I grabbed him by the left elbow and flipped him over. A tattoo of what looked like a demon—a red-horned body that was half man, half goat—covered his back along with gothic symbols that looked like hieroglyphics. Words below it, however, spelled out “death” in Spanish.
I screamed, but no sound came out.
I should’ve stayed in class, picked a topic for my term paper, taken a short snooze, but noooo, I had to give myself something to be haunted about forever. Kicking a piece of cardboard from his waist, I saw it—the thing that probably killed him. Two bullet holes were in his back, and blood had drained down his torso, stuck to the waistband of his pants. My mind kept trying to wrap itself around what I was seeing. This wasn’t Kool-Aid or Halloween costume synthetic stuff. It was genuine blood from someone who’d once used it to live.
But when I focused even further, in reality there was very little fluid. You’d think his pants would be soaked. Maybe he was shot after he died? When the heart wasn’t pumping?
My footing shifted, and to my absolute horror, his body moved awkwardly and his neck almost rolled off his shoulders. Let me amend that, maybe his neck being broken killed him. I jumped around in a cringe, and his ankle somehow wound up on my foot.
All at once, the world started spinning backwards.
I had a case of nausea that rivaled what the people on the Titanic must’ve felt when it hit the dang iceberg. Bending over, I tried to dislodge my foot, willing my corn dogs to stay put in my stomach. When I swallowed down some bile, next thing I knew, I was yanked out of the dumpster by one shoulder and a leg. I tried to scream and beg for mercy, but “Don’t disturb the body!” was the only thing that made it out of my mouth.
The blood rushed straight to my head. After a quick headshake, a look backward showed the extraction being performed by Valentine Vecchione. Valentine, AKA Vinnie, Vecchione, was full-blooded Italian with a prominent bump on his nose next to his lamb chop sideburns. Vinnie was out of place in Greek/German/Anglo-Saxon Cincinnati, but that little social minority he made up for in personality.
A senior football player, he fit the mold of the dumb jock. Talking to him was like playing connect the dots and the numbers didn’t match up. He was around 6’3” tall, 275 pounds, always dressed for Gym with moobies. You know, man-boobs.
“Dolce!” he screamed, h
is brown eyes as wide as silver dollars. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
This would fall under the category of Darcy will be Darcy. His question was more a reflection of his not having a clue rather than my actions. Just my opinion.
Vinnie was sweating like he’d just coughed his way through a mile; his sticky, brown hair stuck to his forehead, his white t-shirt clinging to his gut unflatteringly. Riding up his inner thighs were shorts that looked a size too small. “Answer me, Dolce.”
Vinnie had called me “Dolce” for years (pronounced dohl-chay). It meant “sweet” in Italian since we were always running into one another at Servatii’s, a local bakery, getting our sugar fix.
I sighed, deciding to answer. “Looking at a dead man.”
Vinnie rolled his eyes, thinking I was joking. Then he got a load of the stench and gagged two times. “What’s that goddawful smell?”
“A dead man.”
He wiped his nose and gave his head a brisk shake—the dead man comment still not registering. “Dylan told me to watch over you.”
“Dylan told you to watch over me,” I repeated in laughter.
“Yes, Dolce. He said you have a tendency to get in trouble. Pulling you feet-first out of the smelliest dumpster I’ve ever run across qualifies as trouble.” I had a reputation. Did I earn it? Yes, I did. If I didn’t cause the catastrophe, I somehow fell into it.
Vinnie and Dylan had struck up an unlikely friendship when Dylan beat out the starting defensive end last fall on the football team. Evidently, the loser didn’t take it well and took a swing at Dylan during practice. No one thought a sophomore could fight, but Dylan went medieval on him, dropped him in two punches, pillaged his pride, and ultimately dislodged a molar. Apparently, it impressed Vinnie so much he took a lowly sophomore under his wing. That sounded like a fairytale once it rolled out of my mouth. Thing was, Vinnie was a “reformed” everything, loose emphasis on the quotations. His name was breathed in between every misdemeanor offense you could think of. Dylan was more or less keeping him clean since Vinnie had the pipe dream of playing college football. Yeah, well good luck with that; my guess was Vinnie couldn’t make the weighin.
