by April Lurie
As Dominick walked away, I felt a sharp pain radiating from my big toe. I looked down and saw that Brandi was stepping on my foot. “April, what are you thinking?”
I grinned. “I'm thinking he might like me.”
“Well, yeah, what do you expect after telling him how wonderful he is? The guy's an egomaniac.”
I ignored Brandi's comment and watched while Dominick joined his friends at the door. Before stepping inside he turned around, raised one fist, and called out, “Yo, Larry! Pink Floyd rules!”
Larry grinned, raised his fist in return, and echoed, “Yeah, man! Floyd rules!”
By the time we got Larry settled into his class, which was called the Alternative Learning Program, Brandi and I were both ten minutes late to our homerooms. This year I was in 9-SP-1 and Brandi, 9-SP-2. The SP stood for “Special Progress,” classifying us as the brainy dorks of the school, but if you looked closely at the general population of PS. 201 you'd realize it wasn't saying much.
Anyway, Brandi's teacher was pretty cool about her being late, especially when she explained how we were helping a “poor retarded boy” find his class, but my homeroom teacher, a scary-looking guy with horn-rimmed glasses and a Count Dracula widow's peak, marked a red “X” beside my name in his little black book, and happily informed me that if I got three “X”s this marking period I would be serving Saturday detention.
However, none of this seemed to matter at the moment because today marked a major turning point in my life. Dominick DeMao actually knew that I, April Lundquist, was alive.
“Um, Miss Lundquist, are you planning to play the drums for us this morning?”
“Huh?” I slid into my seat and realized I was still holding Larry's sticks. “Oh … no. They belong to a friend of mine.”
“Really?” Count Dracula strolled to my desk and stuck out one hand. Patches of coarse, dark hair sprouted from his knuckles. “Maybe I'd better hold on to those for your friend. We wouldn't want any accidental impalings today, now would we?”
I panicked and gripped the sticks tighter. “No, you see, I can't do that. My friend, the drummer, he's supposed to jam with this other guy at lunch today. He plays guitar. They're counting on me to bring the sticks.” I thought this made perfect sense, but he didn't seem to be buying it.
“Oh? Really?”
“Yes. They're both very good musicians.”
“I see. Well, if that's the case, I'll hold on to them for you, or should I say, for your friend. You can stop by and pick them up before lunch. I'll be here.”
I looked at his outstretched hand and sighed. Considering all the trouble I'd been in last year, all I needed now was for Count Dracula to call my parents about a set of lethal drumsticks I'd refused to hand over. Reluctantly, I placed them in his palm.
By now, peals of laughter were rising from the class. Angie, Bernadette, and Grace, my so-called friends from eighth grade, were sitting together looking confused. I imagined they were deciding whether or not it would be a good idea to hang out with me this year. I smiled weakly and waved. Next thing I knew, a hairy knuckle tapped the cover of my book. “So, Miss Lundquist, besides being a music aficionado, I see you also enjoy learning about the dark side of human nature.”
On my desk sat The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson—my latest library loan. “The Lottery” was the last story in the collection, but I'd cheated and read it first. It was about a group of villagers who would gather together in the town square, draw names from a box, and stone to death the person who'd received the black mark. I wasn't sure if I liked the story, but it certainly had me thinking. I swallowed. “Um, yes, I guess I do.”
While he stood there examining the jacket, I glanced at the board and saw that Dracula's real name was Mr. Cornelius. Not only was he was our homeroom teacher, but we'd be having him for English, too. Lucky, lucky me. “Well, then, Miss Lundquist,” he said, “looks like you and I have something in common.” And with that, he turned on one heel and waved a drumstick in the air like he was conducting an orchestra. “Okay, class, we have fifteen minutes left of homeroom, and I've got work to do. Please, if you do not have a book to read, you may choose one from the shelves. Anyone caught talking”—he glanced in my direction; there was a definite smirk on his face— “will be taken into the hallway and stoned to death.”
A laugh escaped my throat, and the whole class looked at me like I'd completely lost my mind.
“So,” Mr. Cornelius said, glancing around at the puzzled faces, “it appears that Miss Lundquist is the only one who caught my joke.”
Every eye in the room was on me now. I shrugged, picked up my book, and buried my face, wishing I could disappear. But Mr. Cornelius was the least of my problems. Staring up at me from the center of page twenty-three was a crisp, clean hundred-dollar bill.
At noon, Brandi pushed her way through the lunch line. “April! Oh my gosh! Did you get one too?” Her eyes were wild and had the look of someone who'd just escaped Bellevue.
“Hey!” a short, pimply kid shouted from the back of the line. “What do you think, you're something special? Line's back here!”
I yanked Brandi in front of me and said to the lunch lady, “Can my friend get a tray, please? It's her first day here, and she's a little confused.”
The lady was a new employee, complete with hairnet, smiley face button, and an amazingly noncynical attitude toward lying teenagers. “Oh, sure, honey,” she said, plopping a clump of cheese ravioli onto a tray and handing it to Brandi. “Here you go, dear. Millie's got the green beans up ahead. Oh, and there's chocolate pudding for dessert. You don't want to miss that.”
“Thank you.” I shoved Brandi along and said, “Will you calm down? You're making a scene.”
“I told you we never should have agreed to take Larry to school. Now look! We're taking money from a”—she paused and glanced around—” hit man. Do you realize what that means?”
Of course I was totally freaked out by the money that had mysteriously appeared on page twenty-three of my book, but what I really wanted to know was the size of Brandi's bill. It had to be smaller than mine since I was the one always sticking my neck out for Larry. “How much did you get?” I said.
She leaned in close and mouthed, “One-oh-oh.”
I couldn't believe it. And I thought Mafia men understood about loyalty and devotion.
“How about you?” Brandi said.
I shrugged. “The same.”
“Green beans, ladies?” It was Millie, with the shimmery pink lipstick and unfortunate chin stubble. The green beans were pale and limp, but I figured Millie had had her share of rejection in life, so I held out my tray and let her pile them high.
“Thanks, Millie.” She gave me a big smile. “Listen,” I said to Brandi, “just because he gave us money doesn't mean we have to accept it. We can just … give it back.”
“What? Have you totally lost your mind?”
Right then, Tessie dumped a spoonful of watery chocolate pudding onto Brandi's tray and said, “Move along, girls, you're holding up the line.”
The brown puddle on Brandi's tray reminded me of the night Sammy had crawled into my bed with a nasty case of diarrhea. “Oh, no thank you.” I yanked my tray away, but it was too late. A big blob of pudding hit the floor. Tessie stood there in horror, staring at her splattered stockings. “Oh, shoot,” I said. “I'm sorry, really, it was an accident.” But when she looked up, her eyes were darting daggers at the two of us.
“Let's get outta here,” Brandi said, giving me a quick shove. Once we were safely out of the lunch line, she added, “Listen, April, I thought you understood the rules of La Cosa Nostra. If a mobster gives you money, you don't say anything. And giving it back would be a major insult. I swear, you never know what he might do. It's all part of that”—she waved her hand around—”Omerta thing.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I'm sure. Come on, picture it. ‘Oh, uh, Mr. Luciano, we can't take your money, because, well, you earned it
through extortion and murder, and it wouldn't be right. Besides, we're afraid you might kill us one day.’”
I looked at my plate of ravioli, wondering why I hadn't just taken the tomato, tofu, and bean sprout sandwich my mother had offered to make this morning. At least it wouldn't have reminded me of vomit.
“April! Brandi!” Olympia, all tan and breezy after spending her entire summer in Greece, was running toward us.
“Uh-oh. Brace yourself,” Brandi said. “Olympia had a boyfriend this summer, her second cousin or something disgusting like that, and she's carrying pictures. She showed them to me in homeroom.”
Oh, Lord.
Olympia grabbed the sides of my face and kissed both my cheeks with European flair. “Come on, you guys, I'm sitting over here,” she said, pointing to a table. On it sat a half-empty Dannon yogurt cup and three stuffed grape leaves. Olympia was always on some diet that involved starvation, since her main goal in life was to fit into size twenty-six Levi's.
“So, how was Greece?” I said, setting down my tray and quickly scanning the cafeteria. Larry, I noticed, was sitting with his class, nibbling on a piece of bread, looking totally bored. Dominick was in his usual corner with his motley crew of pothead and wannabe musician friends, scarfing down what looked like the remains of a baloney sandwich. As I took my seat, I patted the drumsticks, which were neatly tucked away in my left sock. As promised, Mr. Cornelius had given them to me right before lunch.
“Greece was fabulous,” Olympia said, handing Brandi and me each a stuffed grape leaf. “Try one. I made them myself. It's my grandmother's recipe.”
I stared at the thick green wrinkly ball. Even my mother wouldn't subject me to this. “Thanks,” I said, unhooking the rubber bands from my braces. Brandi, I noticed, had set hers aside. I held my breath, popped the thing into my mouth, and chewed. It tasted like dirt. “So,” I said, taking a swig of milk, “why was Greece so fabulous ?”
Olympia smiled and stirred her yogurt. “Well … I met a guy.”
“Oh, yeah?” I swallowed the remains of the grape leaf, doing my best not to choke.
She nodded. “His name's Alexei.”
“Oooo, Alexei,” I said. “Sounds … sexy.”
“Oh, please.” Brandi snorted. “Must we rhyme?”
I chased the grape leaf with a bite of ravioli and made a mental note to pack a lunch for tomorrow. “Yes,” I said, “we must. Olympia, tell me more.”
“Well, okay.” She took a dainty spoonful of yogurt. “He's eighteen, which, I know, sounds a little weird, but in Greece it's totally normal for girls to date guys who are much older.”
Brandi nodded. “Yeah, I hear they marry their cousins, too.”
Olympia glared at her. “I told you, Alexei is not my cousin. He's a distant relative. Very distant.”
Brandi shrugged. “Whatever. Same thing.”
“Anyway,” Olympia went on, “I have pictures. Want to see them?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely.”
While Olympia dug into her bag, Brandi leaned over and whispered, “Doesn't she know that incest is a serious crime in the United States?”
I stifled a laugh, stuffed a few more pieces of ravioli into my mouth out of sheer hunger, washed it down with another swig of milk, and suddenly noticed that Dominick's seat at the far end of the cafeteria was empty. I looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Here you go,” Olympia said, handing me a monstrous stack of photos. “Tell me what you think.”
I pushed aside my tray and began shuffling through the pile. At first there were the usual pictures of Olympia's ancient, leathery-faced relatives, but before long I came to a shot of a dark, curly-haired, extremely good-looking guy in a fishing boat. There was a huge smile on his face, and in his hand was a slimy purple sea creature. “Olympia?” I said. “Is this Alexei holding an octopus?”
She laughed. “Yep. That's how we met. I went swimming in the Aegean Sea one morning, and that octopus attacked me, suction cups and all.” She shuddered. “It was soooo disgusting. Anyway, Alexei heard me screaming, so he dove in from his boat and pulled it off my neck.”
I looked at her. “You've got to be kidding.”
“No, I swear,” she said, crossing her heart. “That's exactly what happened. Later that day we found out that our grandparents knew each other.”
Brandi nudged me. “Yeah, April. Didn't you hear? It was in all the newspapers: Greek God Rescues American Beauty from Neck-Sucking Octopus.”
“Very funny,” Olympia said.
I studied the picture. “Well, he's gorgeous.”
She smiled. “Thanks. He's really nice, too. He'll be at university this fall, but we're going to write. Hopefully we'll see each other next year.”
Brandi swiped the photo from my hand. “I don't know, Alexei's all right, I guess, but I kind of like the octopus.”
I balled up my napkin and threw it at her. “Jealous.”
“Oh, all right,” she finally conceded. “Alexei is gorgeous, and sexy, and I'm sure he's got this fabulous personality. But what I want to know, Olympia, is when are you going to tell us all the juicy details?”
Olympia licked the last dab of yogurt off her spoon. “Never.”
“Hah, some friend.” Brandi picked up her grape leaf, popped it into her mouth, and gagged. “Jeez, Olympia, this thing tastes like crap!” She spit it onto her tray. “Are you trying to poison us, or what?”
While the two of them argued about the grape leaf, I continued flipping through the stack of photos. There were several more of Alexei on his boat, and plenty of Olympia and Alexei together—holding hands in Athens, arm in arm at the Pantheon, kissing beside a fountain in Corinth—but soon I came to a picture that Olympia might have wanted to censor for her own personal viewing. It showed Alexei, posing against the side of a cliff in a skimpy orange Speedo, legs slightly apart. It was practically obscene.
“So,” Olympia said, tapping my toe with her foot. “Enough about the stupid grape leaf. Brandi tells me you have a date Friday night.”
I looked up from the photo. “I do?”
“Yes. Did you forget about Umberto?”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. Did you have to remind me?”
Suddenly, both Olympia and Brandi fixed their gazes on something behind me. Brandi's eyes widened.
“What?” I said, spinning around. And there stood Do-mi nick, grinning at the photo of Alexei. “So,” he said, plucking it from my hand, “this is what you SP girls do at lunch. Pass around pictures of naked men. Interesting.” He looked at me. “Do you have the sticks?”
Mortified, I practically flung the photos at Olympia. “That's her cousin, I mean, her boyfriend. I mean, it's not my picture.”
“Uh-huh, right. And I guess you don't have a date Friday night with Umberto, either.” His eyes bored into mine.
“No, actually, I don't. I'm doing that as a favor for her.” I pointed to Brandi.
“I see.”
Brandi glared at me. “Why, may I ask, are you explaining this to him?”
I shrugged and Dominick tapped my shoulder. “What about the sticks?”
“Oh, right. They're in my sock.”
“Well, come on, then. Let's get Larry.”
Without thinking, I stood up and was about to follow Dominick through the maze of tables. “Oh, wait a minute,” I said, turning to face Brandi and Olympia. “I'll meet you guys out in the schoolyard, okay?”
Brandi wouldn't even look at me. Olympia blinked a few times and said, “Yeah, sure, April. We'll see you outside.”
As soon as Larry saw Dominick and me heading for his table, he sprang from his seat and began running toward us. Dominick leaned over to me. “I hear Larry's father is Soft Sal Luciano.”
“How did you … ?”
He shrugged. “News travels fast. You live dangerously, don't you?”
The truth was, about the most dangerous thing I'd ever done in my life was take a flying leap over a johnny pump when I
was ten years old, but instead of confessing this to Dominick, I said, “Yeah, I guess I do.”
After Larry joined us, we walked out of the lunchroom, through the schoolyard, and past the handball courts, and hopped the fence into the neighborhood playground. The whole time, people stared, and I had to admit we looked like a comical version of the Mod Squad: gawky, blond SP girl; musical rebel; and retarded drummer boy on a secret mission in kiddieland. Dominick's friends were gathered near the see saws, and as they stepped aside, I saw what they'd been looking at—a drum set. I thought it resembled the one from Mr. Ruffalo's band room, and in the back of my mind I knew this probably wasn't a good thing, but I decided not to dwell on it. After all, I was the girl who worked for Soft Sal Luciano. I lived dangerously.
When Larry saw the drums up ahead, he got real excited and quickened his pace. Dominick waved to his friends. Pee-Wee, king of the burnouts, held up a guitar and called, “Come on, man, let's play some music!”
Ronnie, the bass player, laughed. “Wicked! Far out!”
A crowd of fans had begun to form, and one of them, I noticed, was Roxanne DeBenedetto—Dominick's ex-girlfriend. She sat atop a stone chess table with a group of friends, flashing that cute little gap between her two front teeth. She and Dominick had gone out for nearly six months last year—January through mid-June (I kept track)—until she dumped him for Chris Capelli, whose family owned a beach cabana on the Jersey shore. I guessed Roxanne was a real heartbreaker, because rumor was, now that she'd had her Malibu tan, she'd given Chris the ax too. Lucky, lucky me.
“Hey, Dom!” she called. “Brought some friends along, huh?” Her posse eyed Larry and me and broke into laughter.
Dominick glared at them. “Yeah, maybe I did. What's so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” Roxanne said with a wave. “We were just wondering, that's all.” She lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and watched me with an amused expression.
Dominick leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Ignore her.”
Easier said than done.
Larry had no clue that they were laughing at the two of us; in fact, he even joined in. As I stood there feeling like a complete idiot, Dominick cleared his throat and announced, “All right, everybody, listen up! We've got a new member of our band. In fact, he's the best damn drummer I've heard in a long, long time.” He took Larry's hand and raised it over his head. “This, my friends, is Larry Luciano!” All the potheads and wannabe musicians started to cheer. Larry grinned a mile wide. “And,” Dominick went on “last but not least …” He stooped over, rolled up my jeans, and pulled out Larry's drumsticks. “This is April! Keeper of the Sticks!”
