by A. J. Lape
“I gathered that. Talk,” he demanded. “Sounds to me like you’re up to something, and he’s already figured it out.”
I gave him my if-I-tell-you-I’m-going-to-have-to-kill-you face. He wasn’t buying it. I spit my decimated pinky nail in his direction. He tried to dodge, but it stuck to his right arm. Yeah, take that, ponkey. “Okay,” I mumbled, “but what I tell you is under the brotherhood clause.”
“Right,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, flicking off the nail. “Blah, blah, blah, chicken dance stupid stuff; yada, yada, yada, I’m a damn idiot.”
I held back nothing…
Just went from A to Z and let it all hang out.
Grumpy muttered, “You’re not joking.”
“No,” I confirmed and explained I was after the reward Tito swore was coming. Unfortunately, he had an entrepreneurial side I wasn’t aware of. He narrowed his eyes, countering, “If I help find this ghost guy, I want twenty-five percent.”
Probably fair, and my nervously beating heart said I may need some muscle in my corner anyway. Grumpy turned off Valley Lane and slowly drove into the school parking lot, pulling his clunker into a spot close to the entrance. The warm front we’d been hearing about moved in last night, and by all predictions, the high today would be low-to-mid 40s, practically a heat wave. Snow still covered the ground, but it wouldn’t last for long. As a result, the air smelled like a big fishbowl. We held hands across the melting slush, neither of us uncomfortable by the unnatural show of affection. Now that we were here, it’s like we wanted to hang onto something familiar.
And let’s face it. We’d been marked.
A big, white placard had been posted at the front of the building that said “Detention” with a black arrow underneath. It brought to mind one of those fancy dinners where a prominent sign, seen upon arrival, pointed you to the desired destination.
You know, detention…an A-list affair for a D-list crowd.
We’d been banished to one of the classrooms teaching sophomore geometry. Chairs were arranged in four lines, five seats to a row. The room had a sterile, antiseptic feeling, with a sickening Lysol smell wafting in the air. Then again, that could’ve been a flashback to failure; I didn’t have one good memory regarding geometry. I’d been sick in there the whole dang year.
“Hola, amigos,” I laughed when I strode through the door.
AP Unger and Coach Wallace were onsite. Both stared daggers sharp enough to nick skin and didn’t find the greeting creative or remotely funny.
“Hello, sirs,” I amended grinning.
“Walker, this is where you’re supposed to act offended to be here,” Coach Wallace frowned.
Now it was my turn to stare. “Why should I act offended?” I asked. “Principal Ward is the screwup, not me.”
Down, mouth, down.
Coach Wallace opened his jaw…shut it.
AP Unger did the same.
AP Unger stood a little taller than me. His gray, wiry hair reminded me of an Irish Wolfhound, especially beside his black, piercing eyes. His nose and cheekbones were sharp, like they’d been chiseled from flint. And as usual, he was in a navy suit. Why he insisted on a navy suit was beyond me, but half the time he looked like he should be on the President’s security detail or a pallbearer at a funeral.
“Let’s start over,” I said mannerly. “You’re absolutely right. I’m offended to be here.”
Once again, nothing.
Tough crowd.
Coach Wallace finally found a small chuckle as he slid behind the silver metal desk with a thick manila folder in his right hand. “What’s with the respectful greeting, dollface?”
“Murphy said it was required,” I shrugged, “but I always thought the whole concept was demeaning to a child’s rights.”
Someone needed to shut me up.
Once again, Coach Wallace came in short pants, a black Valley hoodie, messy hair he’d teased too high, and glasses at least a decade out of style. He and AP Unger exchanged a few words as Coach explained today’s procedure. Prisoners were to pick a seat, but the chair directly across was to remain vacant. Vacant because another student would occupy the chair and tutor us if need be. Sounded great in theory, but honestly all it did was point out that others had the success thing down.
Principal Ward attended a conference where the new educational theory of the month was to put the bad, on-the-edge kids with the moguls of tomorrow and hope the smartness rubbed off. A social experiment, so to say. So in detention, you were tutored by the brainiacs. Trouble was, their goodness didn’t always rub off; some of the badness wormed its way in. How did I know this?
Word on the street said that happened to Bean.
I grabbed a seat. The chair across from me immediately became occupied with whom I recognized as Collin Lockhart.
Brynn Hathaway’s ex.
Merry Freakin’ Christmas.
Collin had my coloring with medium blond, gorgeous hair and tormented sky-blue eyes. Collin dressed Ivy League in worn khakis, old dock-siders without socks, and a navy polo with an upturned collar. Other than the obvious, I didn’t know much about him, only that his mother worked in the post office and was one of the few who didn’t look like she wanted to gun you down. She always smiled and asked about your family.
“Long time no see,” he greeted. “I forgot how beautiful you were up close.”
Cue the blush. Collin, in all his smarminess, made my cheeks pink against my better thoughts. He offered me one of two takeout coffees from Starbucks. After a quick sip of their holiday blend, I unzipped my backpack with fingers that barely worked. The temperature hovered at icebox, but maybe I’d died and hadn’t figured out I lay in the morgue’s deep freeze.
“Ah, Collin,” I laughed, “You like to shovel the shiz, don’t you?”
Collin winked a piercing blue eye. “I hear you’re trying to find out who painted Coach’s car. Any luck?”
A strange feeling niggled at my spine. “Who told you that?”
“You asked the whole school, Darcy,” he laughed. “Believe me, what you do gets around.”
“It does?” I asked in shock.
His eyes were on me like tacky glue—I fail to comprehend why. “You truly have no idea,” he mumbled to himself, grinning. “So how’s it going?”
“So-so,” I shrugged.
“What’s the motivation?”
“Good ole, American greed,” I giggled.
“So there’s a reward,” he grinned. “Need some Christmas cash? I’m working nights with my mother at the post office, sorting through holiday mail. I can get you a shift if you’d like.”
“Thanks, but I prefer to be an independent contractor.”
As Student Council President, Collin was always in the know. He parlayed complaints, negotiated with the staff, launched his ideas for a better school, things that sounded important in teenagerland. Equipped with a college-prep schedule around municipal government, he also starred in several of the school’s theater productions. Decent singer, better actor. He appeared to be one of the few who knew what he wanted as soon as he came out of the womb.
Pretty sure I screamed for a Coke and a cookie.
Collin leaned forward, too close into my personal space, trying his best to work that hypnotic spell. “Should we commiserate together?” he murmured.
I cocked my head to one side, taking a second sip of my Starbucks. “Huh?”
“You know, Dylan and Brynn. She likes him.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
Dylan and Brynn starred in my dreams last night. In fact, I hanged them both from a cherry tree with Xs for eyes. Placing my cup on the desk, I pulled out a thin, purple spiral notebook—the one used for math assignments. Even though I knew what he alluded to, I didn’t want to hear it hit the airw
aves. Slowly zipping my backpack shut, I wondered if I should delay the inevitable or get the deets straight from the horse’s mouth.
I reluctantly prodded, “Exactly what is going on?”
He tilted his head toward the door, biting the top of his cup so hard you heard the lid crinkle. “I’m not sure,” he muttered behind it. “I know she won’t leave him alone, and when Brynn wants something, she most usually gets it.”
A lump the size of a boulder caught in my throat. Ain’t that the truth. “So this…thing,” I paused, struggling to find the correct word, “is it legit?”
Collin looked thoughtful, like he wasn’t only debating Dylan and Brynn, but his own comeuppance in the world. No matter what success would undoubtedly come his way, Collin reminded me of a bird with a broken wing. Something deep inside seemed beyond repair. “I can’t speak on his part, but on hers, most definitely.”
Dylan and I never had that boys-or-girls-have-cooties ickiness between us. We’d always been on the same proverbial page, but not these days. These days we were stuck in limbo purgatory. Changes were occurring, and neither of us was comfortable with the change. Well, maybe he was comfortable; I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it yet.
I lied, “I try not to dwell on rumors.”
“You should dwell on this, Darcy. Brynn’s everyone’s golden ticket. There’s no way he’s immune.”
Unfortunately, I had to agree…
Bean bounced in, grinning from ear-to-ear, thankfully putting the quietus on our exchange. Wearing a white painter’s jump suit, Mr. Pongo had been safety-pinned to his lapel. I bit my cheek to keep from laughing. Holy-moly, did he spear him in the brain? Slapstick followed, sporting the same clothes as the last time we’d spoken. He gave a quick chin jerk in acknowledgment, both settling in behind Grumpy.
Slapstick texted last night and said he and Damon Whitehead had been doomed to detention this weekend. He said he’d have my back if anything bad went down. I didn’t press for what that might entail, but after my run-in with Nico Drake, I assumed it meant a punching bag was highly possible. Slapstick’s particular offense—as was Damon’s—was arguing with authority. If Principal Ward was the presiding judge, it wasn’t even close to being innocent until proven guilty. Besides, Slapstick didn’t seem like the arguing type. Perhaps he merely took up for himself, and Principal Ward dropped the hammer unfairly.
It was five minutes until eight, and Damon had gone AWOL. I made out a grocery list, ripped my thumbnail down to the quick, and as the minute hand hit twelve, Damon strolled in, takeout coffee in hand. He wore a nice black t-shirt and new jeans, acting so used to this gig there was no room for embarrassment anymore. I had both he and Slapstick right where I wanted them—nothing could ruin this day—until Brynn Hathaway, flanked by three other students, glided in.
A collective gasp filled the room, quickly eclipsed by a male, hormonal moan.
Bean whispered, “Oh, Lordy.”
Gut check. The girl looked like a Da Vinci angel. In the movies, when the girl everyone loves shows up on film, she gets extra lighting, extra makeup, and extra magic. Brynn brought in a ray of sunshine that lit up her heart-shaped face like the gosh-danged sun.
Her trademark chocolate-brown waves had been pulled back in a tight ponytail, but it wasn’t tighter than her skinny jeans and pink turtleneck. We met eyes, not really smiling or frowning. She knew who I was to Dylan, and I sure as heck knew who she wanted to be to him. After a forced smile toward Collin—who returned one just as forced—she picked the space directly across from Slapstick, scooting her chair beside him. The two other females plopped down alongside Grumpy and Bean; the guy took on Damon.
Coach took a quick headcount, checked a sheet of paper, and closed the door.
“Start working, kids. Then we’re going to paint.”
Monday’s math assignment lay in front of me, but I couldn’t relax. I think I sighed.
“What’s wrong, Walker?” Coach grumbled. “For heaven’s sake, don’t start already.”
It’s a shame I had a reputation. Unfortunately, I deserved every frigging insult hurled my way. My leg bounced like a basketball. “You’re setting me up for failure.”
He shot over a dark look. “And how’s that?”
“I can’t relax. This whole experience could’ve been better if you would’ve turned up the heat. I guess I’m cold.”
Bean’s voice was small, careful. Like he feared he’d make a bad situation worse with the wrong words. “Maybe she needs her gloves.”
Grumpy kicked my seat so hard it skidded and screeched. “Conform, Walker,” he grunted, using Dylan’s words. “For the love of God, conform.”
Collin unloaded a smile your momma told you to run from. “I think that’s justifiable, Coach,” he said. “If that’s what Darcy needs for success, then we need to make sure she gets it.”
Spoken like a guy trying to make his ex-girlfriend jealous. He’d done it too because I felt Brynn’s anger like boiling water pitched in my face.
Coach stared at Collin, then at me. “You’ll come straight back?” he grumbled.
I dashed back to my locker and grabbed my coat and gloves, for once returning right away. While the others worked, I kicked off my shoes and drew my feet underneath me, noshing red Twizzlers when no one was looking.
Collin scooted his desk over, appraising my work. I asked one question simply to appease him but then put my nose to the grindstone. I breezed through thirty-five problems with ease.
Slapstick was the first to leave his seat and slide a sheet of paper in front of Coach. Shock of all shockers, Brynn slid out of her seat, lifted a proud chin, and dutifully strode up next to him. Like right next to him, as though she tried to shield him from something that might be hurtful. My word, there totally went my theory she was a vapid bubblehead who boiled baby kittens. I didn’t want to think she actually cared about him, but she whispered to Coach—by the feel of things—on Slapstick’s behalf. I did make out, “Seth is trying really hard, Coach.”
Wow, she first-named him. Slapstick hung his head, embarrassed, and then gave her a quick side squeeze that in no way whatsoever left her uncomfortable. Coach stared intently at the exchange, at the paper, and finally touched Slapstick’s forearm.
“Yes, sir,” Slapstick responded to whatever he said.
Coach muttered something else and Slapstick did the “Yes sir” thing again, shyly dipping his head with a minor hillbilly twang. I got the distinct impression Coach wished he could change things in Slapstick’s world but knew there’d be a better chance at getting the world to spin backward.
Coach ended with a grunt, pointing toward the door.
Once Slapstick and Brynn left, I slipped my feet in my shoes and skipped to the front, slamming my paper down on the desk in sweet satisfaction. Coach scanned my answers, paused to look at me, and perused them again a little more seriously. He slowly laid the paper back down, tenting his fingertips together in front of him.
He had a droll look about him. “Walker, I’m no math teacher, but these all look correct.”
“Mind-boggling, isn’t it?” I giggled.
“Listen, dollface,” he whispered, leaning toward me. “I know how smart you are, and kids like you scare the average teacher. Think what you could do if you applied yourself.”
Oh, boy, here we go. The old if-you-applied-yourself speech, then you could cure cancer or something. If you applied yourself, you could be a millionaire by the time you turned twenty-five (Dylan’s father’s favorite). If you applied yourself, you could be anything or do anything your brilliant mind dreamed.
Soooooooo wasn’t true.
The thing I longed to do most went beyond the laws of metaphysics.
Call me when you can fix that.
I dispensed a truthful answer. “I have to be in
the right frame of mind, Coach. Teachers don’t let me take my shoes off or wear my coat and gloves regularly. And by the time I figure out what works, the test is half over. I’ve made peace with it.”
Soon after, Damon dragged himself to the front. You couldn’t miss the cloying resentment. Damon had a short fuse from what I’d gathered—maybe the shortest I’d ever encountered—because standing near him felt twenty degrees hotter. Shoot, I found that interesting, but I needed to get to Slapstick pronto. Why call and give me the heads up on him and Damon anyway? He obviously had something to say—point for me.
Damon hadn’t uttered a word, yet Coach still called him out. “Can the attitude, son,” he barked. “What’s eating you today?”
“What did I miss?” I asked, my eyes darting back and forth between the two.
By the look Damon leveled me with, I would’ve sworn he’d marched off Darth Vader’s Death Star. I unleashed an equally rancid stare right as Collin pushed his way between us, hooking an arm over my shoulder. “Everything okay here?” he murmured, chewing on his Starbucks cup.
Damon gazed at Coach, to Collin, and then upward as if the answer lay in the ceiling.
I let out a big heavy sigh, glancing at my watch. My dream for reward money was on life support. I excused myself and headed straight for the door.
AP Unger had Christmas carols piping through the school’s intercom system. In spite of his normal stiffness, he was one of those administrators who wanted everyone to be happy, every religious and ethnic group represented. He was Jewish, but on Fridays he played Christmas carols during lunch. They spun again during detention; this particular selection was “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” One of my all-time favorites.
My first topic of conversation began with the Winter Formal. You know, a night where all the lovahs go out together and hope they get lucky—or close to it. Since Prom and Homecoming were held offsite, this was the inaugural dance to basically see if students didn’t somehow blow the place up. Rumor claimed fake snow, pine trees, and an eggnog fountain, and pictures in a horse-drawn sleigh would be taken. Sounded like fun, but amidst all the excitement came the usual teenage angst of will-I-be-a-wallflower?
