Brothers, Boyfriends & Other Criminal Minds

by April Lurie

  “Ah, yes,” Moe said. “Watermelon. Good choice.”

  Sammy smiled, peeled off the wrapper, and popped the candy into his mouth.

  I couldn't wait to get out of there. “All right, let's go,” I said, shoving Sammy toward the stroller. He hopped in and I quickly headed for the door. Brandi trailed after us.

  “But listen! Remember what I said,” Moe called. “People aren't always who you think they are.”

  Outside, Brandi busted up laughing.

  “Har-de-har-har,” I said, glaring at her.

  She grinned devilishly. It was hard to believe she'd just been in church. “How do you think Moe knew?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “And I don't want to know.”

  “I bet it's the way you trip over your feet and turn beet red whenever Dominick walks into the store.”

  “Shut up.”

  Thankfully Sammy was oblivious to everything except his lollipop. I folded a stick of Black Jack into my mouth and handed Brandi a piece, wondering why it was always my quarter buying the gum. She chewed thoughtfully as we continued past the A&P, the florist, and the hardware store. “Moe's right, you know,” she said. “You and Dominick are in, like, two different worlds.”

  “Oh, please, let's not start this again.” Brandi's idea of the perfect boyfriend was a guy with hair above the ears, straight As, and cuff links. She thought Dominick was way too dangerous, and I told her that was exactly why I liked him. After all, I needed someone to rescue me from my boring life.

  “I bet Umberto's a lot nicer.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “Did you have to remind me?”

  “I bet you'd have a great time with him at the dance.”

  “Oh, yeah, maybe I should brush up on my Italian. That way he can tell me about his boat trip across the Atlantic.”

  “I told you, April, he's American. He speaks English.”

  Sammy craned his neck. “Who's Dom-nick? Who's Ummm-berto?”

  I sighed. “No one, Sammy. Just … turn around and mind your own business.”

  I didn't usually speak to Sammy this way, and it made me feel bad. He frowned and popped the candy into his mouth. An ambulance flew by, which got his attention.

  “Now,” I said to Brandi, “can we drop this, please?”

  Brandi wasn't listening; she was busy molding the piece of Black Jack around her two front teeth. She turned to me and smiled, showing off her goofy gap-toothed grin.

  It was amazing, the things I had to put up with.

  After crossing the avenue, we walked along the outskirts of the golf course and finally arrived at the park. The place was really hopping today. On one end the paddleball courts were filled with sweaty, shirtless guys smacking black rubber balls, and on the other, little kids ran barefoot through the sprinklers. Roller skaters whooshed by, and Frisbees sailed through the air. We took the shaded cobblestone path that cut through the center. On the right were the softball fields, and on the left, the tennis courts. Up ahead, Matt and his friends were playing basketball, and as far as I could see there were no mysterious girls hanging around.

  While Brandi searched for an empty court, my eyes roamed to the bathroom wall—the one spray-painted with the words DISCO SUCKS in big orange letters. Just beyond it was a group of picnic tables where chess players and musicians sometimes gathered. I strained my ears and heard the faint plucking of guitar strings. It was the intro to Led Zeppelin's “Stairway to Heaven.”

  Dominick was here.

  “Look,” Brandi said, “it's Bjôrn Borg and Jimmy Connors battling it out at Wimbledon.”

  She was pointing to two guys in the middle of a heated singles match. They were about our age, maybe a little older. Bjorn had a blond shag with a bandana wrapped around his forehead, and Jimmy sported a short, dark, feathered cut with an Izod T-shirt and tight white shorts. Both were sunburned, sweating, and whacking the ball with gusto.

  I grinned, knowing we could kill them. “Well,” I said to Brandi, “looks like there are no other courts open. Shall we?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Definitely.”

  Last summer, in a rare moment of generosity, Matt had taught Brandi and me to play tennis. We'd practiced a lot over the year, even in the winter when it was freezing cold. Matt and Little Joe could still destroy us in doubles, but we'd gotten pretty good and could beat a lot of guys our age.

  While Brandi and I exchanged our Earth shoes for sneakers, Sammy hopped out of his stroller, knelt down, and began searching through a patch of clover growing from a crack in the pavement. I tossed Brandi a racquet and she held it in one hand like a semiautomatic weapon. “Come on, Sammy,” I said. “Let's go. Brandi and I are gonna kick some butt.”

  “Wait! Look at this!” He plucked a clover and held it up for me to inspect.

  To my surprise, the thing actually had four leaves. “Wow, I can't believe it! You found one!”

  Sammy beamed. He had a whole collection of lucky charms hidden inside a cigar box under his bed—a smelly rabbit's foot, a moldy acorn, a miniature plastic horseshoe, and an old penny he'd found heads up in the gutter. It was amazing how that kid could get such a kick out of little pieces of junk. “Bring it along, Sammy,” Brandi said, nudging me. “Now we're sure to win.”

  We waited outside the gate until Bjorn and Jimmy were finished with their set. As they guzzled water from a cooler, Brandi and I strolled onto the court with Sammy trailing behind, clutching the clover to his chest. Our strategy was to act like two airheads who didn't know the first thing about tennis. After letting them win a few games, we'd go in for the kill. “Um, excuse me,” Brandi said, “there are no other courts open, so would you guys like to play a game of doubles?”

  They looked at us in disbelief, rolled their eyes, and groaned. “Aw, come on,” Jimmy Connors said, “can't you find some, I don't know, girls to play with?”

  I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore his sexist remark. One thing was certain: these guys definitely needed their all-star tennis butts royally kicked. “Well, actually,” I said, attempting a flirtatious smile, which probably looked more like a smirk considering my braces and rubber band problem, “we're trying to improve our game, and we thought you guys could give us a few pointers.”

  Bjorn Borg wiped his face with a towel while Jimmy surreptitiously picked a wedgie from his shorts. “I don't know,” Bjôrn said skeptically. “I mean, I guess we could.”

  Jimmy was looking at the sky, frowning. “Fine,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Let's get this over with.”

  While Brandi and I took our places opposite them, Sammy set his clover in the shade and got ready on the sidelines. “Hey, wait a minute,” Jimmy said. “What's the kid doing?”

  Sammy scowled and placed his hands on his hips. “What do you think I'm doing, stupid? I'm the ball boy.”

  Brandi and I laughed while Jimmy gave him a hard, cold stare. “Whatever. Just don't get in the way, all right?”

  We let them win the first two games, but as Bjorn got ready to serve for the third, Brandi said innocently, “Oh, by the way, you know we're playing for the court, right?”

  This was my cue.

  They looked at each other and started to laugh. “Oh, okay,” Jimmy said, “for the court. Sure thing.”

  This time when Bjôrn served I was ready. I whacked the ball low and clean, and it blew right past Jimmy. At first he just stood there with his jaw hanging open, but then he shook his head and muttered, “Lucky shot.”

  After that Brandi played the net like a pro while I hit lobs with extra topspin. Soon we were tied two games apiece. Sammy was having the time of his life chasing balls and keeping score. “Forty, love!” he called.

  We won the next three games, which meant we only needed one more for the set. But just when Brandi was about to serve, I saw Dominick appear from behind the bathroom wall. His dark, wavy hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore a pair of overalls, but the bib and straps were unhooked and dangling around his knees. In one hand he held a
guitar case covered with rock band stickers, and in the other, a bat. A group of his friends followed behind, and they seemed to be headed for the softball field opposite us.

  Brandi saw him too, and after I missed an easy backhand, she stared me down. “Concentrate, April. Forget him. We're winning now, don't blow it.”

  “Okay, okay.” I swallowed and tried to focus, but between points I stole glances at the field. Dominick and his friends had chosen up sides and begun to play. To Brandi's dismay, our tennis game went to deuce about fifteen times, but in the end she hit a winning serve and the set was finally ours.

  Bjôrn and Jimmy were completely rattled. “All right,” Jimmy said, “enough of this crap. Take the kid and get off the court.”

  “You forgot something,” Brandi said. “The court's ours now, so you'll either have to leave or try to win it back.”

  Bjorn narrowed his eyes and bounced the ball a few times. “Oh, yeah? Says who?”

  “Says everyone,” Brandi snapped. “Those are the rules.”

  Bjôrn shrugged. “I don't know about any rules.” He looked at Jimmy. “You know about any rules?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Nah.”

  “Hey!” Sammy yelled indignantly. “You can't do that!”

  “We can do whatever we want, kid,” Bjorn said, “and right now we're telling you to get outta here.”

  Sammy blocked the sun from his eyes and squinted toward the basketball courts. “That's what you think! I'm gonna get my brother!”

  Bjôrn and Jimmy laughed, but underneath you could tell they were a little nervous. “Fine, kid, go get your brother,” Jimmy said.

  Sammy snatched his clover from the bench and barged out of the gate. He bounded up the path calling, “Matt! Hey, Matt!”

  Brandi made a face at the two of them. “We'll be back in a few minutes. Come on, April, let's get a drink.” She looped her arm into mine and as we strolled to the water fountain I saw Dominick winding up on the pitcher's mound. Instead of tossing the ball straight to the batter, he lifted one leg and pitched it from underneath. Brandi shook her head. “What exactly do you see in that moron?”

  I shrugged. “I don't know, a sense of humor?”

  Brandi slurped water noisily, and I squinted ahead, looking for Sammy. That was when I noticed that Matt wasn't playing basketball anymore. He was leaning against the fence nearby, talking to a girl. When Sammy reached them and began explaining our situation, Matt's eyebrows joined together in an angry line. He whistled to his friends, who immediately stopped their game and gathered around. While he passed along Sammy's message to Big Joe, Little Joe, Fritz, and Tony, the mysterious girl dropped to one knee, seemingly enraptured with Sammy and his lucky clover. I noticed that she had a nice smile.

  Matt hoisted Sammy onto one shoulder and whispered something to the girl, and then he and his buddies marched ahead. By now, Brandi the Camel had sucked down about a gallon of water. She wiped her mouth with the hem of her shirt. “That's weird,” she said. “That girl, the one Matt was just talking to, she looks familiar.”

  “Oh? Really?”

  “Yeah. Do you know her?”

  I pressed the metal button, leaned over, and took a drink. The water was warm and tasted like rust. When I raised my head, I saw that the girl had taken a seat on the ground. She'd drawn her knees up to her chest and looked as if she was trying to disappear. Her smile had vanished. “No,” I said, “I've never seen her before.”

  We met Matt and his friends back at the tennis courts. Sammy smiled at me from his perch, and Matt gave me a reassuring nod as he pushed open the gate. “Hey,” he said, strolling up to Bjorn and Jimmy, who at this point were looking a little worried. “I heard my sister and her friend just won a set against you guys.” Tony stepped forward and crossed his arms over his chest, while Fritz sneered and Big Joe made his baddest, ugliest face. I almost started to laugh.

  Bjorn and Jimmy stood there gaping. “Um … yeah … well …”

  Little Joe winked at me and twirled the basketball on one finger.

  Matt continued. “Look, I don't know where you guys are from, but around here, if you win a set, you get the court. Understand?”

  They nodded in unison.

  “Good,” Matt said, “I had a feeling you guys were reasonable. Now, you can play them again if you want, maybe even win it back, but you can't kick anyone off. Got it?”

  They nodded again.

  “Great,” Matt said. “Now that that's settled …” He set Sammy on his feet and glanced toward the fence where he'd left the girl. Only, now she wasn't alone. A well-dressed twenty-something-year-old guy, smoking a cigarette and looking like he had no business being in a public park, was helping her to her feet. They seemed to be having words, and after she stood up, she pulled her arm back and stamped her foot. Matt lunged toward the gate, but Little Joe caught him just in time. “Don't, Matt,” he whispered fiercely. “Just let her go.”

  I watched as the guy took a long drag on his cigarette and led the girl to a black Jaguar convertible that was parked by a fire hydrant just outside the basketball courts. Little Joe kept his eye on Matt as they all walked out of the gate and up the path. The girl, I noticed, never lifted her eyes. I wasn't sure why, but I got a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Matt!” I called.

  He turned around.

  “Hey, I just wanted to say thanks.”

  He nodded. “Sure, Ape, no problem.”

  He and his friends continued on while the girl folded herself into the passenger seat of the car and drove off. I watched until it became a speck in the distance, and then suddenly I heard Sammy laughing. “April, look! Over there!” He was pointing to the softball field.

  My mouth fell open.

  “Oh … my … God,” Brandi said.

  Dominick was on home plate. Apparently he'd scored a run and was now mooning the guys out in the field. Not to mention everyone else who happened to be passing by.

  “Yep,” Brandi said. “I guess he certainly does have a sense of humor.”

  That night I had one of the worst dreams of my life. I was sitting on the hood of the black Jaguar convertible we'd seen at the park, wearing a not-so-clean bra along with Sammy's Batman Underoos. A full moon lit up the evening sky, but, strangely, there was a big crack running through its center. The young, well-dressed gangster sat beside me humming “Stairway To Heaven,” and planting kisses up and down my neck. He whispered in my ear, “See that, April? Dominick's in heaven, mooning the entire world.”

  I should have realized that the dream was an omen of how the rest of the week was going to turn out. Over the next few days, Matt was in one of his “hormonally charged” moods, as my mother liked to call them. Aside from the usual brooding, slamming doors, and blasting of Jethro Tull's “Aqualung,” he woke up each morning with a new crop of white-heads and spent hours hogging the bathroom, squeezing the heck out of his face. What little sympathy I'd felt for him at the park was completely lost after he'd plucked me off the sofa and tossed me halfway across the basement one night while we were watching TV. My crime? Switching the channel from the Muhammad Ali fight to what I thought was our favorite show, Saturday Night Live. I guess Matt didn't feel like laughing.

  So I think it's fair to say that when my parents left me and Sammy alone with him one evening while they went to a PTA meeting, dinner, and a movie, the act could be classified as child abuse.

  However, before leaving, they bribed us with a pizza from Gino's and even got Matt's favorite, a cheese and pepperoni calzone, which was a huge sacrifice for my mom considering all the bleached flour, sodium, and animal fat. “Well,” Mom said, placing the steaming pie on the kitchen table, “looks like you guys are all set.”

  Sammy plucked a slice from the box and took a bite and as he was chewing reached up and put a strangle hold around my mother's waist. “Pleeease, Mom, pleeeease don't go!”

  I looked at my dad and stuck a finger down my throat like I was about to puke. He couldn't help la
ughing. Sammy could be overly dramatic, but the thing that bugged me the most was that he never acted like he was going to keel over and die when I left the house. And if you tallied up the hours, I spent half my life with the kid.

  “Oh, Sammy,” Mom said, patting his head. “I told you, Dad and I want to meet your teacher before school starts. Kindergarten's a very important year. After that we're just going to have dinner and see a movie. You'll have a great time with April and …” She paused for a moment. “Wait a minute. Where's Matt?”

  I'd taken a few bites of pizza by now and felt a buzz going. Poor Mom, little did she know, her daughter was a junk-food junkie. “Where else would he be?” I said. “In his room. I think he's on the phone again.”

  My mother sighed deeply. “The worst thing we ever did was install that phone jack in his room. Seriously, Stephen, what were we thinking?”

  My dad shrugged. “Maybe he's talking to a girl. That wouldn't be so bad, would it?”

  I almost choked. If they only knew. It hadn't taken long for Brandi to figure out that the girl at the park was Bettina Bocceli. They'd both gone to St. Steven's Elementary School, and it was common knowledge that Bettina's father was a ranking Mafioso. Once, Brandi had seen Bettina's father pull up to school in a Rolls-Royce, break out a wad of hundred-dollar bills, and stuff one into the front pocket of the gardener's shirt. It made me wonder if he paid off the priests and nuns, too. Maybe even God himself.

  “Still, he doesn't have to be so secretive,” Mom said, crumpling one side of her mouth. “Oh, well, it's getting late, we better go.” She turned to me. “April, please have Sammy in bed by nine. School's starting next week and we have to get him on a decent schedule. Oh, and please read to him.”

  “I know, Mom, I know.” I swear, if someone held a gun to my head and told me to recite Sammy's favorite book, I wouldn't even break a sweat.

  “Thanks, honey,” she said, planting a kiss on my cheek. It felt nice, but I rolled my eyes anyway.