by A. J. Lape
Liam shifted in his chair; half laughing, half thinking he could distract me. He took a drink of white milk unleashing that fastard smile. This one contained an edge of something I couldn’t name, though. “Law school?” he said.
“Familial hazard. My aunt and uncle are prosecutors.”
Liam startled, like I’d said something that was going to wipe out his mood permanently. “What Liam?” I pushed. Still, he said nothing. “Then I’ll answer for you. You were angry over the red bandana tied to my locker door. I did my own investigating and found out it means I’ve been marked in some way. Why and by whom?”
Liam looked horrified. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it,” he warned, lowering his voice.
“I could say the same for you,” I said quietly.
Liam stared at me like he was seeing me for the first time. He narrowed his eyes, refocusing then looked over my shoulder as if he were making eye contact with someone else.
“I know the hand signal, too, for the gang I now refer to as the Northside 12.” Taking a quick glance around, I demonstrated it twice in slow motion.
Liam stiffened, sat up straighter, and developed a tremor in his right hand. He looked at it then fisted his hand around a napkin, trying to get it to stop. “Darcy, you’re in over your head,” he said coolly. “What have you been doing?”
“I’m afraid it’s the same thing you’ve been doing.”
I might as well have peeled off a layer of his flesh. He jerked, his brown eyes instantly mistrustful. “What is it you think I’ve done? You’ve tried, convicted and executed me without one word in defense.”
“Then defend yourself,” I said. Once again, I got nothing but stone-cold silence. “Why don’t I trust you, Liam?” Other than being a fastard, of course.
Note to self: If you’re looking for information, keep your personal doubts to yourself. That six-worded sentence cut the conversation short and nuked the mood. All of a sudden I felt unbelievably stupid. Maybe I should’ve had a better plan—all I’d succeeded in doing was alienating him, probably permanently. All Liam said (after I basically called him untrustworthy) was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” then picked up his tray and left me sitting. No parting words, no promise to call later, he just left me sitting.
Some of us are born with the tendency to never be satisfied; we’re restless. If you find the thing that fills you up, restlessness and desperation won’t maim you. If you don’t? You’re crippled with what-could-have-been thoughts. I hadn’t had any long-term thoughts on my life, at least ones that I thought were attainable, but my body was hardwired to be a rolling stone. That’s probably why I was walking the halls during fifth period. Five minutes into class, I felt like I was in prison waiting to get bail posted. I was on a quote-unquote bathroom break to clear my head. Trouble was, AP Unger was on the same schedule. He found me hanging overtop the second floor balcony, brainlessly staring out into thin air.
My explanation as he folded his arms over his navy blazer. “A rolling stone gathers no moss,” I giggled.
“I see,” he said.
“I’m leaving.”
“When?”
“Now?”
“Promise?”
“No,” I laughed.
“Walker,” he sighed, “I’m worn out, and I’ve barely said three words.”
“Actually, it was four words, but maybe you need a vitamin.”
He frowned. “What I need is for you to go back to class.”
“Only if you tell me what you know about Oscar Small. What do you know?”
He frowned even deeper, shifting his weight to the other foot. He started jingling the change in his pocket, and I briefly wondered what that meant for him on a psychological level. Maybe he was formulating questions, or maybe he was restraining himself from ringing my neck. Heck, maybe it meant nothing, and I was simply seeing a devil behind every bush. He finally sighed, “I feel like I’m negotiating with a terrorist, but to answer your question, I know nothing.”
I snorted. “That’s a lie.”
“Walker,” he warned.
“Humor me, AP Unger. My conversation-slash-date with Liam Woods ended badly. Like vomitin-your-mouth badly, so unless you want to put me on Ms. Dempsey’s normal counseling rotation, then I’d convince your mouth it had a job. Besides, you don’t want to put her through the chore of sorting through my particular gray matter. Trust me, no one ever comes out in one piece.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he shockingly mumbled out loud.
I snorted, he snorted louder, and after a few seconds of sounding like farmyard animals, he raised a brow thinking. AP Unger was from Kentucky, like Murphy. To him, one date probably meant I was headed down the aisle in a white dress this weekend. “Liam Woods,” he clarified.
“Liam Woods.”
“Too old for you.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Well…” he said.
“Well,” I mocked, “spit it out.”
AP Unger reluctantly looked at his watch then cocked his head to one side, trying—my guess—how to successfully get me back into class without succumbing to my request. I had to hand it to myself, there were days I could throw off the scary and convince those in authority I was one of those really, really smart people you didn’t want angry with you.
I shoved my hands into my front pockets, prepared to wait him out.
Finally, after he went through whatever thinking process assistant principals went through, he muttered, “Two minutes, Walker, that’s all you get.”
I’d take it.
AP Unger took a breath so deep it could’ve inflated one of those Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons. He was worn out, or maybe he felt defeated...maybe both. It was apparent he’d been thinking about Oscar, and after he decided to unload what he knew, he actually acted like he’d been searching for something to exorcise him of the thoughts anyway. Trouble was, AP Unger’s idea of unloading secrets took a skilled litigator to wade through. All he did was spout words, and it was up to you to read between the lines.
“It’s not good, Walker.”
That could only mean one thing. I left a sufficient amount of time for that statement to gel then responded. “Let me guess, you had to turn over his disciplinary file.” No corroboration, but I knew I was right. “Everyone does bad things, AP Unger. Some of us are lucky enough to never feel the ramifications.”
He raised a brow with a smirk. Obviously, that was a reference to me, and my luck wasn’t that I didn’t get caught; it was that I was sharp enough to talk my way out of it. Oscar didn’t have that going for him; in fact, when he was backed into a corner, he squealed like a pig and incriminated himself even further.
“Bail was denied,” he said.
“Just because you’re a flight risk doesn’t mean you’re guilty. It means the prosecutor needs a conviction, and they want to make sure you’re around for trial.”
“What happened to that man and Annie Hughes,” he clarified, shivering, “was beyond vile. I could barely read the newspaper articles. And wasn’t there a guy downtown, too?”
He was losing me, and I was usually pretty good at reading between the lines. “But there’s lots of people at Valley that do bad things,” I continued. “People that could’ve been around for all three crimes when Oscar was only around for two. Don’t you find that odd?” I asked. He never commented; in fact, he grew very still like I’d just seen the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Surely he’d thought about it; I mean, I’d thought about it since the report of the second male hit the airwaves. Could he be insinuating that he’d deducted the same things as me? That it couldn’t have been Oscar even though evidence pointed to him—because there was someone else that was the killer?
After a few more beats, I laid it all on the line. “I heard through the grapevine that Jinx King, Justin Starsong, and Juan Salas were all hanging in the parking lot that day. Has anyone taken it upon themselves to give them the VIP treatment?” I
kid you not, his jaw fell. “I’ve spoken to Fisher Stanton, too, and I know he was out there doing whatever people like Fisher do, but what were the others doing? I hope that anyone that saw them had wits enough to tell the authorities.” His mouth got even wider.
Now, it was his turn. Was he going to give me anything? Without saying a word, he pretty much admitted what Jubilee Mueller had told me was correct, but I didn’t need corroboration of that story from him anyway. My own investigation had given me their names. But what could AP Unger give me that I didn’t have?
Something that I didn’t even know I needed…
I’m not sure what happened, but right then his eyes got that faraway look, where he felt he’d said too much when he hadn’t given me anything other than a few dropped jaws. “Walker, I can’t control what goes on with my students once they go home,” he muttered, “and I can only attempt to control things when they’re here. Things happen, sometimes right under my nose, but I hear things and I see things. If you’ve been poking around with those three students, my advice to you is simple.” He steered me back toward class with only three words. “Watch your back.”
I’d like to say that shocked some sense into me, but it didn’t.
I honestly felt like I got my dress and didn’t even get to go to the prom. I happened onto AP Unger—or maybe he happened onto me—and now we didn’t have the time to let the conversation play itself out or dissect it further. Was there more he could give me without jeopardizing what he felt was confidences? I don’t know, but I knew to find out more I was going to have to get closer to the fire. Trouble was, that meant I might get burned.
I couldn’t stop the wheels that were already set in motion. What I could do, however, was get information to Oscar’s attorney of anything that I felt was pertinent. That way he could request a “continuance” which basically was a delay in your trial date. Short of staking out every dumpster in town for fresh bodies, the only way I knew to do that was to keep fishing in the pond where the players were. But they were shrewd, so I needed to get them on my turf then rattle their cages.
I smiled to myself. I knew exactly how to do that.
I put the vanilla ice cream and root beer back in the refrigerator, taking a long draw on my root beer float. My mug was extra frosty, and it was soothing on what felt like the beginnings of a sore throat.
“Murphy, Dylan wouldn’t like a hussy, would he?” I told Murphy how Brynn Hathaway had her mouth (suction-cupped him, really) all over my best friend when he hadn’t even asked for it. He didn’t tell her “stop,” he didn’t tell her “go,” and he sure as heck didn’t act like it repulsed him in any way whatsoever.
Honestly, I think he might’ve moaned.
Murphy laughed darkly. “How old is he? Fifteen?”
I frowned. Murphy knew exactly how old Dylan was, and I frankly took his humor and lack of empathy as him offering condolences. I left him and Marjorie eating a balanced meal of pork chops and stuffing, nuked a corn dog then SKYPED Mr. Kissy Lips himself.
Our argument had a speedy recovery. I couldn’t look at him very long and be angry. How long that was going to last, though, was TBD. As long as I was still chasing Liam, Dylan was going to have an open wound. Thing was, disagreements were new for us, and Dylan acted as if he was still riding the aftershocks. Right now, he’d touched the screen half a dozen times, not able to keep his hands from me. I rolled my eyes to myself. Dylan truly was the type that wanted me on a leash. Oh, he could have girls all up in his business, but I couldn’t have boys up in mine.
“I love you,” he murmured.
“Always,” I slurped.
“And I’ll try to not be so overprotective.” Big fat zero on the truth meter.
“Don’t you mean possessive?” I slurped again.
It was Dylan’s turn to laugh. “Possessive sounds so unloving. What I do is out of love.”
My word. And the Academy Award goes to…
True to my conflict avoider nature, I didn’t cover “Brynn’s extra friendliness” when Dylan was probably dying to add it to the agenda. I’m not sure why I didn’t. Maybe I was afraid he’d tell me he really liked it, or maybe I liked having the upper hand. Or maybe I didn’t want my life down the toilet any more than it already was realizing Hathawaywood was somewhere I’d never be. In any case, I felt it was a foreshadowing of the future when the opposite sex wormed its way between us. How was I going to deal?
26 SPRING FLING
SPRING CAME OUT with a roar. Pollen dander was everywhere. Cough. Sneeze. Hiss. Sounds like you have TB. Pray to Die. Pray to Live. Pray to Die. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Swallowing a Benadryl, I looked in the mirror.
It was Friday night, Sydney Taylor’s annual Spring Fling celebrated in the five-star abode that was her parent’s basement. (Ah, the lifestyle of the rich and famous.) Attendees were to come dressed in beachwear, toting a towel and spray-on tan. I didn’t particularly want to go, not to mention parading around my megawatt white body. Number one, it meant I had to shave my legs; Number two, Murphy’d insist I wear a one-piece. I’d look like someone’s grandma and queerer than a two-dollar bill. But this was the night I’d been waiting for since I’d had the grand scheme to back my enemies into a corner and beat them into submission.
When I spoke with AP Unger at the beginning of the week, I realized I needed the major players back on my turf. It hit me instantly how to do that—maybe if I had a conscience I would’ve realized the Taylor’s turf wasn’t technically the Walker’s turf—but inviting them to Sydney’s party was believable, and even better, it was public.
My bet was no one would get their necks snapped tonight.
How did I execute this master plan? My entire address book got an invitation...and um, I might’ve been the town crier. Why did I decide on the entire address book? What if someone was involved unbeknownst to me? I couldn’t help but remember there was another individual on that rainy night at that construction site near my home. Mr. Hood in the trench coat. The one that took the copper out of the trunk of a car. Frank felt he knew them, and so did I. I figured it was Justin Starsong, but what if I was wrong? I was banking on the fact if they came to the party, they’d cluster together like rattlesnakes in a den.
Thing was, I was hoping to have heard from Jaws by now. I sent him a voicemail saying, Spill it, Big Mouth, but currently, he wasn’t spilling anything.
Pulling my hair back in a ponytail, I brushed on some black waterproof mascara and dusted my cheeks with pure pink blush. Rummaging around in my bottom drawer, I snatched a black racing swimsuit from Speedo that crisscrossed between the shoulder blades. Besides a silver suit that had lost its sheen, it was the only one-piece I owned, and even though it hugged your body, it sat high on the neck. I mean, throw some lace around the collar, and I might as well be a naughty Pilgrim. Furthermore, it flattened out my chest; my Barely-Bs were now Double-As.
After I tugged it on, I attached Crest White Strips to my teeth then opened my pj drawer and slid into a new pair of black fluffy pajama bottoms in zebra. When I looked down at my toes, I realized only half were still painted. I quickly rolled up my pants and painted them in OPI’s Lincoln Park After Dark. Blowing them dry with a hand dryer, I rounded out the look with black rhinestone flip-flops.
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing outside Dylan’s garage, wondering where in the world they acquired a 30-foot live palm tree that was somehow secured in a bed of mulch. It had pink and turquoise lights strung throughout its leaves. I always felt like I was going to the White House or something equally as grand when we pulled into their private drive. Valley consisted of several country clubs—plus our defunct one—and various private estates. The Taylors owned one on the edge of Valley and the neighboring townships that was ten thousand square feet with a guesthouse. Not too shabby...but then again, I was from the beans and franks crowd, what did I know.
Murphy drove off with three words, “Don’t break anything.”
For once, we we
re in agreement.
Not the contemporary feel of their Orlando abode (yep, they had two homes), this mansion—and frankly, that’s all you could term it—had that Old World vibe that made you think there were horses in a stable somewhere. Iron wall grilles, fabric tapestries, and different stains of wood and leather furniture decorated the levels. Although extravagant, it wasn’t so opulent you were afraid to sit down. It was warm and inviting, like your favorite blanket or old sweatshirt.
The basement was what most had on the wish list of their upstairs, let alone a lower level. The flooring was a mixture of travertine tile and dark hardwood. Painted in a soothing shade of khaki, as soon as you descended, you entered a fully-stocked sub-zero kitchen with dark cabinets, marble countertops, and a bar area that could seat twelve. In the middle, were four chocolate leather sofas arranged around three flatscreen televisions with a custom-made entertainment center full of DVDs, CDs, and video games. Pool tables anchored the far two corners in front of a glass wall that housed their indoor swimming pool.
Tonight, two inches of sand was on the floor, a shipwrecked rowboat was in a corner, and four red and yellow blow-up rafts were floating in the deep end of the twelve-foot pool. I mean, didn’t everyone have a pool in their basement? Plus, there were three smaller palm trees. Those were available at your local florist, right?
Dylan met me at the bottom of the stairs with a hug—a hug so long and suggestive, I frankly got embarrassed. The first to pull away, I stripped off my zip-up hoodie and shoes, stashing them in a closet. Knowing my legs would light up like the aurora borealis, I still peeled off my pajama bottoms hanging them underneath my coat. While we waded in the sand, a few guys who wanted to chat about the Cincinnati Reds stopped Dylan.
I loitered around, feeling like a wallflower. I hated parties—especially if you were supposed to socialize with people you didn’t know that well. Those in attendance I did know were full-grown and maxed to efficiency; me, I was stuck in ugly duckling. I tossed a few mints in my mouth from a nearby table and swished them around, hoping to become...well, minty.
