Brothers, Boyfriends & Other Criminal Minds

by April Lurie

  “I mean, she has so much potential, but …” My mom's voice trailed off. “Gosh, remember when Matt was in ninth grade? Not only was he captain of his basketball team, he organized the chess club and got the role of Hamlet in the school play.”

  “I know, I know,” my dad said, “but we shouldn't compare. They're two different kids. And besides, April's always been a late bloomer.”

  Late bloomer? What exactly was that supposed to mean?

  My mom sighed again. “It must be hard for her, having Matt for an older brother. He's a tough act to follow.”

  “And it doesn't help that Sammy's so charming and lovable,” my dad added.

  I rolled my eyes. This was unbelievable.

  After a long period of silence, my mom said, “Well, it's getting late, we'd better get to bed.” She drained her glass of tea, stuck the pitcher back in the fridge, and turned off the lights. “Let's just hope this year will be better than last.”

  As the two of them padded quietly up the stairs, my dad reached over and goosed my mom. Playfully, she swatted his hand and giggled. Great, I thought, just what I needed to see. A perfect ending to a perfect night.

  I lay there for a long while, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the first thing that came into view was Matt's monster-sized trophy case sitting in one corner of the living room, filled with trophies that read things like HIGH SCORER and MOST VALUABLE PLAYER. Next was Sammy's bulletin board on the far wall, jauntily displaying his artwork from nursery school. I wasn't sure why, but I began feverishly searching the room for something of mine. What I found, sitting atop the piano (the one my mother wished I still played), collecting dust, was the lopsided psychedelic ashtray I'd made in fourth grade.

  And then it hit me. I was the oddball, the enigma, the embarrassing question mark in our family. I guess I'd known it all along, but it was strange to have it spelled out so clearly. Funny what an ashtray can do.

  Very slowly, I picked up my book and tiptoed up the stairs, making sure not to step on any creaky spots. In the darkness of my room, I undressed, pulled on a pajama top, and crawled into bed. Hugging my pillow, I replayed my parents' conversation in my mind while little tears slid down my face. Quickly, I wiped them away.

  Oh, well, on the bright side, at least I knew which poster I'd buy for my third wall. Hands down, it would be the skull-and-crossbones logo of the Grateful Dead. I hadn't realized it before, but it matched my candle perfectly.

  Over the next few days I avoided my parents as much as possible, but before long my dad was insisting on a trip to the Jersey shore. One last hurrah before school started. Yippee.

  Surprisingly, Matt had decided to stop brooding over his two-week loss of Bettina and grace us with his presence. He'd invited Little Joe, and as usual, Brandi would be coming too. Sammy had wanted to ask a friend, but there was no room left in the car, which was a good thing, because one five-year-old collecting crab shells and dead jellyfish while begging every five minutes to be buried in the sand was about all I could handle.

  “Hey, April?” Brandi said, rummaging through my dresser. It was ten in the morning and we were getting ready to leave. From the tone of her voice I could tell she was about to ask a favor. “May I …” She pulled out my lemon yellow bikini—the one I was planning to wear. “Borrow this?”

  I chewed my lip while Brandi made pleading eyes and pointed sadly to what she had on—a blue and white striped sailor top with a bow. Beneath her cutoffs was the matching bottom, complete with lace ruffle on the butt. For some reason Navy attire had been in style last summer, but this season it was the epitome of dorkdom. “Oh, all right,” I said, figuring I could wear my suit from last year— a classic red polka-dot bikini. Unlike Brandi, I was not a trendsetter.

  “Oh, thanks, April, you're the best!” Quickly, she pulled off her sailor suit and slipped on the yellow bikini. I had to admit, with her dark hair and olive skin, it looked better on her than on me.

  “Not bad,” I said as Brandi admired herself in the mirror. Meanwhile I fished out my old suit, buried under a pile of socks. When I put it on, I discovered that the bottom fit okay but the top, the kind with those sliding polyester triangles, was a little skimpy. I turned around and Brandi tied the strings for me. “So, what do you think?” I said, facing her.

  She shrugged. “Well, your boobs got bigger.”

  Suddenly my bedroom door was flung open, and there stood Matt and Little Joe. I screamed, “What are you doing? We were getting dressed! God, can we at least have some privacy around here?” Little Joe looked embarrassed, but I noticed that his eyes landed on my red polka-dot top.

  When Matt saw Little Joe's expression, he reached over and put him in a headlock. “Get a shirt on, Chimp!” he said to me. “And come on downstairs. Dad needs help. Now!”

  By the time Brandi and I reached the kitchen, I'd surmised that my dad had actually asked Matt for help, but since Matt was in the middle of a very important football game with Little Joe, Larry, and Sammy, he'd raced upstairs and gotten Brandi and me instead. Brandi followed behind as I marched to the front door. Outside, Larry was running up the street for a pass. “Look at those bums,” I said.

  Brandi spied over my shoulder. “Yeah, really.”

  Matt threw the ball. “That's it, Larry!” he called. “You got it, man, you got it!”

  Larry was a decent football player, but he didn't always go by the rules. After he caught the ball, he hugged it greedily to his chest.

  “Okay, Larry!” Sammy called. “Now pass it to me!” Sammy held out both arms, but Larry shook his head and squeezed the ball tighter. Eventually Little Joe had to go and pry it from his hands.

  I figured arguing with Matt wasn't worth the effort, but I made a mental note to pay him back later.

  “So, what do you need, Dad?” I asked as Brandi and I returned to the kitchen. He was filling a cooler with piles of mystery food wrapped in aluminum foil. My mother had already left for work, but I had a sneaking suspicion that she'd had something to do with the contents of our lunch.

  “Let's see,” he said, looking a bit frazzled. “We need suntan lotion, beach chairs, umbrellas, oh, and Sammy's blow-up alligator tube. Everything should be in the storage closet in the basement.”

  Brandi and I padded downstairs. When we opened the storage closet we found that a bunch of spiders had been busily spinning webs and laying eggs all over our beach supplies. So, after cleaning up the mess with a pair of Matt's underwear (payback number one), we hauled the stuff outside and began loading up my dad's blue Monte Carlo.

  Little Joe ran over to help us, but the rest of them continued their game. Up the street I noticed that Frankie the Crunch was watering his little flower garden and paying tribute to St. Christopher while he kept an eye on the guys playing football. Gorgeous Vinny was on the other end polishing his Coupe de Ville. Now Larry was winding up, ready to throw the ball. “All right, Larry!” Matt called. “Not too high now, remember what I told you!” But, like always, Larry zinged it into the trees. He had a very strong arm. “Whoa!” Matt exclaimed when the ball finally crashed to the ground. “Man, Larry, that was some pass!”

  Both Frankie the Crunch and Gorgeous Vinny started clapping. “Way to go, Larry!” Gorgeous Vinny called. “Show those turkeys what you're made of!”

  Frankie the Crunch didn't say anything. He just set down his hose and bowed reverently toward Larry like he was some kind of football god.

  Larry grinned proudly, and when he saw Brandi and me, he ran over to us. Gallantly, he picked up Sammy's alligator tube and stuffed it into the trunk. “Hey, thanks, Larry,” I said. “You know, I saw that catch you made earlier. Not bad.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. Not only was Larry excited about the football game, he was eagerly anticipating our walk to school in just a few days. As promised, Soft Sal had “worked out the details” with Brandi and me, and come Monday morning, we'd be ringing Larry's doorbell, 8:45 sharp.

  Little Joe slapped Larry on the back.
“I'm telling you, April, this guy is something else. Watch out, O.J.” I wasn't sure but I thought Little Joe glanced again at my chest, which was now covered with my Rolling Stones T-shirt— the one with the gigantic tongue sticking out from a pair of lips. I wanted Matt to get the hint.

  Sammy ran over. “Hey, what about me?” he said to Little Joe indignantly. “Aren't I a good football player?”

  Little Joe laughed, picked up Sammy, and swung him around a few times. “You, mister, are ready for peewee league!”

  When Matt finally joined us, I gave him a frosty look. I was still annoyed about having to do his dirty work, but what really irked me was how one minute he acted like Larry's best friend and the next he was cracking retard jokes behind his back. “What's your problem, Monkey?” he said, aiming the football at my head.

  I didn't flinch. “Nothing. I just don't like lazy bums, or”—I cast a quick glance at Larry, who was drumming his fingers against the hood of the car—”hypocrites.”

  Matt made a face and started poking around in the trunk. “Hey, Ape, did you pack my suntan lotion?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, I did, Sunshine Boy.”

  Brandi gulped and elbowed me in the ribs. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  I wasn't quite sure, but from the look on Matt's face, it appeared to be payback number two.

  Matt glanced up and down the street, then peered at me suspiciously. Little Joe's jaw, I noticed, had gone slack. But before either of them could say anything, Mrs. Luciano called from her front window, “Larry! Come on! Time to eat!” She waved at us. “Thank you, boys! Thanks for playing football with Larry!”

  Dazed, Matt waved back. “Oh, sure, Mrs. Luciano, no problem.” While Larry plodded across the street, Matt slammed the trunk shut. “Listen, Monk, I want to know right now, where did you hear that?”

  I blinked innocently. “What do you mean? Hear what?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “You know what.”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea what you're talking about.” He peered at me awhile longer, and Little Joe just stood there rubbing his chin. A second later my dad came lumbering down the driveway, cooler in hand, a load of beach towels draped around his neck. “Okay, everybody, pile in! Jersey Shore, here we come!”

  I gave Matt and Little Joe my most angelic smile, and as we got into the car I overheard Little Joe say, “Forget it, Matt. It's just a coincidence. Don't be paranoid.”

  Our trip to New Jersey turned out to be a fiasco. We sat in traffic most of the way, breathing in sulfuric fumes from the turnpike, and had to cross three toll bridges before we even hit the coast. Every five minutes, Sammy looked up from his Rubik's Cube and whined, “Dad, are we there yet?” Halfway, I was about ready to clobber him. When we finally arrived at Sandy Hook Beach we were all starving, so after taking a quick dip, we spread out our towels while my dad divvied up the food.

  “Ugh,” Matt said, biting into his sandwich. “I should have known. Mom's health crap. I swear, Dad, I can't take it anymore.”

  Slowly, I lifted one corner of my multigrain bread and saw that my mom had made us all peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwiches. To top it off, the peanut butter was the natural kind—clumpy with a slimy layer of oil at the top. Little Joe had taken a bite of his and was having trouble swallowing, so my dad quickly poured him a drink. What came out of the pitcher looked like cherry Kool-Aid, but from the expression on Little Joe's face I realized what it was. Red Zinger.

  My dad sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. He handed us each a five-dollar bill. “Go ahead, guys, get whatever you want. Just … don't tell Mom, all right?”

  While my dad fed our lunch to a flock of crazed sea gulls, the rest of us ran to the concession stand and bought trays of junk food—hot dogs, French fries, knishes, and Cokes. As we ate greedily on our towels, I saw my dad pluck a note from the cooler. I smiled, thinking of the letters my mom used to leave in my lunch box when I was a kid. Every day it was something different—I love you, sweetie, or I miss you, honey, or I've got a special surprise waiting for you at home! After my dad read the message, he cleared his throat and surreptitiously slipped the paper into his back pocket.

  I set a knish and a Coke in front of him. “So, looks like Mom wrote you one of her famous lunch notes, huh?” I wondered if it was something romantic. After seeing my dad goose her on the stairs that night, I figured anything was possible.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said with a wave, “you know how she is.” He squeezed a packet of mustard onto his knish and spread it with one finger. For some reason he seemed a little uptight. “So,” he said, glancing at Brandi and me, “what do you girls have planned this fall? Anything special?” He took a bite of the knish.

  I stopped chewing. “Um … we're going to school, if that's what you mean.”

  He swallowed. “Well, yes, I know that. But what about after school?”

  I glanced at Brandi, who didn't seem to think this was a strange question. She set down her bag of fries and wiped the grease from her hands. “I'll probably try out for the Boosters again,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. The Boosters were P.S. 201's sorry excuse for a cheerleading squad. Last year Brandi and our mutual boy-crazy friend, Olympia, had begged me to try out with them, but like disco music, anything that had to do with miniskirts, pom-poms, or cheering for a bunch of egomaniacs like Matt was against my religion.

  “And I might join choir,” she added. “Olympia told me they're going to do songs from Hair this year.”

  My dad nodded. “Sounds nice.” He looked at me. “How about you, April? Anything special planned?”

  And then it dawned on me. My mother's little note must have said something like this: Stephen, please talk to April. Find out if she's planning to be normal this year.

  Unfortunately, Matt had been listening in on our conversation. He stuffed a bunch of fries into his mouth and said, “Yeah, Ape, maybe you should join the Stoop-Sitting Club. I hear they need a new president.”

  I made a face. “Har-de-har-har.”

  Little Joe elbowed Matt and gave me a sympathetic smile.

  My dad continued. “Well, Mom mentioned you might be interested in joining a tennis league. She knows some of the coaches at Poly Prep. And who knows, maybe you should think about piano lessons again.”

  Matt pointed his knish at me. “Yeah, really. I mean, why did I have to take three years of piano lessons with the Amazing Thunderbutt, and Ape gets off after, what? Two months?”

  “Matt,” my dad warned.

  Sammy started cracking up, and when some Coke shot out his nose he laughed harder. The Amazing Thunder-butt was our old piano teacher, Gladys Higgenbottom. Her breath smelled like cat food, and her enormous rear end took up half the piano bench.

  “Hey, Sam,” Matt said, “I wouldn't be laughing if I were you. You're her next victim.” Matt hummed a few bars of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” stuck out his butt, and pretended he was going to smother Sammy with it.

  We all laughed, but my dad just sighed and shook his head.

  “Listen, Dad,” I said, “I don't want piano lessons. And Brandi and I just like to play tennis at the park. You know, for fun.”

  Little Joe chimed in. “April's very good at tennis.”

  I gave Little Joe an appreciative smile and took a sip of my Coke. “Besides, I'm gonna be pretty busy this year.”

  My dad raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How's that?”

  I shrugged. “Well, I'll be in the library a lot, reading, and someone's got to take care of Sammy, right? Oh, and Brandi and I have a job, sort of.”

  Everyone looked at me, including Brandi. “A job?” my dad said.

  “Yeah. Mr. Luciano asked us to walk Larry back and forth to school. Keep an eye on him, let Mr. Luciano know if there's any trouble.”

  Brandi nodded in agreement. “We start Monday.”

  Matt and Little Joe had gone back to stuffing their faces, but now they stopped chewing and excha
nged glances.

  My dad seemed concerned. “Mr. Luciano's not paying you, is he?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “We're just doing it as a favor. You know, for Larry.”

  “Well,” my dad said, “that's fine, I guess, but be careful. Larry can be difficult sometimes. And April?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Please keep that tennis league in mind. Mom and I appreciate your helping with Sammy, but we can always work out some other babysitting arrangements.”

  Sammy piped up. “No way! I want April to take care of me. Not some stupid babysitter.”

  “All right, Sammy,” my dad said. “I'm talking to April now.”

  I winked at Sammy. He could be a pain in the neck, but when it came right down to it, I liked having him around. At this point my dad seemed desperate to hear something positive, but how could I tell him there was no way I was going to join some lame tennis league at Poly Prep, not when Brandi and I could still annihilate the likes of Bjôrn Borg and Jimmy Connors while possibly running into Dominick at the park. I mean, it was like killing two birds with one stone. “I don't know, Dad, I'll think about it, okay?”

  He sighed. “Okay.” Poor Dad. Mom must have been putting him under a lot of pressure.

  Matt, I noticed, had been watching me from the corner of his eye the whole time. I figured the Sunshine Boy comment, along with my newfound employment with Mr. Luciano, had him guessing. I liked the feeling of power it gave me.

  After Matt finished his lunch, he smeared Coppertone over his entire body, flipped on the radio, and lay back in the sun. Little Joe began a crossword puzzle, and Sammy had somehow conned Brandi and my dad into helping him build a sand castle.

  By now my Nordic skin was starting to burn, so after dabbing on some of Matt's extra-strength lotion, I adjusted my red polka-dot triangles (the right one, especially, was giving me trouble) and opened my latest hair-raising novel, Carrie, by Stephen King. It was a little cheesy but a good beach read. Meanwhile “Bennie And The Jets” began playing on the radio, and Matt, to my dismay, started singing along. Eyes shut, he bobbed his head around to the beat. B-b-b-Benny and the Jets-ssss …