by April Lurie
Everyone went wild. It was like something out of a dream or even a movie. I could hardly believe it was happening to me. I didn't even care anymore about Roxanne and her stupid friends, and when the cheering died down I met her gaze while she flicked a cigarette ash in my direction.
Dominick handed the sticks to Larry and said, “Do you know any songs from Quadrophenia?”
Little did Dominick know, the Who was Larry's favorite band, and Keith Moon was his absolute hero. Larry nodded enthusiastically, and after Dominick led me to one of the swings for a front-row seat, the two of them took their places and began to play.
They started with “Love Reign O'er Me,” and after that went into “Behind Blue Eyes.” Dominick played lead guitar and sang, Pee Wee accompanied on rhythm guitar, and Ronnie did backup vocals and bass. It all sounded really good, but what amazed me the most was the way Larry and Dominick fed off each other. Dominick would play this amazing riff, and then Larry would join in with this awesome beat, and soon they'd transition into something else that blew everyone away. The whole thing was magical. I could tell they felt it too, because while they were playing they kept nodding and grinning at each other. It was as if they were saying, Yeah, we're good together, really good.
For a while I kept my eyes peeled for Brandi and Olympia, but since I knew they'd never break the rules and hop the fence into the playground, I gave up and just listened to the music, swinging gently in my swing. I thought Dominick and Larry would have gone on like that forever, but before long the fifth-period bell rang. Sadly, Dominick set down his guitar and clapped Larry on the back a few times, and as the band gathered their stuff and the crowd disappeared, he walked over to me. “So, what'd you think?” His eyes were black and sparkling in the sun.
I glanced toward the chess tables, glad to see that Roxanne and her friends had already hopped the fence and were making their way back to school. “I think you guys were awesome,” I said.
“Yeah? Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
Dominick sat in the swing next to mine and scooted up beside me. He gazed into my face and smiled. “You've got such pretty eyes, and … I like your hair. It's so, well, blond.”
I laughed a little, twirling the ends. “Yeah, I guess it is.” And then he did something that totally shocked me. He leaned even closer and brought his lips to mine. As we began to kiss I panicked for a second, thinking my braces were going to get in the way, but I soon realized that teeth were not involved in kissing. Once I relaxed, it was perfect—soft, lingering, dreamy—better than I had imagined. When we were done, I just sat there looking at him. “Wow,” he said, “I think you're pretty awesome, too.” It could have been my imagination but as Dominick went to get his guitar, I thought I saw Roxanne peering at us from behind the handball courts. When I turned to get a better look, she was gone.
I decided not to tell Brandi and Olympia about kissing Dominick in the playground. Instead, I went home that afternoon, tucked the hundred-dollar bill under my mattress, lay on my bed, and replayed the moment over and over in my mind.
It's embarrassing to admit, but I'd never kissed a guy before. I mean really kissed. There had been that incident with Thomas Hildebrand in sixth grade when I'd made the mistake of letting him give me a light peck at Olympia's Halloween party. The next day he rode his bike to my house and wrote THOMAS & APRIL in huge letters in the middle of the street with a white crayon. It took days to wear off, and during that time I had to endure endless agony from Matt and his idiot friends. Needless to say, I never spoke to Thomas again.
Anyway, kissing Dominick was a completely different experience, and just like the hundred-dollar bill, I decided to tuck it away for a while until I knew exactly what to do. So the following morning when I scanned the schoolyard, unable to locate Dominick, and overheard some kids saying that he and Pee Wee had been suspended for the rest of the week on account of taking Mr. Ruffalo's drums, I was sort of relieved. I mean, I did feel sorry for him, for Pee Wee, too, but in the end, everything worked to their benefit.
Here's what happened: When news got out about their suspension, students began protesting. Even Mr. Ruffalo pled for a lesser charge, claiming that all they'd done was borrow the drums for one measly lunch period. However, Mrs. Brennan, our vice principal, didn't see it that way. She explained that, according to the New York City School Penal Code, taking a drum set off school property without permission was considered theft. This only fueled the fire, and by Friday, Dominick and Pee Wee were considered heroes of P. S. 201, sort of like a modern-day Robin Hood and Little John—in this case, stealing instruments from the rich and giving music to the poor.
I thought it was pretty funny, but of course Brandi didn't find any of it amusing. In fact, she was horrified that I'd been, in her words, “an accomplice to a crime.” “Whatever you do,” she said as the two of us were getting ready in my room for our big double date, “do not mention any of this to Walter and Umberto. I don't want them getting the wrong idea about us, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, please,” I said, buttoning the back of her shirt. Actually, it was my shirt, but what else was new? “Are these two guys such amazing dorks that they can't even laugh at a funny story?”
“It's not funny,” Brandi said. “That … that creep, whose name I refuse to mention—”
“You mean Dominick?”
“Whatever. He put you in serious danger. You could have gotten into a lot of trouble, April. Don't you realize that?”
Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock—7:30 on the dot. “Oh, well, I guess that's them.”
Brandi thought it would be more appropriate for me to answer the door alone while she waited on the sofa. “I don't want to seem too anxious,” she said, taking a seat. “Besides, it's your house.” She licked her lips a few times and crossed and uncrossed her legs.
I sighed, rolled my eyes, and headed for the door. When I opened it, two guys stood in front of me, each holding a single red rose. I suddenly realized I didn't know which one was Walter and which one was Umberto. In a moment of sheer selfishness, I prayed the one on the right was Umberto, since he was much better-looking. But of course, the one on the left held out the rose. “Hi,” he said, “I'm Bert.”
“Oh … hi.”
“This is for you.”
“Right, sorry.” I took the rose from his hand, and one of the thorns stabbed my thumb. “You really didn't have to get me anything.”
He shrugged. “It's just a flower.”
Suddenly, out of nowhere came a burst of cheers, whistles, and applause. I peered over Umberto's shoulder and saw that Matt and his stupid friends were gathered at the bottom of our stoop. Apparently, they'd witnessed the entire thing. “Whoa-ho,” Big Joe said, “what do you know? The Monk's got a date.” He grinned. “Maybe two.”
“Kinky,” Fritz said.
Matt, decked out in Shakespearean costume for his dress rehearsal—frilly shirt, velvet tunic, feathered cap, and ballet tights—gave Big Joe a shove and whacked Fritz on the back of the head. After that he stood there gaping.
Tony piped up. “Hey, Ape, ain't you gonna introduce us?”
Little Joe, I noticed, had taken a seat on the curb and was peeling bark off the trunk of our tree. He turned around, and when our eyes met, he frowned and quickly looked away.
At this point Walter's face was beet red, but Umberto didn't seem to mind the teasing. “It's okay,” he said, “my sister and her friends put me through this already. I'm immune.” He spun around and gave them a friendly wave. “Hey, guys. I'm Bert, and this is Walt. We're taking April and Brandi to the dance at Xavierian.”
“Oooo, Xavierian,” Tony said while the rest of them cracked up. But before he could make one of his stupid “fairyland” jokes, I cleared my throat and gave him a frigid stare. He knew darn well that if he said one more word, I might just tell Fritz that Tony'd been making out with Fritz's girlfriend last week. That would go over big.
“Ign
ore the imbeciles and come in,” I said, practically shoving them into the foyer. I stuck out my tongue at the fools before slamming the door. Brandi was still sitting on the sofa.
Slowly, Walter walked over and handed her the rose. “Thank you,” she said. “Is your brother waiting outside in the car for us?”
I sure hoped so. I wanted to hightail it out of there before my parents and Sammy came upstairs for an inspection. Right now they were in the basement watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.
“Um, no, actually, he's …” Walter paused, glancing toward the door. The poor guy was incredibly nervous. He could hardly speak.
“Well, you see,” Bert said, helping him out, “Walt's brother figured we might be a while, so he went to get a slice of pizza. We've already stopped by Brandi's house and met her parents.” He grinned at me. “Now it's your turn.”
“April? Was that the doorbell?” My mother was climbing the stairs now, and from the sound of it, Sammy and my dad were trailing behind. When she reached the top and saw Brandi and me each holding a rose, she took in a breath and said, “Oh, how nice! Let me get the camera!”
Meanwhile, my dad and Sammy entered the living room. “Soooo,” my dad said, scratching the back of his head, “you guys must be … ?” I guess I had failed to mention their names during dinner.
Umberto held out his hand. “Hi, Mr. Lundquist. I'm Bert, and this is Walt.”
As they shook hands, Sammy ran to my side and wrapped his arms around my waist. “April, don't leave,” he whined. “You promised to read to me before bed, remember?”
I didn't recall any such promise, and when I saw Sammy give Umberto a dirty look, I realized what was going on. The little fibber was jealous.
By now, my mother had returned with the camera and had already taken a few “natural” shots. “Oh, Sammy,” she said, “don't be silly, I can read to you tonight.”
Sammy wrinkled his nose and pressed his face against my stomach. “Please stay,” he moaned.
“Hey, sorry about that, bud,” Umberto said, walking over and patting him on the head. “I mean, I understand how you feel. There's nothing like a good book. Alfred Hitchcock's Stories to Be Read With the Lights On is my favorite one right now.”
I looked at him, stunned.
My mother laughed. “That's funny. April just read the entire Alfred Hitchcock series this summer.”
Did she really have to mention that?
“Wow,” Umberto said, as if we had something in common.
“Yeah, well, we'd better get going,” I said, pulling Sammy off me. I gave him a shove toward my father.
“No, no, not yet,” my mom said, holding up the camera. “I need to finish this roll. It'll only take a minute.”
After posing in various groupings by the fireplace, mantel, and stairway, the four of us said our goodbyes and escaped through the back door. Out front I could hear the tinkling melody of the Mister Softee truck. I hoped to God the ignoramuses would be too busy stuffing their faces to bother with us. No such luck. They'd already purchased their frozen confections and were waiting with bated breath.
“So,” Matt said as we drew near. He pointed his chocolate-dipped cone at the two boys. “Which one of you is taking out my sister?”
“That would be me,” Bert said, not skipping a beat. I had to give him credit. Any ordinary person would have busted out laughing, being interrogated by a guy in tights.
“Uh-huh, I see.” Matt looked Bert up and down, finally fixing his gaze on his shoes. They weren't exactly platforms, but the heels were a good three inches high. Matt arched an eyebrow and smirked.
Big Joe took a step closer. There was a dollop of vanilla custard with rainbow sprinkles on the tip of his nose. “Listen up,” he said, “you two better treat these girls right, you understand?”
Umberto nodded slowly, and Walter leaned against the fence like he was about to keel over and die.
Tony and Fritz joined in. “That's right,” Tony said, taking a bite of his pink strawberry shortcake, “because if you don't, you'll have to deal with us.”
Fritz pointed his Bomb Pop at poor Walter. “Listen, kid, I'll be talkin' to Brandi tomorrow. So if I were you, I'd be a perfect gentleman. Get my drift?”
Little Joe was the only one not participating in the interrogation. He sat alone on the curb, eating a blue Italian ice with a wooden spoon. He wouldn't look at me.
“Will you guys cut it out?” Brandi said. “I mean really, what's your problem?”
She took Walter by the arm, marched toward the street, and peered up and down for any sign of Walter's brother. Nothing. That was when Larry came barreling out of his house. “Wait! Wait!” he yelled, flying down the stoop. “Mister Softee, don't leave yet!”
Mr. Luciano was trailing behind, clutching his wallet. When Little Joe saw him, he stopped digging a crater into his Italian ice and locked eyes with Matt.
Umberto leaned over to me. “Do we have to meet these guys too?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “They're just our neighbors.”
He laughed. “I was joking.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Mr. Luciano crossed the street, and when he saw me standing in front of our house, he waved and called out, “April! Sweetheart! Wait there a minute, okay? I need to talk to you.”
Brandi turned to me with frightened eyes, and my stomach flipped. Slowly, I lifted one hand and waved back. “Sure thing, Mr. Luciano.”
He waited patiently at the back of the Mister Softee truck while Larry placed his order. Meanwhile, Matt inched over to me. “Since when does he call you sweetheart?”
I shrugged. “I'm … not really sure.”
Little Joe got up from the curb; his mouth was a deep shade of blue from the ice. He joined Matt, who stood there adjusting his tights and tugging at the collar of his ruffled shirt. The two of them looked completely ridiculous. Little Joe turned to me. “What do you think he wants?” I realized it was the first time he'd spoken to me since the bikini incident at the Jersey shore.
“I don't know,” I said, “probably something about Larry.”
He nodded and stared at Umberto's shoes. “Um, April, did you notice the guy's wearing platforms? Without them he's about five inches shorter than you.”
“They're not platforms, they're heels,” I said, wondering why I was sticking up for Umberto.
By now, Mr. Luciano had paid for Larry's double-dip cone and was strolling toward us. As usual he was decked out, this time in a gray pinstriped suit with a maroon shirt and white tie. Perched on his head was a fedora. He stopped for a moment and slid his wallet into his back pocket, which allowed me to notice a handgun tucked into his belt. Matt must have seen it too, because at that moment all the color drained from his face.
“Sweetheart,” Mr. Luciano said with an affectionate smile. “Listen, I really want to thank you.” He paused and tipped his hat at Brandi. “Actually, I want to thank both of you for taking such good care of Larry. That music teacher, what's his name, Mr….” He snapped his fingers a few times. “Ruffalo. Yeah, that's it. He called today. Wants Larry to play drums at the Christmas concert this year.”
Larry stood by his father's side taking messy bites of his cone. He lifted his eyes and grinned.
“Wow, Larry,” I said, “that's great. Really, I'm proud of you.”
“Yeah,” Brandi said. “Congratulations, Larry.”
Mr. Luciano patted him on the back. Then he turned to Matt, eyeballing his tunic and tights. “So, Matt, looks like you've got a dress rehearsal tonight, huh?” His voice was friendly.
Matt blinked, and I saw his Adam's apple move up and down. “You … know about the play?”
For some reason Mr. Luciano thought this was funny. He laughed out loud. “Of course I know about the play. In fact, one of my business associates has a daughter who's got the part of Juliet. Small world, don't you think?”
Matt nodded. “Yes, I guess it is.”
Big Joe, Fritz, and Tony continued chompi
ng their Mister Softee treats like nothing was wrong with this picture while Brandi, Little Joe, and I exchanged knowing glances.
By now, Larry's ice cream cone was melting quickly, and as Mr. Luciano whipped out a handkerchief to wipe Larry's hands, I got an even better view of his gun. “Well,” he said, “it's getting late, and I've got to get Larry home. But listen, Matt, good luck with the play. What's that expression again? Oh, yeah, break a leg.”
Brandi gulped and Little Joe's mouth fell open.
“And you,” Mr. Luciano said, chuckling and pointing the soggy handkerchief at Little Joe, “take care of your buddy, all right? You never know what might happen to a guy wearing a dress. Especially in this neighborhood, if you know what I mean.”
He winked and Little Joe smiled weakly. “Yeah, sure, Mr. Luciano. I'll take good care of him.”
At that moment, Walter's brother pulled up in an old station wagon. He popped the last bite of a slice of pizza into his mouth and rolled down the window. “Bohemian Rhapsody” poured into the street. “Hey, are you guys ready?” he called.
By now, Mr. Luciano and Larry were halfway home. Quickly, I pulled Matt aside. “Listen, Matt, I'm not stupid. I know what's going on. I know about Bettina, and I know about her father. You're in trouble, and whatever you're doing, you need to stop. You can't see her anymore.”
Matt didn't say anything for a while; he just stood there staring into space. Finally, he took a deep breath. “Listen, Ape, don't worry about me. Just go ahead. Have a good time at the dance.”
“But how can I have a good time when—” “Go on,” he said, sounding more like his rotten old self. “Get outta here. I mean it.”
