Grade a Stupid

by A. J. Lape

  I snorted. “Oh, jeez, maybe because she’s evil?”

  Once again, the clinical voice. “How’s Jagger?”

  I quickly changed the subject again. “How are the sea turtles, D? Are they really as big as textbooks say they are?”

  Dylan grumbled a low, warning sound...impatient and demanding. “Let me guess, he’s been hitting on you. A major dirtbag move when he has a girlfriend. Am I right, Darcy?” Sheesh, it felt stupid to admit that, and it didn’t go unnoticed he kept calling me Darcy.

  “He hits on everybody,” I exhaled in defeat.

  “Maybe, but with you he means it. That makes me extremely nervous. Is Valentine still in the picture?”

  Vinnie was convinced I’d broken up what could’ve been the love of his life or at least for the next fifteen minutes or so. Call me a genius, but I’d say he was mad. “Vinnie’s mad at me,” I told him, “so I can’t answer that question for the near future.”

  Dylan looked like he needed CPR. “My God, what in the world did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” he repeated. “If it were nothing then he wouldn’t be mad.”

  “Quit attacking me, D.”

  “I’m not attacking you. I’m merely exploring the inconsistencies in your story.”

  Smart mouth, I thought. “If you keep exploring my inconsistencies then I’m going to hang up.” I paused for effect, holding my chin up stubbornly, “Goodbye.”

  Even though he was sitting, I think his knees buckled. “Hey,” he murmured quickly, “we’re only talking. Don’t run away when things get tense.”

  “I’m not running away. I’m merely opting to not continue this line of questioning.”

  My goodness, my voice didn’t even sound like my own. Dylan bit his lip, stopping himself from saying whatever it was he was considering. After a few beats, he murmured, “I understand, and if you need this part of the conversation to be over then consider us copacetic.”

  Dylan’s fatal flaw? He always gave me what I wanted. I had him right where I wanted...a little bit of guilt with the beginnings of an apology I didn’t deserve. Let’s hope Heaven took into account good intentions because right now I felt kind of yucky. “I love you,” I grinned.

  His smile branched from ear to ear. “Always, sweetheart,” he murmured out in a whisper, “and I miss you.”

  I swear, Dylan’s voice was so seductive it would make any girl walk right out of her clothes.

  After some mundane chitchat about baseball season, we unplugged the conversation around 6:45AM. Right when I was going to leave. He even stayed online talking to Murphy when I showered. What he feared I was going to do, I don’t know, but the boy needed another hobby than keeping tabs on me.

  When I jogged outside to load into Jon’s death cab, the first thing out of his mouth—other than a grunt—was “Walker, what’s going on with you? Taylor’s on a warpath, and when he’s on a warpath he makes…” long pause, “well, the world as we know it stands still.”

  My eyes had to have bugged out of my head. “You talked to him this morning?”

  “About five seconds ago. Not so happy and chipper as usual, I might add.” He mumbled to himself, “Certifiably institution bound, if you ask me. The guy’s such an enabler.”

  Today was grueling, and I was as rigid as a ten day old corpse. Contrary to my physical state, my mind felt like it was running on amphetamines. It turned over and over, not able to put Oscar in a box I felt comfortable with. Killer? Victim of circumstance? All I knew was people like Oscar tried and failed, then prayed for the emotional fortitude to try again the next day—all the while watching those that had it easier lap you on the track of life. I attempted a period of self-reflection today, wondering if I were simply rooting for the underdog, but it was still my opinion Oscar couldn’t and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  I walked into the orthodontist’s office, hoping this was my last go-around with braces. This hadn’t been a pain-free process, mentally or physically. Teeth were twisted, missing, and there was a one-hour surgery to coax an incisor out of hiding. I couldn’t blame it. I wouldn’t want to be associated with that mess either.

  As I grabbed a seat next to another girl, my iPhone rang. It was Justice. “Hey,” she said. “I’ve got a pair of size 27 True Religion jeans that look mint-worthy for $29.99. Do you want them? I think I was a 27 in fourth grade.”

  I bought a Lucky patchwork purse at TJ Maxx—Murphy paid half, I paid half. Fumbling around in it, I opened my leather wallet realizing all I had was three dollars and seventy-four cents. “Can you keep them until I get paid tomorrow?”

  “No problemo. I’ve also got a really pretty shirt the color of a sunset.”

  Justice suffered from red-green color deficiency, and in light of her color-blindness, had a tendency to dress like fruit. Monochromatic all the time—well, what she thought was monochromatic. There was a good chance the shirt could range from nuclear waste to puke green.

  “Just the jeans,” I said, then disconnected.

  My phone rang again...Murphy. A heavy throat cleared and the receptionist gave me a rule-breaker face, pitching her chin to the sign clearly marked “No Phone Zone.”

  When she resumed filing her too-long coral nails, I mouthed an embarrassed, “Sorry,” then stepped outside. Vinnie had forgiven me and was sitting in the Bug eating a BK Whopper. Our relationship wasn’t on the down-low anymore. In fact, Claudia saw him dropping me off, ratted me out, but Murphy mumbled, “It’s fine,” when he was fully aware of Vinnie’s reputation. There’s a story there, but I was smart enough to leave it alone.

  “What’s wrong?” Murphy gruffed.

  “I’m outside. Evidently, Dr. Baxter hates cell phones.”

  Murphy jumped on his high horse, citing his monthly payment down to the last “red American cent,” arguing Dr. Baxter’s a minion of Hell on insurance claims.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Whatever,” he snorted, and I could see his eye roll. “I’m running late. Just hang tight until I can get there.”

  Dropping my phone back in my bag, I absentmindedly ran my tongue over the braces one last time. I tasted popcorn...from last night, for God’s sake. Evidently, I did a lousy job this morning. Inside the doctor’s office was a small vanity where you could brush before your appointment. I had an emergency travel kit in my purse, so I ripped out a three-inch brush and squirted some Crest on it. I no sooner got it in my mouth than I turned and ran right smack into Jagger Cane, exiting the neighboring eye doctor in the same strip mall at Voice of America Plaza.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he laughed, as our faces all but kissed one another. I couldn’t help it, but I blushed. Jagger was switching up his standard “babe” greeting today. Apparently, he was feeling the word “beautiful.”

  We did that awkward thing where we both turned left, then right, finally deciding on somewhere in between and bonked our heads. My toothbrush lodged in the back of my throat, and when I coughed out “Can’t breathe,” Jagger’s eyes went wide, and he immediately began to pound on my back. On the third pound, it popped out onto the mulch by the door, toothpaste side down in a bed of begonias.

  I stared, wondering how this crap happened to me.

  I figured I had two choices. I could leave it and act like it wasn’t mine, or I could pick it up and brush my teeth anyway. Without a second’s thought, I whisked it up and shoved it in my mouth—dirt and all.

  “I love it that you’re so weird,” he said under his breath.

  I spit some froth into the mulch, realizing I’d reached an all-time level of stupid. I literally was brushing my teeth outdoors with the son of Satan.

  “I’m no’ weird,” I spit again. “My teeth juth ha’ pupcorn in thim.”

  After a few more strokes, I removed the brush and smiled wide. “Do I have dirt in my teeth?”

  Jagger giggled, shaking his head no. I shoved everything back in my bag, trying to maneuver around him when he grabbed me by the forearm. “Hey, I
heard Oscar’s up for Murder One. That’s awful.”

  Peeking back inside the glass door, the girl in front of me was still reading a magazine. “Yeah,” I said.

  We stood there while “yeah” hung in the air, me nervously nibbling my lip, him throwing off pheromones so pungent they’d begun to choke me. Suddenly, I remembered his indecent proposal from yesterday. He said he saw something but would only tell me if I’d kiss him. I stared at his pinky-red lips the same color as his shirt and didn’t want my first kiss to be because I’d sold out...I think.

  The fact that I’d even considered it would haunt me in infamy. I counted to five, trying to get my bearings. “You told me you saw something, Jagger,” I said.

  Jagger paused, wearing a big grin that shouted X-rated. “I did, but do you remember my condition?” I frowned. “Come on, babe, kiss me. I promise I’ll respect you in the morning.”

  He didn’t respect me any more than an atheist respected a prayer wafer.

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ve got to go, Jagger. Just tell me what you saw.”

  Again, the off-color grin. “Listen, babe, I’ve got to scram, too, but if you want to know, take a look who’s walking into Target.”

  Okay, I was wearing contacts but even they didn’t give me vision perfect enough to see two hundred yards away. I squinted anyway while he laughed.

  “Juan Salas. He’s got the answers you need.”

  I did a few mental cartwheels, smiled until my face hurt then laid prostrate on the ground in a thankful prayer. All in my head, people, but that’s what I would’ve done if there were room. “How about Jinx King?”

  He gave me a headshake. “I didn’t see him, but I know they’re friends.” Now, I can place them both at the scene: Jinx at the dumpster via Oscar; and Juan in the parking lot via Jagger. Plus, I knew AP Unger was arguing with Juan. I’d already deducted Justin Starsong was the male arguing at the dumpster with Jinx, so that only left Fisher King, according to Jubilee Mueller. I was getting somewhere...but I just didn’t know “where” yet.

  “Thanks, Jagger. Our secret?” This is Jagger Cane, the little angel gasped. I know, I know, I explained, but I need him, and I’m not above exploiting his bad-boy ways to get what I want.

  He gave me a wink, sidling even closer. Heat rose up my neck, ending at my cheeks. I didn’t want to feel anything. He was Jagger, for God’s sake, that was like lying down with a hissing copperhead.

  “Hey, my parents are having a party tonight,” he said. “Want to come?”

  I loved to dance, but I hated parties with the blah, blah, blah conversations you knew people had about the blah, blah, blah guests once they left the room.

  “I’m nervous in large groups,” I halfway lied.

  In the snap of the fingers, Jagger’s eyes went soft, even hungrier, and dare I say, loving? When he reached for my face, Vinnie was suddenly at my feet madder than a crocodile that had her eggs destroyed. He shoved a beefy finger into Jagger’s chest. “You touch her again, and I’m going to rip your spine out and clean my toilet with it.” Jagger—dumbly, I might add—took a step toward Vinnie, taunting him with a smile just this side of evil.

  Before I could intervene, I heard my name called through the door. Call me a conflict avoider, but I left their conversation to chance.

  A few minutes later, I was sitting in a pink reclining seat, my orthodontist standing overtop me as I stared at the fluffy, white clouds painted onto the baby blue ceiling.

  “Let’s see what we’ve done,” he said, rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist. This could go one of two ways. They could come off and be the same; they could come off and be worse. Before I knew it, a pile of scrap metal was in a bowl and a mirror was enthusiastically shoved in front of my face. “Smile,” he beamed.

  I’m not sure what I did. I half smiled, half eeked, half prayed. By that time, Murphy was in the room with his video camera, smelling like a tobacco plant, humming The Dentist from Little Shop of Horrors.

  “Open up, kid, before I pry your mouth wide with my bare hands,” he chuckled.

  Slowly opening my mouth, I caught a glimpse of 28 teeth that were relatively straight, sort of white, no traces of vampiric canines anywhere. They appeared strong and healthy perched up next to bright, pink gums—the way God intended before bad genetics twisted them up in the womb. I gasped; Murphy nearly dropped his camera.

  Insert drumroll...my teeth didn’t fall out of my head.

  12 BARE NECESSITIES

  I LEFT DYLAN a message, prank phone called Liam then wound up vomiting “my bad” all over Jagger Cane. What precipitated this temporary moment of insanity? I wanted someone who understood me. Imagine my relief when I realized it was all just a dream.

  Why was I depressed? Other than the fact that a genuine psychopath was after me, I’d just had my braces removed. I should be ecstatic; I wasn’t. On some level, I thought the skies would open up with potential boyfriends recognizing my true beauty beneath three plus years of metal. Didn’t happen; I still was on the slow boat to nowhere.

  Whenever I had days like this, I ate lots of sugar and danced to the Jungle Book soundtrack. My favorite tune is Bare Necessities. Today, it was playing on a loop in the background while I refused to get out of bed. It wasn’t making me feel better; it was making me hate bears.

  A deep-fried Oreo was stuck to the roof of my mouth. While I debated to let it dissolve or throw myself down in a modified Heimlich Maneuver, my iPhone rang. Imagine my surprise when the caller ID said Valley Juvenile Detention Center.

  Baloo belted out a low note, but nothing was lower than my gut that dropped to the lowest level of somebody-help-me.

  Oscar.

  Oscar Small.

  Arrested-and-up-for-Murder-One, Oscar Small.

  Why—how—whoa—and let me ask “why” again was Oscar calling me??

  On the fourth ring, my right hand figured out how to push the “accept” button. “Oscar?” I whispered.

  “I’ve only got thirty seconds, but listen...Frank said you could help me. You need to get a PAY-TEL account on your phone.”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “Call 1-800-PAYTELL and use your credit card. Without that account, I can’t speak with you.”

  I coughed out the frog in my throat. “I don’t have a credit card.”

  Silence while he talked to someone. “That’s okay, go to Walmart and get a MoneyGram. Then set up the account.”

  “Frank, I—”

  “Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I don’t have a lot of people in my corner.” Why not your parents? I wanted to ask, but why bring up something that was obviously better left unsaid?

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I exhaled, “I’ll do it. Just keep your mouth shut, your head forward, and…”

  Our call was terminated before I could finish the most important part of my prison-life advice. Which was? Above all don’t stare. Eye contact just a little too long could get you involved in a fight...or worse. It was kind of a scary that I knew how to exist amongst criminals. I really needed to cut back on my cable prison documentaries.

  If this was a hobby before, it now was officially my unofficial pastime. The faith Oscar had in me meant I’d have to deliver. I wasn’t quite at DEFCON 1, but Oscar saying that he didn’t have a lot of people in his corner was like throwing a matchstick on an oiled-up pile of wood. He needed me—and maybe I needed to be needed.

  While I drummed my fingers on my bedside table, I contemplated the bombshell he’d just dropped on me. Immediately, I knew what to do...trade one bombshell for another.

  I dialed my aunt.

  Tabitha Arthur—A.K.A., Red Arthur—is the Assistant Hamilton County Prosecutor of nearby Hamilton County. Err, the “former” Assistant to be specific, as of six months ago. Red’s (barely the ink is dry) ex-husband is and has been the Hamilton County Prosecutor for well over a decade. Thing was, they’d been divorced four times, and on divorce number four she hooked up with a private
investigative firm in town and now takes down bad guys feeding information to the authorities she thinks they should know.

  My mother’s twin, she has flaming red hair like Marjorie hence the nickname Red. Everyone said I inherited her looks. We have the same dimpled chin, loudmouthed laugh, and unfortunately an identical 36-inch inseam. That pretty much was where the comparison ended. She had the sweet, innocent face of an angel (okay, fallen angel was more like it) but a body that said nothing but sin. My guess was my body said, “yard sale.”

  I wasn’t fooling myself; her know-it-all mind wouldn’t be easy to fool. Truth be known, I had no starting point, but sometimes the scariest place was the easiest to start—just so you could get it out of the way.

  When I asked Red if she had any information, she said word on the street was things didn’t look good. Well, no kidding, Sherlock. Evidently, Oscar’d scored a relatively good-reputationed public defender, but what Oscar needed was a miracle.

  She said, “Baby, they’re bringing the Feds in because of who Alfonso Juarez is...or was, I should say. He was a hitter in AVO, but word underground is the story got out he was here and a rival gang off’d him. The only gang organized enough to do that is River City Smugglers.”

  From what I can remember about sociology, people have certain needs. There’s the obvious like food, water, and shelter, but there’s also the psychological need to belong. But what made certain individuals want to belong to gangs? Did they not fit into normal society? Could they not for some reason? Did they long for camaraderie so badly they didn’t care if it came with illegal activities and ultimately a price of some kind? I knew what it felt like to be wired differently, but picking out a group to belong to that was immoral, unethical, and illegal—just because I was lonely—sounded like the appetizer to jail time. Did they not know how much easier life would be if they only conformed? My thoughts almost made me laugh. Look at me, I wasn’t conforming by a long shot.

  “I can promise you Oscar wasn’t in a gang,” I snorted. “So, does the prosecutor think someone hired a local picker to do just that? That’s dumb. Why would a local picker, someone with the reputation of going through trash, hide his kill in a big trashcan?”