by April Lurie
“Hey! What about me?” Sammy spread his arms; his face was smeared with tomato sauce. My mom and dad started to laugh.
“Okay, okay,” Dad said, “how about a group hug?” They walked over to Sammy and all three of them hugged in a little circle. It was pretty nauseating. “You be good for your sister now.” He tousled Sammy's hair, and my mom gave Sammy one last kiss before they exited through the back door.
I'd already scarfed two slices of pizza, and now I was eyeing the brown paper bag that held Matt's calzone. “You know, Sammy,” I said, unfolding the top and peeking inside, “you can't do stuff like that in front of your friends at school. Kisses, group hugs. If you do, I guarantee a bully's gonna beat you up.”
He stopped chewing and looked at me like I'd grown Vulcan ears. “I know that. Jeez, April, I'm not an idiot.”
“All right, Sammy, just making sure.” The calzone was wrapped in foil, so I pulled it out of the bag and peeled open one side. “Hey, Matt!” I called. “Your calzone's getting cold!”
I waited about five seconds, and when there was no answer, I peeled off the rest of the foil, cut the calzone in half, and watched the pepperoni oil drip, forming a thick orange puddle on the plate. Matt's face was going to look like a land mine in the morning. “Hey, Sam, what do you say we do Matt a favor and eat some of his dinner?”
He grinned. “I don't know. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, why not?”
He shrugged. “Okay. But if he gets mad I'm telling him it was your idea.”
Sammy was getting a little too smart for his own good. I cut two pieces, gave one to him, and took a bite of the other. “Hey, Matt!” I called. “Your calzone is really, really good!”
Sammy and I started cracking up. Still no answer from Matt. “Okay, wait here,” I said to Sammy. “I'll go get him.”
I padded quietly up the stairs, tiptoed to Matt's room, and pressed one ear against his door. He was tossing a basketball against the wall, a no-no in the Lundquist household, and I made a mental note of this in case I needed to blackmail him later. His voice was muffled, but I was able to make out the name “Joe” a few times. Since Big Joe was a Neanderthal whose vocabulary consisted of phrases like “You talkin' to me?” and “Forget about it,” I figured it had to be Joe of the smaller variety.
Quickly, I ran to my parents' bedroom and grabbed a stethoscope from my mother's drawer. Outside Matt's room, I stuck the earpieces in my ears and pressed the drum to the door. Now everything was clear. “All right,” Matt said. “I'll lay low for a while, but I need to talk to her for just a few minutes. Can you ask her to call me from Marcella's house?” Brandi had also informed me that Marcella was Little Joe's cousin (daughter of his connected uncle) and Bettina's best friend. There was a period of silence, followed by the basketball rhythmically hitting the wall. “Great,” Matt said. “Thanks, Joe, really, thanks a lot. I'll see you tomorrow.”
Next thing I knew, SLAM! The basketball hit the door. All I can say is, imagine an M-80 exploding two inches from your head. “Get outta here, Monk!” Matt screamed. “Mind your own freaking business!”
I yanked off the stethoscope and was about to run downstairs, but suddenly the phone rang, and curiosity got the better of me. I tiptoed back and, with my ears still ringing, pressed the stethoscope to the door.
“Hello?” At first, Matt's voice was pleasant, but a second later he sounded like his old rotten self. “Yeah, hold on a minute.” It's a good thing I'd stepped away and hidden the stethoscope behind my back before he pushed open the door. He handed me the phone and said, “Make it quick, Chimp, I'm expecting an important call.”
Matt brushed past me and headed downstairs while I put the phone to my ear. I figured it was Brandi wanting to give me an update on how cute Vinny Barbarino looked on Welcome Back, Kotter. “Hey, what's up?” I said.
“Um … hi.” To my surprise, it was a guy's voice. “Is this … April? April Lundquist?” For a split second I actually thought it might be Dominick on the line. My heart started thumping.
“Yes, this is April.”
“Hi.” Silence and a little heavy breathing. “This is kind of embarrassing since I don't know you and you don't know me. But anyway, my name is Bert.”
“Bert?” Immediately I formed a mental picture: the yellow pinheaded Muppet with the unibrow.
“Yeah. Walt's friend, from Xavierian.”
Oh my gosh. With all the wacky stuff going on, I'd forgotten about the phone call I was supposed to be getting from Walter's desperate friend. And now to complete my mental picture, Walter was the guy in the bathtub with the rubber duckie. “I … guess I was confused because Brandi told me your name was—”
“I know, Umberto,” he said, “which is the amazingly guido name my mother likes to use, but everyone else just calls me Bert. It's less ethnic, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Anyway,” he went on, “do you know why I'm calling?”
“Actually …” I paused, wondering how I was going to get out of this. “Brandi mentioned something about a dance, but, you see, I'm kinda—”
“Great, I was hoping someone gave you the heads-up. To be honest I didn't want to do this because I think it's pretty lame to call a girl you've never met, but Walt's parents are really strict, and they'll only let him double-date. Can you believe it? Poor guy.”
He was talking so fast I could hardly process the information. “Yeah, that is a little weird,” I said, wondering if Brandi knew that Walter was not only a fairy, but a mama's boy as well.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “So, if you don't mind going with me, Walt and I can pick you and Brandi up next Friday at seven-thirty. His brother's going to drive. He's seventeen.”
This was getting complicated. “Well, you see, I'm not exactly—”
“And like I said,” he interrupted, “I'm sorry to do this to you and all, but I couldn't let Walt down.” He laughed a little. “I swear, after this night, he seriously owes me one.”
I sat there blinking, wondering if I'd heard correctly.
“Oh … sorry,” he said. “I guess that didn't come out right. That's not what I meant. Jeez, what a jackass.”
Bert seemed honestly pained, but I let him suffer a few more moments before saying, “That's okay. It's the same for me. I'm only doing this for Brandi.”
“Oh, right.” There was a long period of silence, and during this time I realized that I'd actually agreed to go to the dance with him. “Well,” he continued, “I should probably mention that I'm not going to dress up or anything. And when it comes to dancing, I'm not exactly into disco.”
I thought about telling him that we had something in common, but instead I said, “Gee, that's too bad since I was planning to wear my spandex pants and platform shoes.” I could hardly believe this came out of my mouth.
Bert didn't laugh. “Um … just curious,” he said. “How tall are you?”
The conversation was getting stranger by the minute. And this was not the right question to ask me, even on a good day. Another curse of having Scandinavian ancestors was that I seemed to be growing into one of those strikingly tall Viking women with the blond braids and horned helmets. “Five eight,” I said, “maybe five nine. It's been a while since I've measured myself.”
“Really? Wow.” Bert seemed stunned. “You, uh, might want to pass on those platform shoes. I'm not exactly the tallest guy.”
Great. Now Bert was a short, yellow, pinheaded Muppet with a unibrow. “I was joking,” I said. “I don't like disco either, and I don't own any platforms. Or spandex pants.”
“Oh.” He laughed awkwardly. “Sorry. You may not believe this, but I'm really not such an idiot in person.”
That was yet to be seen.
“So,” he said apprehensively, “I guess I'll see you next Friday?”
Next Friday. That would give me nine days to plot Brandi's murder. “Yeah, okay. Did you say seven?”
“Seven-thirty. Walt knows where you live, so we'll just
ring the bell. And thanks, you know, for saying yes.”
I closed my eyes. “Sure, no problem.”
“Bye, April. Oh, and by the way, I really like your name.”
I supposed he was trying to redeem himself, and I had to admit, after being called Chimp for so many years, it almost worked. “Thanks,” I said. “I'll see you next Friday.”
I hung up, trying to figure out how in the world I'd gotten suckered into this. But a second later, the phone rang, jolting me. This time I really hoped it was Brandi; I wanted to chew her out while the memory of Bert's call was still fresh in my mind.
“Hello?” I sounded a little dazed.
“Hi. May I speak to Matt, please?”
Just then I remembered that Matt was expecting a call from Bettina. However, the girl on the other end seemed to have, of all things, a British accent. Not what you'd expect from a mobster's daughter. “Oh, yeah, just a minute, I'll get him.”
Matt's phone had a long extension cord, so I picked up the base and walked to the top of the stairs. “Hey, Matt! Phone's for you!”
There was mad scuffle in the kitchen. “All right,” he called. “I'm gonna pick up in the basement. Hang up when I tell you to.”
“Okay!” I yelled back, gripping the receiver and grinning. Sure thing, Matt. In your dreams.
There was a loud click. “All right, Ape, I've got it. Hang up. Now.”
I pressed down the receiver button, covered the mouthpiece with my hand, and ever so gently let the button rise. Barely breathing, I sat on the top step and listened.
“Really?” Matt said, sounding dejected. “Two whole weeks? Are you sure we have to wait that long?”
Now the girl's British accent was even more pronounced. “I'm sorry, Matt. It's just that in two weeks my father will be in Florida”—she paused for a moment— “on what he calls business. Anyway, I'm hoping everything will blow over by the time he comes back. But even then, we'll have to be careful.”
“But,” Matt said, “what about play practice? Will you be there? I mean, we can't lose Juliet.”
She sighed. “I hope so. I'm just not sure at this point. He … my father … knows about us meeting at the performing arts center.”
“Oh?”
Suddenly, just like with one of those Looney Tunes characters, a lightbulb clicked on in my head. A couple of months ago, Matt had tried out for a part in Romeo and Juliet at the Brooklyn Performing Arts Center and had landed the role of Romeo's best friend, Mercutio. The director of the play, who was originally from London, had a fit when he heard everyone reciting Shakespeare in Brooklynese, so he insisted they all use British accents. I guessed Bettina/Juliet was taking her role very seriously, both on-and offstage.
“I'm sorry, Matt,” she said. “The whole thing bloody stinks.” I think she was trying to make him laugh, but it wasn't working.
“No,” he said, sighing deeply. “The whole thing's bloody hell.”
Neither of them spoke for a while, and I felt a sharp pang of guilt listening in. Still, I didn't hang up.
“Matt, I … I really have to go. They're watching me, even here at Marcella's house. I swear, I hate this. I hate them.”
Matt exhaled. “No, Bettina. Even if you tried, you couldn't hate anybody. But listen, hopefully I'll see you at play practice. I just wish I'd gotten the part of Romeo.”
She laughed. “Me too. That way I could kiss you in front of everyone and they'd never even know how much I was enjoying it.”
Oh, brother, this was getting embarrassing.
“I … love you,” Matt said.
Oh, God.
I heard her swallow. “I love you too, Matt,” and with a shaky voice she began to recite her lines. “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Matt continued, “Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.”
I was seriously beginning to feel ill.
“Good night, good night,” Bettina went on. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.”
As soon as the star-crossed lovers hung up, I raced back, tossed the phone onto Matt's bed, and fled to the sanctuary of my room. I did this for two reasons: one, if Matt had seen the expression on my face, he'd have known immediately that I'd been eavesdropping, and two, I needed to think.
I lay on my bed for a while, searching Al Pacino's face for words of wisdom, but he just stared coolly ahead. Cat Stevens, poetic and aloof, was no help either, so I gazed at my blank wall, the one that would soon be home to either Mikhail or the Grateful Dead.
It was strange, I thought, this part of Matt that I barely knew. Underneath all his athletic bravado, he actually had a sensitive side. Last year I'd caught a glimpse of it when my parents, Sammy, and I went to see him perform in Jesus Christ Superstar. He'd actually gotten the role of Jesus, and in the end when the bad guys strung him up on that chain-link fence, I'd cried. Matt had moved me to tears. It was almost incomprehensible.
Matt stayed in the basement the rest of the night, and after I put Sammy to bed, I tiptoed down there, thinking maybe I could cheer him up. As I did, I heard Rod Serling's voice on the TV: There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man … the middle ground between light and shadow … It is an area we call the Twilight Zone. And literally, that's exactly what I'd stepped into. The Twilight Zone. Halfway down, I saw that Matt wasn't watching TV; he was sitting cross-legged on the cold, bare floor, tears streaming down his face. We locked eyes for just a moment, and then he grimaced, picked up one of Sammy's Garfield slippers, and threw it, aiming right for my head. “Get outta here, Monk!”
I'd ducked just in time, but as I ran back up the stairs, he pegged me in the butt with Sammy's battery-operated Fat Albert Doll. As it tumbled down the steps it said, “Hey, hey, hey. It's Fat Albert.”
Obviously Matt wanted to be alone, so I left him wallowing in his misery and planted myself on the living room sofa with my latest gruesome tale, Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad. I needed something extra dark and depressing to distract me from my current troubles and this was definitely doing it. The storyline went like this: a psycho named Kurtz living in the jungles of Africa was into killing the natives and decorating his fence posts with their shrunken heads. Move over, Edgar Allan Poe.
But after a while, my eyes got heavy and even the gory details couldn't keep me alert. I lay down with the book propped against my chest, falling into that dream state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Next thing I knew, I heard a loud clattering sound, and Heart of Darkness tumbled onto the rug. Slowly, I peeked over the side of the couch and saw my dad picking up ice cubes he'd dropped on the kitchen floor. My mom was at the table, pouring two glasses of that nasty Red Zinger iced tea. The television, I noticed, was still droning in the basement.
“I guess you're right, Stephen,” she said, setting down the pitcher and taking a seat. “Mrs. Flannery may not be the most nurturing kindergarten teacher, but Sammy's pretty tough, so I'm sure he'll do fine.”
I heard the water running, so I assumed my dad was at the sink, rinsing off the ice cubes. He came back to the table, plopped several into their glasses, winced, and took a swig. “Oh, sure,” he said, clearing his throat and trying not to gag, “Sammy will do fine.”
My mother sighed and began rubbing the space between her eyes like she was about to have a migraine. “Actually,” she said, “it's not Sammy I'm worried about.”
My dad frowned and nodded like he knew exactly what she was referring to. He took a seat, patted her hand reassuringly, and spooned a massive amount of sugar into his tea. “We'll just wait and see,” he said, stirring slowly. “I don't believe we're in the danger zone yet.”
Danger zone? I froze. Uh-oh. Could they possibly know about Matt and Bettina?
My mother craned her neck toward the basement door, then stood up and gently closed it. I guess she figured Matt and I were down there, happily watching Dragnet toge
ther. She sat down and stared into her glass. “I don't know, Stephen, I'm really worried about her. I mean, remember last year's parent-teacher conference?”
Suddenly I realized they were not talking about Matt. They were talking about me. And just those three words strung together—”parent-teacher-conference”—said it all. Last year, my English teacher caught me hiding a copy of The Exorcist inside our assigned text, A Tale of Two Cities, and after she lectured me about how rude and grossly inappropriate that was, she called my parents in for a meeting. Needless to say, they were horrified.
But unfortunately, it didn't end there. A few weeks later, I got nailed for drawing caricatures of my Spanish teacher, Señor Bloomberg, in women's underwear and passing them to my friend Olympia. Olympia, in turn, passed them to the rest of the class. Because I was a quiet kid who normally didn't get into trouble, I got off with a couple of warnings, but my parents had already decided that this was highly deviant behavior.
Right then, I could have crept upstairs to my room and spared myself the rest of this embarrassing conversation, but a sick part of me wanted to keep listening.
“It's the same thing every year,” my mom continued. “And it only seems to be getting worse. She daydreams in class, doodles, does weird things, and never wants to get involved in extracurricular activities.”
At this point I wanted to interrupt and say, “Excuse me, just because I don't belong to any teams, leagues, or do-gooder clubs doesn't mean I'm a menace to society.”
“Hmmm,” my dad said, “I know what you mean.” If anyone would, I thought my father would come to my defense, but he just sat there taking sips of my mother's stupid tea.
“And all the creepy books she's been reading lately,” she went on. “Oh, and how about that … that candle in her room?”
My dad sighed. “Yes, the candle is a bit odd.”
What they were referring to was the extremely cool purchase I'd recently made at Spencer's Gifts—a skull candle that dripped blood (actually red wax) when you burned it. My parents didn't know, but I had two more stashed in my closet, and I wasn't planning on saving them for Halloween.
